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selinakyle373 · 10 days ago

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All That's Left Is Yours

Part I

Walter "Lion" Kaminski x fem!reader

summary: Walter Kaminski doesn't know how to be loved without bracing for impact. A washed-up fighter living out of motel rooms and underground leagues, he's spent years surviving hits—in the ring, from his brother, from the world. But when you, a runaway with a sharp mouth and a sharper gaze enters his orbit, everything starts to tilt. The closer you get, the more Walter fears what his hands—trained to hurt, never to hold—might do.

wc: 8k

a/n: I’ve been working through Jack O’Connell’s filmography and the Remmick Discord recently did a group watch of Jungleland—and wow. I knew I was going to love it, but I didn’t expect Walter to tug at my heartstrings the way he did 😭 Dedicated to Liz @fuckoffbard for both beta reading and crafting the banner, you dropped something queen 👑

Disclaimer: You DO NOT need to watch Jungleland to read this fic but I highly recommend giving it a watch, Jack absolutely crushes it!!

warnings: emotional trauma, abusive family dynamics, sibling codependency, past drug use (mentioned), PTSD, fighting/violence, sub!Walter, praise kink, past physical abuse (mentioned), hurt/comfort, canon-typical violence, angst with smut, unprotected sex, fingering, creampie, unsafe living conditions, unhealthy coping mechanisms, toxic sibling relationship, trauma bonding as a form of intimacy

likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated, please enjoy!!

Fic Masterlist/Masterlist

Part I: Roadside Attraction

The soda machine clicked, rattled, then swallowed your crumpled dollar like it was nothing. No fizz, no reward. You stared at the red-lit buttons like they owed you something, like they might start speaking and tell you what the hell to do next. But they stayed quiet. Just like you.

It was cold for a desert night. Not cold enough to shiver, but enough that the concrete seeped into your spine as you curled up beneath the flickering fleabag motel sign, your back pressed to the blocky warmth of the vending machine. Your toes were bare and caked with dry blood and gravel. You’d ditched the shoes miles ago, traded them for a gas station sandwich and a bottle of vodka that had long since burned its way through your gut.

You didn’t look up when the footsteps stopped. Not until the low voice cut through the hum of the highway:

"You planning to stay there all night?"

His voice was worn down and gritty, like it had been soaked in whiskey and rung out. The kind of voice that came from a man who’d been punched more times than he could count and still stood tall about it, vowels rough around the edges courtesy of a northeastern accent.

You didn’t answer.

A shadow blocked the light overhead. Broad shoulders. Lean build. Knuckles taped. Face half-hidden under a hoodie, but even in the neon sputter you could see the bruises painting his cheekbone. Left eye a little puffy. A fighter. And not the shiny kind with sponsors and cameras. This one was all backroom and blood.

"I’m not gonna call anyone," he said, voice low. "But you’ll freeze out here."

You looked up. He looked back. It wasn’t pity in his eyes. You would’ve spat on him if it was. No, it was something worse. Recognition. Like he knew the way it felt to run until your legs gave out. To keep your back to the past until the ache in your spine turned permanent.

He fished into his pocket, pulled out a motel key. Room 8.

"I’m not gonna ask," he added. "You want a shower and a bed, it’s yours. I sleep on the floor anyway."

Still, you didn’t move. Not until he dropped the key on the concrete beside you. He didn’t wait. Just turned and walked away, boots scraping the pavement, the bruised side of his face catching the light before he vanished around the corner.

The key dug into your palm when you pushed open the warped motel door.

Room 8 smelled like stale cigarette smoke and borrowed time. The air conditioner rattled like it was dying. There was one bed, neatly made. The sink dripped.

You didn’t see him inside.

The bathroom light buzzed weakly as you flipped the switch. You caught your reflection in the mirror and winced—blood dried at your temple, mascara smeared down your cheeks like you’d been crying even when you hadn’t. The hoodie you wore (not yours, never yours) hung off your shoulders like it didn’t belong.

The water was lukewarm, the pressure shit. But you stepped in anyway.

You peeled off the hoodie and your ragged shirt. The water hit your skin and stung where you were scraped up, but it felt like something real. Something cleansing. You let your forehead press to the motel tile, inhaled mildew and rust, and exhaled the memory of someone screaming your name from a porchlight you never wanted to return to.

Outside, you heard the soft thud of boots on concrete again. Then a lighter flick. The faint, sharp tang of smoke drifting through the thin walls.

You didn’t need to look to know he was right outside the door, leaning against the rail, smoking something cheap, flexing bruised hands with every drag. Trying not to think about you.

You were trying not to think about him.

You stepped out wrapped in one of the motel’s threadbare towels, the water still dripping down your thighs. The bathroom door creaked open. He didn’t turn to look. But he didn’t leave either.

You stood there a minute too long. Listening to his breath.

Both of you pretending like you weren’t listening for each other’s sounds. Like you hadn’t already started building something unnamed in the silence.

And still—he said nothing. Just one long drag of his cigarette, one slow exhale.

Like he was waiting to see if you'd come out again. Like maybe he didn’t want to sleep on the floor tonight after all.

You cleared your throat. Quiet, but just enough to cut through the buzz.

"I’m not staying long," you said. Your voice sounded raw.

He flicked ash into the night air. Still didn’t look at you. "Didn’t figure you would."

Another beat. You hated the silence more than you thought you would.

"You got a name?"

He turned his head then. Just slightly. His eyes met yours under the orange glow of the walkway light. They were tired. Bloodshot. But something flickered there.

"Lion," he said simply. "What about you?"

You hesitated. Names had power. Names meant someone could find you. But you told him anyway.

You watched his mouth twitch. Not quite a smile. Not yet.

He nodded once. "Alright then, sweetheart. Get some sleep."

And then he walked back inside. Left the door cracked. Just wide enough for you to follow.

You stood at the threshold, towel clutched like armor, bare feet planted on the motel carpet that smelled like mildew and cigarette ash. The door was cracked open just enough to catch the whisper of his presence—Lion’s shape slouched in the dark, the thin light from the bathroom stretching shadows across his back.

He didn’t look when you stepped inside. Didn’t say a word. But you felt the shift in the air. Like the way he dragged on that cigarette changed once he knew you were behind him. The silence filled in with something else—tension, heat, the thrum of two damaged people orbiting the same wreck.

You closed the door behind you with a soft click.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, cigarette smoldering between his fingers. The TV was off. The only light came from the slatted bathroom door behind you and the red eye of his smoke.

“I can take the floor,” you said, voice hushed, unsure why. Maybe because the quiet felt sacred. Maybe because you were still dripping, and every breath between you felt too loud.

His laugh was short and dry. “Already told you—I sleep like shit anywhere. Might as well let the floor take the fall for it.”

You didn’t move. Just stood there in your towel, skin goose-pricked from the AC groaning in the wall unit. Your gaze fell to his hands. Thick-knuckled, calloused, bandaged in places. Hands that didn’t know how to be gentle but maybe wanted to try.

“I’ll dry off. Then I’ll go.” You said it, but you didn’t mean it. Not really.

Lion finally turned his head. Looked at you. Really looked.

His eyes dragged over you slowly, not greedy—just tired and curious, like a man taking in something rare he didn’t know how to name.

“You bled through your bandage,” he murmured.

You glanced down. A dark blot of red soaked through the towel near your knee, the scrape reopened. You hadn’t noticed. Didn’t feel it over the slow pulse building in your core, the way his voice kept getting lower, rougher, the longer you stood there.

He reached for the ice bucket lid on the side table, turned it over, pulled a first-aid kit from beneath it. You hadn’t seen it earlier. He unscrewed the cap of a bottle of rubbing alcohol, then held it out without standing.

You stepped forward. Took the bottle. His fingers brushed yours. Just a flicker. But it lit something.

You knelt down in front of him—slow, deliberate. Not sexy. Not flirty. Just there. Between his knees, towel still clinging to your body, water still trailing from your hair onto your bare shoulders. You pulled the hem back enough to clean the scrape. His eyes never left your hands.

Neither of you said a word.

He flicked the cigarette out into the metal ashtray beside him. His hand dropped to his thigh. Rested there. Twitching just slightly.

“You do this a lot?” you asked after a beat, voice barely above a whisper. “Pick up strays?”

He exhaled slow. “Only the ones with a mean left hook.”

That made your mouth twitch. You shook your head, but you didn’t move away.

“You gonna ask what happened?”

“Nope.”

“You wanna know?”

“Yep.”

You looked up at him then. Close enough now that your knees brushed his boots. He smelled like soap from a gas station bathroom and sweat soaked into cotton. Tobacco. Musk. Blood. He looked down at you with something almost tender beneath all that fight-hardened bone.

“I can’t sleep either,” you said.

“I know.”

Another breath passed between you. It felt like a line in the sand. Like if you moved now, everything would change.

So you didn’t move. You stayed right there, with his knees bracketing you and the towel slipping lower down your back, and the heat of his stare holding you still.

And finally—finally—he said:

“You should get in the bed.”

Not a demand. Not a command. Just something raw and honest.

You hesitated.

And then you stood. Dropped the towel. Turned your back to him as you pulled the scratchy motel sheet up over your body, slipping between covers that still held his heat.

He didn’t follow.

But when the lights finally cut out, and the room went dark enough that you couldn’t see the ceiling for the silence, you felt it—his hand brushing your ankle. Just a graze.

Like he was checking you were real.

Like he needed to.

And something about it made your chest ache. Something about it made you wonder.

How often had he done that—reached out, quietly, carefully—just to see if something he cared about was still there? How many times had things disappeared on him without warning? How many hands had he held just long enough to feel them slip away?

You wondered if that was why he touched like that—soft, fleeting, like anything more would scare it off. Like permanence was a luxury he didn’t believe in.

The air conditioner sputtered its last breath sometime just before dawn.

You woke to stillness. Not the kind that soothed. The kind that pressed against your ears and made you too aware of your own heartbeat. The cheap motel sheets clung to your skin, itchy with dried sweat and the weight of someone else’s silence.

The light bleeding in through the blinds was soft—desert dawn pink and melted gold. Your eyes dragged across the ceiling, then to the empty space beside you. The bed was cold now.

Lion hadn’t slept in it.

Your gaze shifted to the floor.

He was stretched out on the thin motel carpet, one arm flung over his eyes to block the sun. His hoodie had been peeled off sometime in the night, wadded up beneath his head like a makeshift pillow. The rest of him—bare from the waist up—was bathed in the kind of early morning shine that made it hard to look away, fractals of light dancing off the gold pendant hanging down and resting against his sternum.

Lean. But cut with that kind of wiry strength earned from fists and failure. There was nothing polished about him. Nothing effortless. His body was a map of fights he didn’t win, of nights that left marks.

But what you noticed first wasn’t the bruises.

It was the ink.

A tattoo bloomed on his left side, stark black against the pale skin of his ribs. A budded cross—elegant, almost holy, but done in thick lines that stretched down to his hip bone. It followed the curve of his body with a precision that made your throat tighten.

It was the kind of tattoo that looked like it meant something.

The kind of tattoo someone might get when they had something to prove. Or something to grieve.

You sat up slowly, careful not to make the bed creak. But his voice cut through the quiet anyway—low, raspy from sleep.

��Didn’t mean to wake you.”

You looked down. He hadn’t moved his arm. But you could see the faint smirk at the corner of his mouth.

“You didn’t,” you lied.

“Liar.”

Your lips parted. You wanted to ask about the tattoo. You wanted to ask about a lot of things. But the morning air felt too fragile, like words might break it.

He finally pulled his arm away. Blinked up at you with those same tired, blue eyes. The bruising had darkened overnight—sick purple above his cheekbone now.

“You get any sleep?” you asked.

He rolled onto his side, elbow propped beneath his head. “Some.”

You nodded. Your fingers twisted on the edge of the motel sheet. He noticed.

“Don’t look so nervous,” he said, voice still rough. “I’m not gonna touch you.”

A beat of silence. Then—

“Not unless you ask.”

That made your breath catch.

“I wasn’t—” you started.

“You were,” he interrupted, not cruelly. Just honest. “It’s fine. You’re allowed to be nervous. I’m not exactly a picture of comfort.”

You let the silence sit for a moment.

“I saw your tattoo,” you said eventually.

That brought a real smile. Just a flicker.

“Yeah?” he asked, tone unreadable.

“It’s…unexpected.”

“People usually expect barbed wire or brass knuckles.”

“I expected nothing.”

That made his eyes narrow slightly. Not suspicious—just focused. Curious.

“Well,” he murmured, “you’re the first person to see it sober in a while. So congrats.”

You didn’t laugh. But you didn’t look away either.

The room was quiet again. Tense, but not sharp. Just stretched thin between two people who knew how to pretend nothing mattered. Who didn’t know what to do with the moments when something actually might.

He sat up slowly, every muscle moving like it remembered pain. His back cracked as he stretched.

“Want coffee?” he asked.

You blinked. “Here?”

He smirked. “There’s a machine in the lobby. Shit tastes like burnt tires, but it’s hot.”

You thought about it.

Thought about saying no.

But you didn’t.

“Yeah,” you said. “Okay.”

He grabbed his hoodie from the floor, dragged it on without looking at you again. But before he stepped outside, he paused. Hand on the doorknob.

“You can stay,” he said, quietly. “If you want.”

Then he left. The door creaked shut behind him.

You were alone again.

But it didn’t feel the same.

The crowd wasn’t loud—it was vicious.

Packed into a basement so humid the walls sweat blood, every shout felt like it came from somewhere deep in the throat. Somewhere animal. They didn’t cheer for skill. They didn’t want grace or footwork or strategy.

They wanted carnage. Blood.

Lion knew that before his fist ever hit the canvas.

His jaw ached from the first right hook, a bone-deep throb that crackled up to his temple. His opponent was a wall of meat and rage, a prison-yard brute with fists like cinder blocks. There was no technique. Just power. And Lion didn’t need his brother shouting from the side to know that power would win this crowd over long before heart ever did.

“Stop dancing and hit him!” Stanley barked from the corner, voice thick with panic disguised as anger. “You want him to walk all over you? Huh? Lion—get up!”

Lion spat blood. His vision shimmered. The world tilted just enough to make everything feel slightly wrong—too fast, too loud, too hot.

He got up anyway.

Because Stanley needed the money.

Because Stanley had smiled that fucking smile earlier that day and said, “This one’s easy, bro. Guy’s all show, no stamina. You just gotta take a few rounds, make it ugly, then put him down. Easy payday.”

Easy payday.

Lion barely registered the fourth hit that cracked his eyebrow open. He just felt the warm trickle down his temple, thick and wet, slipping into his eye. The crowd roared. The brute cracked his knuckles. Stanley screamed something else, but Lion couldn’t hear it.

He was already gone.

Gone into that space in his mind where it was just fists and fire. Where everything else fell away except the weight of his body and the will to keep standing. To not break.

Because he didn’t have the luxury of breaking.

Not when Stanley had already bet half of it.

Not when you were waiting, maybe still asleep in the motel bed, not knowing what the hell he’d gotten roped into.

You heard the door before you saw him.

He didn’t knock.

He just opened it like it was still his room—even though he’d let you keep the bed, even though he’d left hours ago with nothing but a promise of shit coffee and that quiet, bruised voice telling you you could stay if you wanted.

You were still in bed, half-dozing with the curtains cracked to let in the morning sun when he stumbled in.

Stumbled.

That was the only word for it.

His steps weren’t steady. They were uneven, like the world tilted just slightly under his boots and he hadn’t figured out how to stand on it yet.

You sat up fast. “Lion?”

He shut the door behind him and leaned against it like it was the only thing holding him upright.

His face was a mess.

Split brow. Eye swollen nearly shut. Blood crusted from his lip to his chin. His knuckles looked worse—skin torn open, bones shifting wrong under the stretch of bruised flesh. The same hands you’d cleaned less than twelve hours ago.

“What the hell happened to you?” you asked, heart dropping.

He didn’t answer. Just blinked slow, eyes locking onto you like he was making sure you were still there. Still real. Like the only thing that mattered was that you saw him like this—wrecked, standing, and silent.

“Sit down.” You were already sliding out of bed, grabbing the shitty motel towels and the first aid kit he’d used on you.

“I’m fine,” he rasped.

“You’re bleeding.”

“Been worse.”

You knelt in front of him anyway. He didn’t stop you.

You peeled his hoodie back, the fabric stiff with sweat and blood. His body flinched when you touched his ribs, and that’s when you saw it—another set of bruises blooming over his tattoo, new and angry. The budded cross twisted just slightly with every breath.

“Jesus, Lion…”

“I took a fight.”

“No shit you took a fight.”

You pressed a cold washcloth to his brow. He winced, but didn’t pull away.

“I didn’t think you were still fighting,” you said, softer this time.

He didn’t meet your eyes. “I wasn’t.”

You waited. The silence stretched.

“Then why?”

That’s when you heard it—a knock at the door. Two quick raps. Familiar. Confident.

Before you could move, Lion stood. Winced. Opened the door.

Stanley stood there. Sunglasses, too-white smile, a wad of cash folded in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

“Atta boy,” he said, like Lion had just passed a test.

Then he saw you.

And smirked wider.

“Well shit,” Stanley drawled, eyes dragging over you in nothing but one of Lion’s shirts. “Guess we’re celebrating, huh?”

Lion didn’t say a word.

But his jaw tightened.

Hard.

Stanley didn’t even pretend to stay long.

He made himself at home fast—lit a cigarette without asking, sat on the edge of the motel dresser like it was his throne, and slapped the wad of cash down beside the TV remote with a grin that made your skin crawl.

“Got another lined up for Friday,” he said, like he was talking about weekend drinks. “Same guy running the pit. Big payout this time.”

Lion stood with his hands braced on the bathroom door frame, head bowed slightly like he was willing himself to disappear into the wood. His knuckles were still bleeding. You hadn’t even finished bandaging him.

Stanley didn’t notice. Or he did and didn’t care.

“He’s a bruiser, but nothin’ you can’t handle,” Stanley went on, flicking ash on the floor. “And hey—if you go down in round three, we double. Bookies already think you're soft.”

Lion didn’t say anything. Not even a grunt.

You stepped forward, barely keeping the venom out of your voice. “He can’t even see out of one eye.”

Stanley looked at you like you were an amusing commercial break. “He’ll be fine. Lion always bounces back. Don’t you, bro?”

Still nothing.

Not a word.

Stanley stood up then, snagging the cash again. “I’ll hold this for now. Just so you don’t blow it on painkillers and whores.” A wink in your direction. “No offense.”

You didn’t flinch. But your fists clenched hard enough to pop your knuckles.

When the door shut behind him, it was like the air collapsed. Like all the tension that had been floating in the corners of the room finally snapped loose.

Lion didn’t move. Just stood there, staring at the place Stanley had been.

You crossed the room, slow and quiet, until you were right in front of him.

“Lion,” you said softly.

Still, he didn’t look at you.

“I don’t get it,” you whispered. “Why do you let him do this to you?”

His breath hitched.

And then he laughed.

But it was a dead thing. A broken thing. Like it had rotted in his throat and came out anyway.

“Let him?” he echoed, voice raw. “You think I let him?”

He finally looked at you then.

And something in his face had cracked wide open.

“This is all I have,” he said. “This is it. Motel rooms, blood money, and fights that don’t mean shit. I’ve been fighting since I could walk. And he’s the only one who ever put food in front of me after.”

“That’s not food,” you snapped. “That’s scraps. That’s chains dressed up like favors.”

He didn’t respond. Just ran a hand through his hair, pacing now.

“You think I don’t know that?” he muttered. “You think I don’t wake up every goddamn morning and wish I’d walked away ten years ago? That I hadn’t spent my whole life being dragged around by someone who just wants to be the brains behind my broken body?”

You didn’t know what to say.

So you stepped toward him.

And touched his face.

It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t even gentle. It was desperate. Anchoring. Real.

He leaned into it, just barely.

And for the first time, he looked like he might shatter.

“I’m tired,” he whispered.

You nodded.

“I know.”

The room was quieter after his outburst. Not peaceful—never peaceful—but quiet like the lull after a storm. You’d seen men blow up before, punch walls, throw chairs. Lion didn’t need any of that. His voice had done all the breaking.

Now he sat on the edge of the bed with his fists in his lap, head down, body humming with everything he hadn’t said. The anger. The guilt. The shame that clung to him like the blood drying on his skin.

You came back with the first-aid kit. Didn’t ask permission this time. You just dropped to your knees in front of him like you had the night before.

This time, he didn’t flinch when you touched him.

You worked slowly. Hands steady. The scrape above his eyebrow had crusted, but it split open again as soon as you wiped it. He didn’t hiss. Just stared at your face like the pain kept him grounded.

“Sorry,” you whispered when you dabbed too hard.

He shook his head. “Don’t be.”

You moved to his hands—those knuckles, those battered fingers. They were worse up close. One was likely fractured, swollen so bad the skin looked ready to burst.

“Jesus, Lion…”

He gave a tired half-smile. “I’ve had worse.”

“You shouldn’t have to.”

That shut him up.

You wrapped his right hand carefully, fingers brushing the rough skin of his palm. He stared down at the top of your head as you worked, lips parted like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. You finished the left hand, taping it just tight enough.

When you looked up, he was already looking at you.

For a second, it was just that.

The light buzzed overhead.

The air conditioner kicked on, rattled, died again.

His thigh brushed yours.

And something shifted.

You don’t know who moved first. Maybe it was you, maybe it was him. Maybe it was always going to happen.

But his mouth was on yours and it was nothing like you expected.

It wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t rough.

It was desperate.

Like he was trying to memorize the shape of your lips just in case the world took you away.

His hands—bandaged, trembling—cradled your jaw like you were something fragile. His kiss tasted like blood and salt and something quieter underneath. Something scared.

You kissed him back with both hands tangled in his hoodie, pulled him down to you like you needed him to feel how fast your heart was racing. How real it was.

When he finally pulled away, he didn’t go far. Just pressed his forehead to yours. Breathing heavy. Quiet. Real.

“I don’t go by it anymore,” he said, voice barely audible. “Haven’t in a long time.”

Your fingers curled against his thigh.

“But if you’re gonna stay—” he paused. Swallowed. “You should know.”

You didn’t say anything. Just waited.

His breath tickled your lips when he said it.

“Walter.”

You blinked.

“That’s my name. Walter Kaminski.”

You didn’t smile.

Didn’t tease.

Didn’t make it smaller than it was.

Instead, you whispered, “Hi, Walter.”

And for the first time since you met him, he looked like he didn’t want to run.

The warmth of his name still lingered on your tongue by the time night fell.

Walter.

You didn’t say it out loud again. Not yet. Not while he was already pulling back into himself, curling up in the corner of the room with a bag of ice on his side and a far-off look in his eyes like he was already bracing for what came next.

You’d made the bed for him.

He didn’t use it.

He stayed in the chair near the window, legs sprawled out, hoodie zipped halfway up like armor. The bandages on his hands were fresh, but you could already see the bruising underneath turning darker by the hour.

You sat on the edge of the bed, chewing your thumbnail, watching him in the reflection of the black screen of the TV. Neither of you had turned it on.

“Are you gonna take the fight?”

The question floated between you, suspended in the dusty air. It sounded smaller than you’d meant it to.

Walter didn’t answer right away.

You hated that you already expected that.

“Stanley’s not gonna let it go,” he muttered eventually. “If I don’t show, he loses money. If he loses money, he gets mean. And if he gets mean—he finds ways to make me pay anyway.”

You frowned. “He’s not your boss.”

“He is if I keep letting him be.”

You turned then, facing him fully. “Then stop.”

His jaw flexed.

“It’s not that simple.”

“It is.”

“No, it’s not,” he snapped, standing suddenly, the chair scraping loud against the laminate floor. “You think I don’t want to be done? You think I don’t want to walk away and disappear and never take another hit again?”

His voice cracked.

You didn’t flinch. You stood too. Right in front of him now.

“Then do it,” you said, voice low. “Stop letting him bleed you dry.”

“I owe him.”

“You don’t.”

He stared at you like he didn’t recognize you. Like you were something that shouldn’t have stepped into his world but did anyway, and now he didn’t know what the hell to do with you.

He turned away. Punched the dresser with his bandaged hand. Didn’t even curse. Just breathed heavy through his nose like he was holding back more than blood.

“I don’t know how to be anything but this,” he said finally. “I don’t know how to be someone you stay with if I’m not fighting.”

You crossed to him. Placed a hand on his back. Felt him flinch and stay all at once.

“You don’t have to know yet,” you whispered. “You just have to try.”

Silence.

Then: “Stanley booked the motel through the weekend.”

You exhaled slowly. “So we’ve got a few days.”

He turned, looked at you again.

Soft. Wrecked. Open.

“Yeah,” he said. “A few days.”

The motel lobby was quiet.

Desert quiet—heat pressed against the glass, flies buzzing near the snack rack, an old box fan rattling against the check-in desk. You stood there, fingers curled around a styrofoam coffee cup, waiting for the guy behind the counter to stop pretending he wasn’t watching you.

“Can I help you?” you asked finally.

The clerk—mid-forties, bored eyes, receding hairline—shrugged. “Nah. Just didn’t expect to see you come outta Room 8 this morning.”

You blinked. “Okay…”

He smirked. “You his girl or something?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

“Didn’t mean anything by it,” he said quickly, hands raised. “Just—he’s usually alone. Or with the other one. The loud guy in sunglasses. You’re new.”

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t owe him one.

Just grabbed a second cup of that awful burnt coffee and walked out.

But the words followed you.

You his girl or something?

Walter was sitting on the hood of a rusted-out car behind the motel, shirtless in the sun, knees pulled up and cigarette dangling from his mouth. The bruises on his ribs had ripened into something nasty. The bandage on his hand was already fraying.

You handed him the coffee. He took it without a word.

“You alright?” you asked.

He nodded.

Then squinted. “Why?”

You shrugged, sitting beside him. “Motel guy asked if I was your girl.”

He paused.

You didn’t look at him, but you could feel the way his whole body stilled. Like you’d reached under his skin and pressed on something he hadn’t let anyone near in a long time.

“What’d you say?” he asked.

“Didn’t.”

He flicked ash off the hood. “Good.”

“Why? That hard to believe someone might care about you?”

Silence.

Then: “It’s not that.”

You turned to look at him.

He finally looked back.

“It’s that people who care about me don’t stay,” he said. “And when they try, they get hurt.”

Your throat tightened.

“I’m still here,” you whispered.

“Yeah.” He stared at you for a long second. “That’s what scares me.”

Stanley showed up like he always did—loud, smug, and uninvited.

You were sitting on the edge of the bed folding the same two clean shirts Walter owned when the knock came. He barely glanced at the door before dragging it open.

“Look at you,” Stanley crowed, stepping into the room like it belonged to him. “Didn’t think you’d be up. You take a nap or a beating?”

Walter didn’t laugh.

You stayed quiet.

Stanley’s eyes slid to you. “Ah. She’s still here.”

You didn’t like the way he said that—like you were a stray dog who hadn’t wandered off yet.

“She got a name?” Stanley asked, looking at Walter now.

“Yeah,” Walter said flatly. “She does.”

Stanley waited, eyebrow raised. No answer.

You could see it coming. The moment when curiosity soured into suspicion. When Stanley tilted his head just slightly and looked at you like you were a piece of something valuable. Something vulnerable.

“You gonna tell me who she is, or should I guess?” he said with a crooked smile.

And before you could open your mouth—before you could laugh it off or lie or do anything to defuse the moment—Walter stepped forward.

Not fast. Not dramatic.

But purposeful.

His hand came to your waist.

Fingers warm, firm, curling just enough to make the gesture unmistakable. Possessive. Protective. Territorial.

Yours.

You felt it like a punch to the gut.

And so did Stanley.

The look in his eyes shifted—something calculating, something darker. Like he’d just found another way to get at Walter if he ever needed it.

But Walter didn’t let go.

He just looked at his brother, jaw set, mouth a tight line.

Stanley grinned. “Well, shit.”

And then he left.

The door clicked shut behind him, and the spell broke.

Walter let go.

You turned slowly.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you said.

He met your eyes. “Yeah, I did.”

You wanted to ask why.

But you already knew.

Because you were becoming something Stanley could use.

And Walter? He was already starting to care too much to let that happen.

The motel room creaked with the kind of stillness that wasn’t peace.

Just a low hum of things unsaid, hanging between the chipped walls and the uneven floorboards. The TV was off. The coffee was cold. And Walter hadn’t moved in over an hour.

He was sitting in the same chair near the window, elbows on his knees, knuckles pressed against his mouth like he could hold himself in with just that much pressure. His bruises had darkened. The side of his face was turning a sick kind of gold under the pale light.

You watched him from the bed.

He hadn’t spoken since Stanley left.

Not even when you offered him food. Not when you handed him water. Not when you pressed your palm against the small of your back like it hurt to watch him sit so still.

He didn’t even blink when the ice bucket finally gave up its last sigh of melt.

You stood, bare feet ghosting over the worn motel carpet. Crossed the room without saying anything. And this time, when you knelt in front of him, it wasn’t to tend wounds or wipe blood off his skin.

You just wanted him to see you.

To feel you.

“Walter,” you said, quiet but certain.

His eyes flicked up. Hollow. Distant.

Until they met yours.

And everything in him shifted.

You climbed into his lap without asking.

Straddled his thighs, hands curling around the sides of his jaw. You didn’t kiss him—not yet. You just pressed your forehead to his and breathed him in.

“You don’t have to say anything,” you whispered.

He exhaled, shaky and sharp. Like he’d been holding it in since the door closed.

“I’m still figuring this out,” he said.

“I know.”

“I don’t want to fuck this up.”

“You won’t.”

A beat passed.

Then you felt it—his hands coming to your hips, tentative at first, like he still wasn’t sure he was allowed to hold something that hadn’t already slipped through his fingers.

Your hands slid up into his hair. His mouth brushed yours.

The kiss came slow.

Not like last time.

Not like need.

Like relief.

Like a man who’d been starving for a touch that didn’t come with strings. Like someone who finally understood what it meant to be wanted without it costing anything.

You broke it first. Just long enough to whisper, “Come to bed.”

He hesitated.

“I don’t sleep well,” he murmured. “I—I move. I twitch. Sometimes I talk.”

“I don’t care.”

“I don’t want to scare you.”

“You won’t.”

That’s when he let go.

Of the guilt.

Of the fear.

Of whatever ghosts he’d been keeping curled in his chest like fists.

He let you take his hand. Let you lead him to the bed. Let you pull back the sheets and lie beside him in the dark.

He didn’t touch you at first.

But when you curled into his side, he pulled you in with one arm and held you tight. Like he was afraid someone might come through the door and take you away.

And when he finally spoke, voice hoarse and half-asleep, it was just three words:

“Just stay, alright?”

You didn’t answer.

You just stayed.

The room was dark except for the amber lamp on the nightstand, humming soft against the silence.

Walter lay on his back, one arm tucked under his head, the other resting across his stomach where the bruises looked like spilled ink under his skin. You were curled beside him, the motel blanket tangled somewhere around your calves. Neither of you had slept. Not really. Not since that night.

Not since you crawled into bed with him and didn’t leave.

You could feel him vibrating beneath the stillness—like his body never fully powered down, even when he was quiet. Like he was always waiting for something to blow.

“Can’t sleep?” you asked, voice low in the hush.

He didn’t open his eyes. “Didn’t expect to.”

You turned on your side, propping yourself on your elbow, watching the way his throat moved when he swallowed.

“Tell me something,” you whispered.

He smirked faintly, one eye cracking open. “That broad of a request might get you in trouble.”

“I mean it. Anything. Anything you’ve never told anyone.”

He stared at the ceiling again. The air shifted.

A long, thin silence stretched between you.

Then—

“When I was thirteen,” he said slowly, “I found a dog behind a liquor store. Just a mutt. I named her Ash. She used to sleep under the trailer with me when things got bad. Only thing that made it feel like something might actually care if I didn’t wake up one day.”

You said nothing. Just listened. Let him bleed.

“I kept her for years. Stanley knew. He knew how much she meant to me. Last year, when things got tight, he sold her.”

You blinked. The way he said it—casual, empty—was worse than if he’d cried.

“He didn’t even tell me first. I came back from a fight and she was gone. Asked where she was. He said he traded her for rent and a bag of pills.”

A breath.

You reached over and traced the edge of his ribs—gentle, featherlight. He didn’t stop you.

“I didn’t talk to him for a month,” he said. “Slept outside. Ate canned corn out of a goddamn dumpster. He didn’t say sorry. Not once. Just told me next time not to get attached to things I couldn’t afford to keep.”

Your hand stilled against him.

“You don’t flinch,” he said, quietly.

You met his eyes. “Why would I?”

He looked at you like you were something rare. Something delicate he didn’t know how to hold.

“You gonna ask me why I ran?” you whispered.

He nodded, but didn’t push.

“My stepdad hit my mom. Cops came. Left. I told her to leave him. She didn’t. He hit me next.”

Walter sat up a little, jaw flexing.

“I packed a backpack and didn’t look back.”

“Jesus,” he breathed.

“I lived in my car for three months before I found you.”

He looked at you like he was trying to figure out what that meant. What you meant.

You reached over and slid your fingers under his bandaged hand.

“You’re allowed to be rough with me, Walter,” you said. “I won’t break.”

He looked down at where your fingers laced with his.

And for once—he didn’t pull away.

You didn’t let go of his hand.

Even as the silence settled heavy again, even as Walter leaned back against the motel headboard like he didn’t trust his body to do what he wanted it to. Your fingers stayed threaded with his—warm and sure, firm enough to say you’re safe without ever speaking the words.

He kept looking at you like he didn’t know what the hell to do with that.

“You ever touch someone just to see if they’d flinch?” he asked quietly.

You shook your head. “You?”

“Yeah,” he rasped. “Used to. When I was a kid. Just light. Shoulder, hand, whatever. Like—like if they didn’t flinch, maybe they didn’t think I was bad yet.”

Your stomach twisted.

You reached out, and this time, you brought his hand to your mouth.

Kissed the inside of his wrist. The rough plane of his knuckles. The pad of each finger, slow and deliberate. He watched you the whole time, breathing shallow and tight, like your lips were unraveling him one soft kiss at a time.

When you took his index and middle finger into your mouth, he choked on a sound. One you’d never heard from him before.

It wasn’t a moan.

It was a whimper.

You sucked slow—just the tips—warm and wet and careful, lips gliding down to your knuckles, your tongue dragging just enough to make him twitch. His thighs shifted. His breath hitched. His eyes slammed shut.

“Fuck,” he whispered, like he wasn’t supposed to feel this good.

You pulled off with a pop and kissed the fingertips again, then brought them down between your legs.

Guided him over your panties, soaked through now.

“I want you to touch me,” you said. “But I want it to be your idea.”

He looked at you like he was about to fall apart.

Like he was already halfway there.

“I’m scared I’ll fuck it up,” he admitted, voice barely there.

“You won’t.”

“You’re not—” he swallowed. “You’re not just a distraction.”

“I know.”

“You’re not just some girl who wants a broken boy story to tell later?”

It was a question disguised as a statement, like he was afraid to know the answer.

You took his wrist again, placed his hand just where you needed it.

And rocked your hips once—slow, deliberate—against the heat of his fingers.

“I’m yours,” you whispered.

That broke something open in him.

He pushed your panties aside, tentative at first—like he didn’t quite believe he had permission. But when he slid one slick finger through your folds and felt how wet you were for him, how ready, the sound that tore from his throat was pure disbelief.

“Christ,” he muttered, eyes locked to your face now. “You feel—God, baby.”

You whimpered, grinding down against his hand, your fingers clutching the edge of the mattress for balance.

He was gentle. So gentle. Too gentle.

You pressed your mouth to his ear. “Deeper.”

He obeyed.

You gasped.

He moaned with you.

Like your pleasure belonged to him.

Like the more you came apart, the more whole he felt.

He was panting by the time you pulled your panties down your legs and tossed them to the floor. His fingers were still wet from you, resting on his thigh like he didn’t know what to do next—like he was trying not to come just from the sight of you crawling into his lap.

You straddled him slow.

Bare thighs bracketing his hips.

His back hit the motel headboard with a dull thud, and he looked up at you like you were something holy. Something terrifying. His bandaged hands hovered in the air like he didn’t trust himself to touch without ruining it.

But you didn’t look away.

Not once.

Your eyes locked to his and stayed there—steady, warm, full of something he didn’t know how to name.

You reached between you, wrapped your hand around him. He was already hard, twitching against your palm, flushed deep red at the tip like he’d been aching for you since the second you kissed him.

Walter gasped when you stroked him. His hips bucked.

“Jesus,” he whispered, jaw clenched tight. “You’re so—fuck, you’re gorgeous.”

You lined him up with your entrance and sank down slow. Inch by inch. Taking your time. Letting him feel every slick, tight second of it.

His eyes never left yours.

He moaned through gritted teeth, fists clenched at his sides like he was holding onto control by a thread.

“Look at me,” you said, even though he already was.

“I am,” he breathed. “Fuck, I am. I can’t stop.”

You rocked your hips once, slow and deep, and watched his mouth drop open. His head tipped back for just a moment—overwhelmed—but you cupped his jaw and brought him back.

“Keep looking.”

His hands rose like instinct—found your waist, your hips, then froze.

“Can I…?” he rasped.

You nodded.

He gripped you then. Soft, trembling, reverent.

You started to ride him slow.

Long, deliberate rolls of your hips, grinding down until his breath came in short, desperate bursts. You tightened around him with every movement, dragging him deeper, drowning him in you.

The sound he made was barely human.

You leaned in, your forehead against his, lips brushing but never fully kissing.

“Good?” you whispered.

His grip tightened.

“So good,” he choked. “Fuck, baby—ride me—ride me just like that. Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

You held his gaze the whole time. Watched it flicker and soften. Watched it fill with everything he didn’t know how to say.

Then you started to bounce properly—your thighs working, your body rising and falling in rhythm, slick and full and relentless.

His mouth dropped open again, breath catching.

You whispered right into his ear.

“You’re doing so good for me, Walter. Such a good boy. Taking me so deep.”

He whimpered.

“You feel so good inside me. Perfect. Just like this.”

“Jesus Christ,” he gasped, head falling back. “Say it again—please—”

You gave it to him.

“You’re so good. My sweet boy. Just like that. Don’t stop. You’re making me feel so good, baby.”

He was trembling under you. Entire body tense, fingers digging into your hips like he was afraid to come without permission.

“I’m gonna—” he started, voice breaking. “Fuck, I’m gonna—should I pull out?”

You grabbed his face.

Shook your head slow.

“No. I want it. I want you.”

His eyes went wide—wild with it.

“You sure?” he rasped.

You ground down once more and whispered:

“Cum in me, Walter.”

He shattered.

Moaned your name, low and ragged, as he came inside you—deep, hot, shuddering through the kind of release that felt like surrender. His mouth was against your collarbone, panting, praising you through every wave.

“Atta girl…” he groaned, arms wrapping around you like he couldn’t bear to let you go. “Atta girl… took me so good…my girl…my fucking girl.”

You stayed right there, hearts pounding against each other, skin warm and damp.

And when he kissed you—soft, grateful, still breathless—it felt like something permanent.

You didn’t move.

Not at first.

The world had gone still in the soft aftershock, the motel room hazy with heat and breath and the smell of sweat and skin. Your thighs were still wrapped around him, his hands spread wide over your back like he didn’t trust gravity to keep you from slipping away.

He was still inside you. Still pulsing. Still trembling.

Walter exhaled into your shoulder. A sound more like relief than release.

You buried your fingers in the sweat-damp hair at the nape of his neck and kept your face tucked in close. Not to hide. Just to be near. Closer than close. You could feel his heart hammering against yours like he hadn’t come down yet. Like he didn’t want to.

His voice came low, cracked open.

“Never done that before.”

You blinked. “What?”

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, but his arms didn’t loosen.

“Let someone stay.”

You studied him. His lashes were wet at the tips. His mouth was pink and kiss-bruised. The flush on his cheeks hadn’t faded.

“Does it feel wrong?” you asked softly.

“No.” His voice caught. “Feels like I’m gonna wake up and find you gone.”

You shook your head. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He nodded, but you could see how much it cost him to believe you.

His hand came up to your face then—rough, bandaged, trembling at the edges—and he touched you like he wasn’t sure you were real. Thumb ghosting over your cheekbone. Fingertips tracing the line of your jaw.

“Why me?” he asked. Not self-pitying. Just raw.

“Because I see you,” you said.

He closed his eyes.

You kissed him. Gentle this time. Deep and unhurried, like you were sealing something in place.

When you finally eased off of him, he pulled you close again, curling around your body like instinct. Your head tucked into the hollow of his throat, his hand flat over your spine.

You felt safe there. And you knew, in the way his arms didn’t loosen, that he felt it too.

“Stay with me,” he whispered into your hair. “Even if I don’t know how to be good at this. Even if I fuck it up.”

You didn’t hesitate.

“I already am.”

1K notes · View notes

selinakyle373 · 16 days ago

Text

: ̗̀➛ Happy hare

ㅤㅤ ㅤ ₊✩ˎˊ˗ remmick x reader

synopsis : Their so-called god had taken everything from you. Branded, nearly slaughtered, all because of a single word cast upon you : witch.

cw : smut, soft horror vibes, period oral and piv sex, dubious consent, witch hunt, manipulation, hatred toward Christianity due to trauma, mention of sexual abuse, branding, death/murder, gore details, blood and blood drinking, gore. slight dark!remmick, chubby reader. words : 8.8k

ㅤㅤ ㅤ masterlist⋆ ao3

The night was quiet and eerie, almost magical.

It might have been, if you hadn’t been running for the last ten minutes. Running from the evil men trying to catch you.

Witch.

That’s what they called you. That had been your death sentence. Nothing else mattered the moment the town priest spoke that word. Not all the good you’d done teaching the children to read, not the times your medicines saved the weak ones during harsh winters, not the babies you’d delivered in the village.

None of it mattered anymore.

Witch.

It had been branded into your back with a hot iron, you could still feel the searing pain. A Christian cross, reversed, scorched into your skin. How you escaped, you still didn’t know. But you weren’t going to stop and think about it now.

You ran, and kept running, deep into the night. Away from the village.

You knew these woods like home, but the deeper you went, the more unfamiliar they felt. The more alive. The pounding of hooves echoed through the ground beneath your bare feet.

You had never ventured this far into the woods, not even in search of the rarest plants needed for your most precious healing brews. It was said these woods were sacred, but haunted. That evil spirits clashed with angels in an endless battle beneath the trees.

That’s what the priest preached from his pulpit.

You had been on his list for as long as you could remember. A woman living alone in the woods. A midwife, a healer. Unmarried, but impure.

A whore. A heretic.

Someone who had turned her back on God ever since her mother died of the plague and her father never returned from a war their king had started. How could any god leave a child alone in such a brutal world?

The Church had offered no help. No comfort.

Only labour in exchange for food and shelter, scrubbing floors until your hands bled, being struck by the nuns for not working hard enough? Worse, abused by the old priest, who claimed your body was temptation.

How could you have still believed in God after that?

And yet, you still helped them. The villagers. The Church.

Anyone who came to you, for medicine, for shelter, for comfort, you never turned them away. And this was your reward: a searing brand across your back while being chased from your home. Everything you had ever known, taken from you.

And for what?

Twisted tales whispered by children. They said an evil spirit haunted your home. They claimed to see it, its red eyes glowing in the dead of night. Teeth as sharp as a knife glowing in the moonlight.

“The devil dances in her house,” they chanted beneath the priest’s window.

“The devil’s whore,” muttered the mothers.

“Witch,” declared the priest.

It had been your death sentence.

They were ready to burn you at the stake, to make an example of you. And for what? You had done nothing wrong. You had never seen the red eyes they spoke of—the ones that damned you to the flames.

The children’s minds had been filled with fear and fantasy, twisted into hatred. And the new priest, with his fiery sermons and violent passion, had stoked it all. His words might have been the final spark that lit the pyre beneath your feet.

They had been ready to tie you down when one of the men had slipped, just for a second, accidentally letting go of your arm. You hadn't think. You had reacted. You had stomped on the foot of the second guard and ran, straight into the woods.

Your hands were still bound, but that was a problem for another time.

No one would help you now. That’s what the brand was for. A warning to anyone who crossed your path. A mark of your so-called nature. A symbol of your supposed pact with the devil.

But you had noticed something early on, during the so-called witch hunts. They weren’t hunting Satan’s servants.

They were hunting women.

Small droplets of water fell onto your face.

You twitched, then slowly opened your eyes. The sunlight stung, hitting your aching head like a hammer.

Your whole body throbbed with pain. Your feet were torn open from the night spent running. Your knees were scraped raw from the fall. And your head pounded, still reeling from when it struck a rock as you hit the ground.

You remembered now. You hadn’t been able to see anything in the dark, your vision swallowed by the trees and shadows. You’d run straight into a hill, tripping and tumbling so fast it made your head spin, until everything went black.

A rock had ended your fall, knocking you out cold.

Now soaked and aching, you turned onto your back.

Sunlight streamed weakly through the heavy clouds, and gentle rain fell on the forest floor, feeding the roots of plants and trees alike. The droplets on your face felt good. Comforting. They meant you were still alive.

They hadn’t gotten to you.

Surely, they thought the forest would finish the job. People knew the weather turned cruel this time of year. A thunderstorm was closing in on the village. Maybe it had passed while you were unconscious, but the thick humidity in the air told you otherwise.

The storm hadn’t come yet. But it would. Tonight surely.

Getting up was hard. Every muscle screamed in protest. The brand on your back burned as if it had just been seared into your flesh all over again. Your simple white tunic clung to your skin, soaked through and nearly transparent from the rain. You were grateful no one ventured this deep into the woods.

Grateful no one could see you like this.

You didn’t know where you were.

Your hands were still bound, the rain-soaked rope tightening against the delicate skin of your wrists. The flesh was raw, swollen, and bleeding. It stung, less than the wound on your back, but just as damaging.

You had no way to cut the rope, which meant you'd have to keep walking like this : hands tied, your gown stained with blood, from the scratches, from the brand. You must have looked like you’d crawled out of hell itself.

If you came across anyone in their right mind… They wouldn’t help you.

And so you walked. All day, beneath a rain that only grew heavier.

You tried to get your bearings, but every tree looked the same. Every valley mirrored the last. Nothing helped. Not even the small stream gave you a clue about where the river might be. You’d tried to clean yourself in it as best you could, but your back was out of reach, and the cold water stung your wrists.

At least it quenched your thirst. That was the only comfort it offered.

Now the wind was rising, and night was falling. You were soaked to the bone, shivering with every step. The storm was coming.

You could see it in the distance, light flashing behind the thick clouds, those same clouds darkening with every passing minute. You needed shelter. A fire. Food.

But there was nothing. Convinced the forest had nothing left to offer, you were ready to give up.

Maybe death would be more merciful than whatever waited for you in these woods.

You sank down onto the damp earth with a heavy sigh. The scent of wet grass used to bring comfort, reminders of quiet mornings and healing herbs. Now, it only reminded you of everything you’d lost. Everything taken from you by men who believed they knew truth. Men who called themselves righteous. Men who reaped pain in the name of a god they’d never seen.

A god who let hundreds, no, thousands, die of plague, of war, of hunger. "Divine punishment," they'd preached.

Punishment for sinners. For heartbroken widows. For weak orphans. For freezing elders.

There was no mercy in that. Only cruelty.

“Keep walking,” came a murmur in the night.

A deep voice, roughened by time and distance. The accent was foreign, unfamiliar, yet not unknown.

Irish.

They had been coming to Britain for decades now, though never welcomed. Conquered. Occupied. Silenced. But this voice didn’t carry defeat.

It carried weight. Presence.

There was something in the voice, something that pulled at you. It was strange, almost hypnotic. Not commanding, but compelling. It made you want to keep moving. To keep going. You had survived a terrible fate. You couldn’t give up now.

Almost in a trance, you rose to your feet. The voice had stirred something deep within you, like a thread pulled taut in your mind. Suddenly, you knew where to go.

You hadn’t noticed the silence until then. The forest had gone still. No birdsong, no rustling branches. Only the soft patter of raindrops on leaves, and the quiet slaps of your bare feet against the wet earth.

The forest was guiding you now. Showing you the way.

At the end of your journey, you found a lonely thing.

An old cottage, forgotten by time. Strangely, it resembled your home back in the village. It wasn’t, but it could have fooled you. There was something about it. Something ancient.

It had history, written in the way it still stood after all these years, weathered but unmoved. It called to you, even as you lingered at the edge of the woods. The cottage stood alone in a clearing, bathed in silver light.

Mesmerizing. Almost ethereal.

“Come closer,” the voice whispered into the night. The same voice as before, low, steady, and strangely familiar.

You looked around, searching for the source of the voice, but were met with only silence.

The forest stretched endlessly, its depths barely touched by the weak nightlight. Thick clouds loomed overhead, crawling closer, swallowing the moon. That’s when you noticed it. The silence wasn’t just quiet.

It was unnatural.

A crack of thunder shattered the stillness, sudden and sharp, followed by a blinding flash of light.

And there, for the briefest heartbeat, a silhouette.

Motionless. Watching. It stood between the trees, half-swallowed by shadow. Then the light vanished, leaving you in darkness once more. But your heart was pounding, loud and frantic, as if trying to escape your chest.

You were facing were that silhouette had been. Trying to slow your breathing, you wanted to hear if that person was coming closer, was lurking around you still. Yet you couldn't hear anything else than your own heartbeat.

Another flash of lightning, but the silhouette was gone.

“Don’t be scared.”

The voice was closer now. Too close.

You spun around, heart in your throat, eyes darting wildly through the trees. The forest stared back. Empty. How long had they been following you? Were they real… or just the product of a broken mind?

You were in shock. Your body throbbed with pain. You’d hit your head. It could be a hallucination. It had to be.

And yet, your skin prickled. Something was watching you. Something still there.

You turned around one last time. And saw them.

Two glowing lights.

The same lights the children had whispered about in their chants. The same ones that sparked the rumours. That led to your branding. Your near-burning.

The end of everything. The devil had followed you.

And now, it stood before you, watching. Its eyes blazed in the darkness, fixed on you from just a few meters away. Cold. Unblinking. Staring straight into your soul.

You began to back away, slowly, every step weighted with dread. Your breath hitched, short, ragged gasps clawing at your throat. Your ears rang with a high, deafening pitch. The only sound left was your heartbeat, hammering violently against your ribs, as you stumbled backward toward the cottage.

Toward the only thing that looked like home.

Once inside, safe behind the thick wooden door, you finally let the tears fall. You latched the door with trembling hands, sealing yourself in. It was dark inside. The walls were thick, and with them came a heavy chill that clung to your skin. Now out of the rain, the cold burrowed deeper, settling into your bones and making you shiver uncontrollably.

But you couldn't take your eyes off the door.

You half-expected it to burst open, the devil from the woods forcing its way in. It didn’t. Minutes passed. Then what felt like hours. Only the distant rumble of thunder reminded you that time hadn’t stopped.

Finally, heart still pounding, you dared to move. Slowly, you approached the window. It took every ounce of courage to look outside. The forest was just as it had been, dark, wet, still. The red glowing eyes were gone. You waited, breath held, until another flash of lightning split the sky.

Nothing. No figure. No eyes.

The forest had returned to life. The rustle of leaves in the wind. The distant hoot of an owl. The soft scurry of animals searching for shelter. Gone was the suffocating silence. It was the forest you knew again, familiar, wild, and alive.

The sense of safety didn’t come through. The feeling of being watched didn’t leave you. It clung to you like a soaked gown.

Taking in your surroundings, everything looked odd. For an abandoned house, you started noticing little things that didn’t make sense.

How the dry logs of wood were methodically arranged in the fireplace, waiting to be lit. How a box of matches sat on the mantel. How furs were neatly placed in front of the fire, almost like a bed. How some fresh and ripped fruits and vegetables were carefully waiting on the table. How the place was rid of any dust, spider webs, or anything an old abandoned house would normally be filled with. How what seemed like a nightgown was folded neatly on a shelf.

This was no safety haven. It was a trap.

You had been prey, and what was chasing you had you exactly where they wanted.

You hadn't meant to fall asleep. You had tried to fight it for as long as you could, but exhaustion had won in the end.

Now, sitting against the front door, your entire body ached. Bent into an awkward position, it hadn’t been a restful night. Scared, cold, and miserable, it had felt more like a coma than a relaxing slumber.

You had refused to lie on the furs, refused to change clothes, refused to light the fire, refused to eat anything. It all felt wrong. None of those things should have been there, and neither should you. You had been coaxed here by an unknown force, something that toyed with you.

Blinking your eyes open, you were frightened to realize that some things had been moved, or changed, but everything looked exactly the same. From what you had been able to see in the dark, nothing seemed out of place. The furs were still on the floor, the wood still neatly stacked in the fireplace, the nightgown still folded on the shelf.

Getting up, you looked out the window. The sun was already high in the sky, you must have slept longer than you'd thought.

The forest seemed quiet, but in its usual, unsettling way. The leaves on the trees swayed in the wind. You saw a hare dart to the edge of the woods, hopping around as if it were the most natural thing in the world. It was being chased by a fox. Both animals left trails of red prints behind them, as though they’d been injured.

It was odd, they seemed lively. But they had come from the cottage. The trail led straight to the front door.

Your hand hovered near the door handle, hesitation anchoring your feet to the floor. You told yourself it was probably nothing—just a wounded animal. Maybe the fox had caught another hare, maybe it had dragged it back here to finish the job, but was greedy enough to chase another one. That would explain the blood. That would make sense.

But your gut twisted against the thought. It didn’t feel right.

You crouched near the door, careful not to make a sound, and peered through the thin gap between the wood and the floorboards. Just a sliver of light bled through, but enough to see it.

Red smears. A pool of blood. You couldn't see the source of it.

Your breath caught. Something had been thrown at the doorstep. It hadn't been place with care, or dragged by an animal.

A soft creak behind you snapped your head around.

Nothing. Just the firewood. The furs. The gown. The food. Exactly where they’d always been.

Clenching the doorknob, you took a deep breath. Whatever was behind that door was clearly dead, it couldn’t hurt you. But that wasn’t what scared you. It was what had killed it.

Who had killed it.

Everything that had happened the night before, you’d convinced yourself, just before sleep took you, that it was only a nightmare. A bad dream. The kind that twisted your mind when you were still awake. The kind that had sent countless other women to the pyre, screaming they’d seen shadows move, heard voices in the woods, felt things no one else believed.

Taking a deep breath, you unbolted the door and opened it quickly.

A sharp gasp tore from your throat, followed by a choked gag.

Lying on the ground, tossed carelessly like refuse, was a severed head.

The priest’s head. The same man who had pressed the brand into your back, the one now searing with fresh pain, as if it recognized its maker.

The face was frozen in an expression of pure terror, one you’d never seen on him before or anyone. A fear so raw, it looked like it could have killed him before anything else did. His eyes were wide open, glassy and unblinking, his mouth gaping as if caught in a final, silent scream.

His neck had been torn open, ripped apart in a way that looked savage, like a bear had sunk its claws into him.

And yet... it was too clean. Too precise. Not the work of an animal.

You should have been scared. Disgusted. You should have turned away, shielded your eyes, whispered a long forgotten prayer.

But you didn’t. You couldn’t tear your gaze from his face, frozen in agony, twisted by a fear so deep it had hollowed him out.

And somewhere inside you, in a place you'd buried long ago, something stirred. Not horror. Relief. Satisfaction.

A sick, quiet joy crept through your chest like smoke. It bloomed slowly, shamelessly, as if your body remembered something your mind still refused to admit.

The man who had branded you like cattle. Who had stood above you, reciting holy words while pressing iron to skin. He was the one now cast at your feet, his blood soaking into the doorstep. You should have wept. Should have screamed in horror.

Instead, you smiled.

Laughter burst out of you, sharp, sudden, and uncontrollable, echoing through the small clearing like a curse loosed into the air. It rose, louder and louder, until it no longer sounded like yours.

The very reason you had lost everything lay torn apart, mauled to death.

And it brought you joy. A savage, blistering happiness.

He would never hurt anyone again. Never press his hand to another girl's head in mock blessing while condemning her to fire. Never let his sermons slither into young minds, twisting love into shame, freedom into sin. Never again.

The beast that took him had done what no one else dared. What you had wished for but never spoken aloud. Now, his voice was silent.

And in its place, your laughter rang on.

It was strange, the way your mind worked.

You had been terrified the night before, shaking beneath the weight of shadows. But now, under the pale light of morning, you felt… peaceful.

After seeing the priest’s head, you’d simply stepped around it, heading toward the nearby stream. On the way, you’d found a jagged rock sharp enough to cut through the bindings on your wrists. The water had been ice-cold, biting at your skin, but it had washed away the grime, the dried blood. You had no soap, yet it didn’t matter. You no longer felt dirty.

Your old gown now hung from a low branch, damp and stained, while the clean one from the cottage clung to your body. If you had thought the first was thin, this one was nearly sheer in the sunlight, its fabric soft as breath, almost unreal.

Now, with the fire flickering in the hearth behind you, your silhouette danced against the stone walls. If anyone was watching, you imagined it must look mesmerizing. Hypnotic, even.

The head still lay where it had been tossed. You hadn’t bothered to move it. Maybe it would even serve a purpose, keep unwanted visitors at bay. Anyone wandering this deep into the woods was rarely a friend. If they saw what awaited them here, maybe they’d turn back.

But what truly preoccupied you wasn’t the priest. It was the question that lingered like fog in your thoughts : who had brought you his head?

And why did it feel… like a gift?

Thinking back on everything that had happened in just a single day, it felt strangely orchestrated. As if it had all been decided long before you realized it. You had never seen those red eyes before, the ones they said had turned you into a witch.

A woman alone, without a husband, living quietly at the edge of the woods—that was all you were. Your life mirrored the stories they whispered to children, especially the little girls. Stories meant to mold them into perfect wives. Tales told not just to frighten, but to warn.

And yet, the village children had chanted in the square that you were a witch. They were so sure. So specific. They spoke of glowing red eyes, of the devil himself dancing around your house at night, weaving spells into the walls.

The thing was you had never heard anything around your house, never saw any footprint, never heard the devil sing like the children said he was.

Lies, they had been.

Yet now, it all felt real.

Silence settled deep within the cottage. The night had turned eerie again, just like last night, but this time, it was different. There was something almost comforting about it. As if the presence outside was trying to make you feel safe.

You almost wanted to forget everything. To lie down on the furs and let it all drift away.

They looked so inviting, so warm, almost as if they were calling to you. You could already feel their softness against your skin, the way they’d wrap around you like an embrace.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Turning slowly, your eyes landed on the door.

You had heard those three knocks, soft, deliberate. They were real. Measured, almost gentle, as if meant not to startle you.

Moonlight spilled across the clearing, bold and unashamed. It lit up the world outside, just as the creature knocking on your door now stood without shame, despite having terrorized you only yesterday. The severed head, supposedly lying at their feet, should have been reason enough to keep them away from the door.

Unless they had been the one throwing it.

As if under a spell, you moved toward it. Quietly. Carefully. But you knew they could hear you. Somehow, it felt like you already knew them. And they, somehow, knew you.

The moment your hand touched the door handle, the brand on your back yanked you back to reality. A fresh wave of pain surged through you, a sharp, pulsing reminder of what happened. You pulled your hand away and made sure the bolt was secure.

The window had no curtain, but you were certain the creature wanted to be seen, not glimpsed. When it sensed you wouldn’t open the door, the forest stirred to life. Birds cried into the night, the wind swept through the leave, making them whisper against one another. And through the glass, you saw it again, the same hare from the night before, darting between the trees like a silent witness to it all.

For a brief moment, it looked back at you, then vanished into the trees once more.

A couple of weeks had passed since that dreadful night.

You had begun building a life of your own in the secluded cottage. It felt like home, even without your belongings. Whoever had lured you here had made sure it was a comfortable stay.

When the sun stood high in the sky, you ventured outside, searching for plants, fruits, anything that could help you survive. The land surrounding the house flourished with life. It didn’t take long to find what you needed. Your deep knowledge of the woods and its rhythms had kept you alive for years, it wouldn’t fail you now, not when you needed it most.

On the day you ventured farthest, you discovered the nearest village. It was unfamiliar, new faces, people who didn’t know you, and whom you didn’t know. It was easy to charm them into helping you. You traded knowledge and items you’d gathered for essentials: clothes, cooking pots, candles—anything truly useful.

You bargained carefully, always vague about your past. You didn’t know if the presence haunting you was part of this community, which seemed almost too kind.

As soon as the sun began its long descent toward the horizon, you returned home. Once the moon rose to take its place, you locked yourself inside the cottage, bolting the door tight and drawing the curtains you'd bartered for. No soul could see inside, and you had no intention of opening the door again. Not at night.

Yet the demon hadn’t returned. Not really. Still, you knew it lingered in the shadows. You could feel it in the stillness, the way the forest went silent for a time, as if holding its breath. The hush usually lasted no more than an hour.

Except tonight.

You lay curled up on the furs, trying to ease the ache in your belly. Your time of the month had come, and you had no plants, no remedy to dull the pain. It had taken you by surprise.

Usually, your tidy, ordered life allowed you to track your cycle. But now, you were caught off guard, vulnerable, sprawled on the soft furs.

They didn’t offer much comfort, but it was still better than lying directly on the cold floor. You wore a thin nightgown, the furs pushed down around you as waves of heat flashed through your body. The fire roared in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the room. You watched the flames dance, nearly entranced, trying to forget the pain.

Deep in your mind, you didn’t notice the silence settling in.

Usually, you were hyper-aware of your surroundings whenever the presence lurked near the cottage, holding your breath, straining to catch even the faintest sound. But tonight, the pain was overwhelming. It had broken through your discipline, forcing you to lower your guard.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The same knocks as before. Soft. Measured. Waiting.

A quiet whimper escaped your lips. Of all the nights they could have chosen, it had to be tonight. As if they knew. Knew you were vulnerable. Pliable. Almost willing to let them in.

Back then, even though your kind was often feared, you were rarely alone. People sought your help, your knowledge. But it had been so long since you’d had a real conversation. The loneliness had started to creep in, just as the pain now clouded your thoughts.

You turned your gaze slowly from the fire to the door. The bolt wasn’t locked. You’d forgotten.

All you’d wanted was to sleep, to escape the pain. And now, the door stood between you and something not quite human. Maybe it was a sign. Or maybe, deep down, you'd known they would come back tonight.

“Don’t be scared,” the eerie voice whispered into the night, just as it had the first time. “Let me in.”

It almost felt like a dream. Your mind was dazed from the pain, dulled by the comforting warmth of the fire. The soft heat wrapped around you like a blanket, pulling you into a sleepy haze. For a moment, you doubted there was anyone outside at all, just your aching body and the crackle of burning wood.

But then, the voice came again.

It was bewitching. Gentle yet firm. Velvet laced with something sharper. Something that lingered just beneath the surface, dangerous, knowing. As if he were playing a game you didn’t understand. A game you were never meant to win.

“I can help you,” he taunted, his honeyed voice sinking into your mind, soothing your thoughts like balm over an open wound.

The voice was toying with you, teasing, as if it already lived inside your mind, sifting through your thoughts, touching on everything you longed for but wouldn’t dare admit aloud.

And still, you couldn't help but remember the priest’s head. A severed thing, long buried now, its empty eyes finally closed. Even then, part of you had known, he hadn’t meant harm.

Not to you, at least.

He had followed you that night, hadn’t he? Guiding your steps through the woods, making sure you found the path that led to the first gift: the cottage.

And then came the second. The man who had hurt you, the one who’d torn your life apart, forced you from your home, left you to rebuild from ash, he had died. You hadn’t seen it happen, but you knew. It was him. The presence. The voice.

The demon, if that’s what he truly was.

If he had meant to kill you, he’d had more than enough chances. But you were still here. And the longer you lay there, staring at the unlocked door, the more a dangerous thought began to take root: maybe he wasn’t your enemy.

Maybe he never had been.

"Come in…" you let out, barely a whisper. But it was enough, you felt it.

Something changed, the atmosphere became heavier as you heard a soft, dark chuckle from being the door. Mocking.

He knew you would fold eventually. And you did.

The door creaked open slowly, its hinges squealing into the silence of the night. The only sound was your own heartbeat pounding in your chest.

There, framed in the moonlight behind him, stood the devil, his crimson eyes glowing in the dark. It was as if the door had opened on its own. He leaned casually on his left leg, hands buried in the pockets of his trousers, as though he’d been waiting for this moment all along.

You let out a small gasp at the sight of his glowing red eyes. As he smiled, the firelight flickered across his sharp teeth, casting dancing shadows across his face. It wasn’t a smile meant to deceive, it was openly sinister, revealing in the darkness behind it.

He was the predator. You were the prey.

"Now…" he drawled, his Irish accent thick and unhurried. "Aren’t you a sweet little thing?"

A sharp cramp twisted through your lower stomach, and you whimpered, trying to crawl away from the door. Whatever reckless thoughts had driven you to invite him in were gone now, burned away by a wave of cold, crushing regret.

And still, he strolled inside. Like he owned the place.

"Don’t be scared, little hare…" he smirked, watching your pathetic attempt to crawl away. "There’s nowhere left to hide now."

He was right. The cottage had only one door, the one behind him. And now, he was closing it, sliding the bolt into place with a final, deliberate click.

There was no escape. No escaping him.

You frowned as he inhaled deeply, his smile widening with whatever scent he was savouring. When his gaze returned to you, his eyes were no longer red—they were blue now, cold and deep as the North Sea.

But you knew what you'd seen. Red as blood. That hadn’t been a hallucination.

He wasn’t the devil. He was something else.

“Name’s Remmick,” he said, as if he’d plucked the thought straight from your mind.

He was at your feet now, just in front of the pile of furs you called a bed. His clothes were simple, a white shirt tucked into worn trousers. He looked like a man who owned nothing… and yet, somehow, carried himself like he owned the world.

Then he dropped to his knees before you. Another cramp tore through your body. His smirk widened.

“I’m here to help you,” he whispered, his voice threaded with something almost magical.

It wasn’t just in your ears, it was in the walls, in the floorboards, in the very air. You could see his lips moving, but the words sounded distant, echoing, as if carried from somewhere deep and ancient.

Your head swam. The pain in your stomach pulsed in rhythm with his voice, each word sinking beneath your skin like a slow, curling fog. You should have crawled away. Should have screamed, fought, something. But instead, you blinked up at him, lips parted, breath shaky.

The air felt thick now, too thick to breathe properly. The walls around you seemed to pulse with each heartbeat, bending slightly, as though they too were leaning in to listen.

He reached out, fingers brushing your side lightly, and somehow, the contact didn’t burn. It soothed. Just enough to make you stop crawling.

“There you are,” he murmured, voice still distant, honeyed with something old and aching. “You’re starting to feel it now, aren’t you?”

You didn’t know what it was. You only knew you weren’t afraid anymore. Not really.

Not of him.

“You feel how you were meant for me?” he whispered, his lips brushing your ear as he leaned in. His body pressed gently but firmly against yours, guiding you back down.

And your body—traitorous thing—responded not with fear, but surrender. Muscles slackened. Breath slowed. Warmth bloomed beneath your skin, soft and strange.

It felt like floating. Like those deep winter nights when the fever took hold, so high you slipped beyond the edge of yourself, watching from somewhere else, disconnected but calm.

This was the same. Almost dreamlike.

Almost holy.

You had forsaken God a long time ago. But as his lips closed over your pulse point, teeth grazing the delicate skin with a slow, teasing nip, you found yourself on the edge of prayer. Not for salvation, for mercy. For clarity. For your sanity.

This was wrong. But it felt good. Too good.

His knees parted your legs with deliberate ease, his body settling between them. You felt the pressure of his arousal against you, undeniable and unashamed.

How long had he been watching you? How long had he haunted the edges of your life, slipping through cracks in your mind, in your choices? How much had already been his?

“I’ll take care of you…” he murmured, still tasting the frantic beat of your pulse. “Just relax, little hare… just feel.”

When his lips left your neck, his hands moved with deliberate purpose, sliding the fabric of your nightgown downward. Cool air kissed your bare skin, your chest exposed under his watchful gaze. You didn’t even have time to feel shy before his mouth closed over one nipple, hot and hungry, while his fingers claimed the other with merciless precision.

The sensation was overwhelming. Electric. It felt like you were experiencing everything for the first time, raw, heightened, utterly consuming. Your back arched instinctively, offering more, chasing more.

His hips rolled forward, pressing hard against your core. A ragged moan tore from your throat as you felt him—thick, solid, and eager—grind against you. Filthy. Shameful. You were soaked from want and the heat of your body, your own blood mixing into the chaos of sensation.

He pulled away slightly, his mouth glistening. He sniffed the air again and let out a low, almost amused sound, like a predator savouring the scent of prey. Then he bent down again, his mouth hovering over your other breast. Just before contact, you caught it, a glint of drool at the edge of his lips.

And a flash of red in his eyes.

It was quickly forgotten as his tongue lapped gently at your nipple, teasing the sensitive bud with slow, deliberate strokes. It was messy, wetter than anything you’d ever experienced, but it felt like so much more.

That was the moment you surrendered, melting into the furs beneath you, offering yourself fully to the devil.

And he felt it, that shift in you. The way your body yielded, the way your resistance crumbled. You were ripe for the taking, and he had no intention of letting you go. You were his. You had been from the moment his eyes first found you.

With a swift motion, he tore your gown in half. His greedy mouth descended, trailing lower, drawn to where you pulsed with need, where your scent was the richest, most intoxicating.

He was ready to taste you, every part of you. Not once did it cross your mind that he might be repulsed by the blood, that he might pull away, leave you aching and undone.

Deep down, you knew the truth: it was part of why he was here tonight. One reason, at least.

Remmick made quick work of your undergown, the fabric giving way beneath his hands with a sharp, unforgiving rip. There was no hesitation, no teasing, no prelude. The moment you were bare, he was on you—lips, tongue, breath—claiming you without restraint.

He didn’t flinch at the blood. He didn’t pause at the hair. He didn’t pull away when your plush thighs clamped around his face, trembling and unsure. If anything, it drove him deeper.

His mouth moved like a man starved, guided by instinct and obsession. He devoured you as if you were his salvation, as if nothing else existed beyond the heat of your body and the taste of you on his tongue. Every flick, every press, every slow drag of his mouth was purposeful, worship and possession in equal measure.

There was no shame in the way he consumed you. No gentleness, either. Just raw, focused hunger. His grip on your hips was firm, grounding you while your spine arched, your hands searching for something, anything, to hold onto.

And still, he didn’t stop.

He moaned against you, the sound low and guttural, as if you were unravelling something deep inside him. You were not just a woman beneath him. In that moment, you were everything. Flesh and blood, power and surrender. Sacred and profane.

His tongue worked wonders between your clit and your entrance, shifting back and forth as if he couldn’t decide where he wanted to lose himself more. One moment he was flicking your clit with maddening precision, the next he was plunging his tongue into you, deep and eager.

He sucked, nipped, licked, bit—never staying in one place for too long. Every movement was a new kind of torment, a new kind of bliss. The sounds he made were obscene, wet, messy, shameless. Each slurp and moan echoed in the space around you, louder than they should have been, filthier than anything you'd ever heard.

It was rare, so rare, for a man to go down on you. Rarer still for one to do it like this.

With hunger. With the kind of enthusiasm that felt like he wanted to crawl inside your skin and live there.

Remmick didn’t treat it like a chore. He treated it like a privilege. Like he’d been dreaming of this exact moment, of your taste, your scent, your sounds, and now that he had you, he wasn’t going to waste a single second.

Your head tilted back, eyes fluttering closed as your hips rolled instinctively into him, chasing that edge he was pulling you toward with every decadent stroke.

You had no idea how long he’d stay down there. But, you never wanted him to stop.

Your hands tangled in his hair, desperate for something to anchor you as the pressure in your core built to a fever pitch. Every flick of his tongue, every pull of his lips around your clit, sent sparks flying across your skin. He moved with purpose now, no longer indecisive, no longer exploring, but focused. Intent. Like he’d mapped every inch of you and found exactly what unravelled you.

Your thighs trembled against his shoulders, the muscles tightening with every wave of pleasure that pulsed through you. He felt it, felt the way your body tensed, how your breath came faster, shallower. And he groaned, the sound vibrating against you, deep and low, sending you higher.

“That's it,” he murmured against your heat, voice gravel-thick, soaked in want. “Let go for me.”

You whimpered, unable to form words. He flattened his tongue and dragged it slowly up through your folds before sucking your clit into his mouth again, harder this time, just enough pressure to make your back arch and your breath catch. His hands gripped your thighs, holding you open, holding you still, holding you together even as you were falling apart.

The tension snapped.

Pleasure crashed through you in a blinding wave, fierce and full and endless. Your cry was raw, broken, pulled from somewhere deep inside. Your thighs clamped around his head, your hips bucked, and still he kept going, kept licking, kept tasting you like your release was something holy.

Your body writhed under him, nerves alight and oversensitive, and he didn’t stop, not until you were trembling, whimpering, utterly spent. Only then did he slow, his tongue offering soft, languid strokes, gentle now, reverent.

He looked up at you, mouth slick with you, red with your blood. His eyes were dark with satisfaction and something more. Something possessive. Something permanent.

“You were made for this,” he said, voice hoarse. “Made for me.”

And the worst part was… you didn’t want to deny it. You couldn’t.

Not bothering to clean up the mess he'd made, on his face, on your thighs, Remmick rose to his knees. He stripped off his shirt with a swift tug, casting it aside without a second glance. His trousers followed in the same hurried motion, urgency rippling through every movement.

You barely had a moment to catch your breath before your eyes drifted down between your legs, and the sight stole it all over again. You gasped softly.

The mess he’d left was obscene. A mix of your release and your blood smeared across your cunt, your thighs, your lower belly. It glistened in the firelight, raw and primal. You should have been horrified. Should have pulled away from him, from this.

But all it did was make your cunt clench around nothing, aching, desperate. You looked up, just as his low, mocking voice cut through the heavy silence.

“You like the mess I made of you,” he said, voice dark with amusement. “Filthy little thing.”

You didn’t have time to answer. He grabbed you and flipped you with ease, manhandling you onto your hands and knees, positioning you to face the fire that now crackled low and steady in the hearth. The heat licked at your skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat simmering inside you.

“I’ve waited so long for you…” he groaned, the head of his cock dragging slowly through your folds, coating himself in the wetness he’d drawn from you. “So long, I thought I’d go mad.”

His words were strange, weighted. But you didn’t care. Couldn’t. Not when he was teasing your overstimulated clit with slow, deliberate taps of his tip. You whimpered, high, broken, needy. Pathetic.

He laughed again, cruel and delighted. “I know.”

He shifted behind you, one large hand gripping your hip as he aligned himself with your entrance. The stretch came all at once, a single, forceful thrust that knocked the air from your lungs. He buried himself to the hilt, thick and unrelenting.

“I know, little witch.”

That word. Witch, struck something inside you.

The mark on your back burned suddenly, a hot pulse of memory, before it was swallowed whole by the tide of pleasure crashing over you. Everything else disappeared.

There was only him, his body, his voice, his cock filling you, and the way your body welcomed him like it had been waiting too.

His thrusts were unforgiving, hard, fast, relentless. He pounded into you with the force of something feral, something starved, and it was perfect. Too perfect. His cock rubbed against every sensitive nerve inside you, dragging over spots you hadn’t even known existed until now.

It was overwhelming, devastating. And still, you wanted more.

You should have felt humiliated, taken like an animal, like a bitch in heat, knees spread and spine arched under his grip. But you couldn’t summon a single thought of shame. There was no space for it. Not when pleasure was consuming every corner of you, burning through every fragile wall you'd ever built.

One of his hands was clamped tightly around your hip, anchoring you in place, while the other pressed down hard on your lower back, forcing your spine into a deeper arch. The change in angle made you gasp, your vision blurring as he sank even deeper, stretching you to your limit.

Your pussy clenched around him, tight and desperate, fluttering with every thrust. You felt him twitch inside you, his pace faltering just slightly as you squeezed around him like a vice.

He growled through gritted teeth. “You’re gonna make me lose control.”

You could barely breathe, barely think. Your body trembled with every slap of his hips against yours, wet and obscene and perfect. You were so full, so completely taken, it felt like your body was moulded just for him.

And just then, he couldn’t resist. It was right there, in front of him. The very reason you were in his arms now, bent beneath him, your warm, aching pussy clenching so tightly around his cock.

The mark.

Healed now, though he knew it had once been an open wound, ugly, burned, and carved with intent. It had faded into a scar, but he was certain it was still tender, still alive with buried power.

It called to him. And Remmick had never been the kind of man to deny himself what he wanted.

He leaned down, breath ghosting hot over your back, lips brushing the raised edges of the mark. You barely registered the shift before his tongue traced a slow, reverent circle around it.

In a way, it was his. His mark on you.

And then his teeth sank in.

Your arm gave out the instant he bit you. It should have sent you reeling in pain. But it didn’t. Instead, a fresh wave of pure, unrelenting pleasure surged through your body, hotter and deeper than anything before. Your face collapsed into the furs, muffling a broken cry as your body went boneless beneath him.

But he wasn’t done.

He followed you down, his chest pressed to your back, his cock still buried inside you to the hilt, pulsing. His teeth stayed latched to your mark as his lips dragged across your skin, biting, sucking, punishing you with pleasure. The hotness of your blood dripping by your sides.

It was too much.

The feel of his teeth. The brutal rhythm of his thrusts. And now, his fingers slipping between your legs, finding your clit with devastating precision.

He didn’t slow. If anything, he moved harder, deeper, as if he was chasing something inside you, something he already knew was there. You were unravelling, shaking, soaked and stretched and utterly ruined beneath him.

And still, your body begged for more.

Your cunt clamped down around his cock, tight and trembling, desperate. You could feel him throbbing inside you, thick and hot, every inch of him slick with the mess the two of you had made. He groaned against your back, the sound animal, torn from somewhere deep inside.

Your thighs quivered. Your vision blurred. Your lungs forgot how to work. And then, like a string pulled too tight, it snapped. Your orgasm hit you like a storm.

Your pussy pulsed violently around him, milking him, pulling him deeper as you came harder than you ever had in your life.

He followed moments after, cursing through gritted teeth as your spamming cunt dragged him over the edge. He slammed into you one final time, burying himself to the hilt as he spilled deep inside, his warmth flooding you in thick waves.

And just as his orgasm ripped through him, his teeth found your flesh again—this time higher, just above the mark. But this bite was different.

This one hurt.

The pleasure that had once drowned you vanished in an instant, replaced by a sharp, searing pain that stole the breath from your lungs. You still felt your cunt fluttering weakly around his cock, still buried inside you, but it was distant now, fading, like your body no longer belonged to you.

Cold dread flooded your chest.

Your limbs felt heavy. You could feel your pulse stuttering, growing faint, your body growing weaker with every passing second. Something was wrong. A shiver ripped down your spine as the truth hit you like a blade, he was draining you.

Your blood. Your life.

And all the while, he moaned against your back, his mouth sealed to your flesh, slurping greedily, lost in the pleasure of it. The sick, wet sounds of his feeding mixed with the low groans in his throat, sounds that had moments ago been intoxicating, but now made your stomach twist in horror.

He was killing you.

“Remmick…” barely able to speak, your fingers twitching against the furs.

He didn’t stop. If anything, he drank deeper, his hips pressing flush to yours as if to pin you down, to hold you steady while he stole what was left. The fire crackled nearby, warm and golden, but you were freezing.

Your vision blurred at the edges. And still, he groaned with satisfaction, as if your life slipping away was the most exquisite thing he’d ever tasted.

Warm.

Heat.

Soft furs.

Those were the first things you felt as you came back to yourself, as though waking from a dream, or falling out of one. The world returned in pieces, slow and strange.

Your eyes fluttered open. Everything looked the same.

The fire still burned in the hearth, its golden light flickering lazily across stone walls. The furs beneath you were still soft and warm, wrapping your body in comfort. You felt weightless. Relaxed in a way you never had before, boneless, floating. Maybe it was the afterglow of what had just happened. Maybe.

Or did it happen at all?

You sat up slowly, the motion smooth, too smooth, as if your muscles no longer moved the same. As if your bones remembered something your mind hadn’t caught up to yet.

Everything else felt the same. Everything, except you.

There was something wrong. Or maybe something right. You couldn’t tell.

Your senses were buzzing, nerves electric under your skin. The fire’s crackle snapped like thunder in your ears, each pop of wood splitting loud enough to make you flinch. The texture of the furs was almost unbearable in its detail, every strand brushing your skin like a thousand whispers.

Looking up, you noticed the front door standing wide open, inviting. The moon cast a gentle, silvery glow over the world outside, bathing everything in an ethereal light. The silence was still unnerving, unnatural, as if Mother Nature herself was holding her breath, but now it felt different. It wasn’t threatening anymore. It was calling you.

Begging you to step beyond the threshold.

Without hesitation, you rose, ignoring the chill of the night and the lack of clothing. There was no need for barriers anymore.

As you stepped outside, the cool air brushed over your skin, heightening every sensation. And there he was, Remmick. Bare as the day he was born, skin slick and shining under the moonlight, still stained with your blood. His smirk was patient, knowing, as if he had been waiting just for you all along.

At his feet lay something limp and cold.

The little hare, the one that had visited you so many times before.

Now lifeless.

©sillyswriting 2025

i spend a month going back and forth to this fic, and then i suddenly had a spur of smut inspiration... pre period horniness is no joke

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selinakyle373 · 19 days ago

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Revelation 12:9

The great dragon was hurled down—that ancient serpent called the devil, or Satan, who leads the whole world astray. [...]

Revelation 21:8

[...] the cowardly, the unbelieving, the vile, the murderers, the sexually immoral, those who practice magic arts, the idolaters and all liars—they will be consigned to the fiery lake of burning sulfur. This is the second death.

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selinakyle373 · 19 days ago

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nothing a little crest 3d white can't fix

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selinakyle373 · 20 days ago

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Intentions Behind A Smile

Remmick x fem!reader

6k words | suspense + spice (Minors DNI)

Summary: THIS IS A PART 2. PART 1 WILL BE LINKED. After the strange encounter with the waitress at the diner, you decide you need to take matters into your own hands. You track her back to her uncle’s chapel, ready to ask your questions about the mysterious musician, when the mother of the girl who went missing barges through the front doors, wailing about monsters with glowing eyes outside. Suddenly, you feel you have more to worry about than missing your deadline.

Tags: dark!Remmick; suspenseful/horror imagery; mentions of blood and gore; sexism; PTSD; sexual harassment; stalking; hive-mind fuckery; gaslighting; cheating spouse; dirty talk; rough sex; stimulation; fingering; p in v

(A/N: I’m so excited that y’all liked part 1 so much! I was really nervous that a longer story wasn’t gonna do as well as my one-shots but I’m really loving the response! I hope you guys like this one and I’ll see you in the next part).

Part 1 | Part 2

Your dreams that night left you agitated.

You found yourself in the middle of the woods. The sweet scent of copper and rot hung in the stillness. Trees choked you on either side. The darkness shifted in colossal waves as if you were sat at the bottom of the sea. The tree limbs warped and stretched, entombing you in a net. The branches pulled sharper until they resembled claws. The jagged tips grazed your skin, blood trickling down your arms, your thighs, your stomach. Everywhere you looked, emerging from the darkness like fireflies, were thousands of pairs of glowing eyes.

You tried to scream as the claws ripped at your body. Fingers tore through the exposed length of your neck, hot crimson blood bubbling out of the wound, killing any sound you attempted to make. All you heard now was a droning hum of thousands of voices all whispering to you at once. The symphony of voices begged you, enticed you, shamed you as the claws tore off more and more pieces from your body until you were nothing more than pulp.

You woke in a cold sweat, tears streaked down your cheeks. You somehow managed to cocoon yourself in the sheets with how restlessly you tossed and turned. You pried yourself free, inspecting your bare skin for welts or scratches. You were perfectly unharmed.

Shaking, you dressed yourself. You packed on the powder under your eyes to hide the dark circles that had appeared overnight. The bad dream was brought on by the shitty coffee from the diner, nothing more. No more coffee past four o’clock, you scolded yourself. Taking a few cleansing breaths, steadying your nerves, you fought with the humidity as you tried to tame your hair.

With your appearance to your liking, you fetched your purse which held everything you needed for a budding reporter on the town; your notebook, a pen, a handkerchief to politely pat away the sweat already pooling under your nose.

The receipt from the night before was crumpled in a ball next to your typewriter. You hesitantly rolled the small heap beneath your fingers. You unfolded the paper, eyes skimming the warning.

Don’t listen to him.

What could Suze have meant? More so, how did Suze know Remmick? Did they have history somehow? And who was Leslie?

The horror that struck Suze’s face had broke your heart. Whoever Leslie was proved to be important to her. Could Remmick have known that and intentionally set her up or was it just an honest mistake?

You decided then that you’d find Suze first thing that day.

The sky was gray, threatening rain. The chapel where the Reverend preached towered over the heart of the town. The building was paneled with stark white boards that were meticulously cleaned of grime every week. A sturdy gabled gray roof topped the structure. A thin silver cross cast a long, spindly silhouette on the ground from the highest point of the building.

There was a humble gathering of people stretched from the steps to the door, patrons chattering amongst themselves in hushed tones. When you jogged up the stairs, their conversations died. Their eyes tracked you. You stalled, feeling unwelcome. Their stares were cold walls of distrust. Your palms began to sweat and you broke, eyes flitting to your shoes. The silence trailed you on your way through the doors.

Reverend Jim was a tornado, tending to the crowd of patrons that congregated in the foyer. The small area was bustling with people finalizing preparations for the celebration’s main events. Suze was among the throng, following the Reverend like a shadow, clipboard hugged tightly to her person. She turned her attention towards the front doors and stopped dead in her tracks. You awkwardly offered her a wave before she stormed over and grabbed you by the wrist.

Suze pulled you to a far corner, out of sight. “How are you in here?” she spat, “Who let you in?”

“No one! I came in by myself.” You didn’t want to admit that this teenaged girl was intimidating you.

Suze’s brows furrowed. “You mean you’re not—? You’re you?” You stared back at her helplessly confused. Suze wiped a hand down her face in disbelief. “I thought I said not to go out at night,” she grumbled.

“Why are you afraid of him? Of Remmick?” you pressed.

Suze pressed a finger to her lips, her eyes wild. “Do not say his name.”

“Talk to me then,” you pleaded, “Why do you not trust him? What did he do?”

The chapel doors burst open. Alice’s mother, looking about as haggard as you felt this morning, stumbled up to the Reverend. She pushed past the couple that he was meeting with, practically falling at his feet.

“Father, please, you have to help me!” she wept. You picked up the pace, alongside Suze, to see what was the matter. Reverend Jim ushered the distraught woman onto a pew.

“What’s troublin’ you, my sister?” he asked serenely.

Alice’s mother was pale as the walls of the chapel. Strands of hair were glued to her skin from sweat. Her brown eyes were bloodshot and darted to every dark corner of the room, as if expecting something to be standing there.

“Oh God, Father. There’s s-somethin’ wrong! Last night, I saw Alice outside my window,” the mother shuddered.

“This is fantastic news!” the Reverend replied jovially, “Alice is back home, where she belongs.”

“No!” Alice’s mother lunged at the Reverend, gripping his shirt, “No! You don’t understand. It’s not her!” Crazed tears leaked down her face. “I-I know how this sounds. It looks like her. It sounds like her. But, I’m tellin’ you, it’s just pretendin’. It’s mimickin’ her!”

Suze’s body jolted. Her hands balled into tight fists. She didn’t dare turn her attention elsewhere.

The Reverend blinked, unsure of how to respond. “Marigold,” his voice dropped to a whisper, “Have you been drinkin’ lately?” Alice’s mother wailed, hanging her head low towards her lap. Reverend Jim pried her fingers from his shirt and turned to the nearest adult. “Phone her husband. Tell him to come and pick her up.”

“Y-You have to believe me!” Marigold shrieked as the Reverend returned to his patrons, “That thing isn’t my daughter! It isn’t Alice!”

Suze knelt in front of her, clasping her hands around the mother’s. “Did this thing say anythin’ to you?” she asked urgently.

“I-It called me Mom. It sounded just like how Alice would say it,” Marigold said through shuddering breaths, “I saw it by the trees. T-Those eyes… it didn’t look human.”

“Did you let it into your house?” Suze said, shaking the woman’s hands.

“I-I wanted to. It asked me to let it inside but there was somethin’ in the back of my mind tellin’ me that I shouldn’t.” Marigold jerked up at you, “Did you know about this? About that thing?”

You took a step back, shocked. “No ma’am! I swear!”

“Mrs. Lukas, please, she has nothin’ to do with this,” Suze tried to keep her voice even, although you could pick up on the hint of doubt lacing her words. “Listen to me. I want you and your husband to stay here tonight. There’s some extra cots in storage that I can make up for you. Get here before sundown.”

“What is it?” Marigold asked in a hushed voice, “What is that thing that’s pretendin’ to be my daughter?”

“A demon, ma’am,” Suze said, “Which is why you’ll be safe within the church.”

Alice’s mother blanched, fainting into the pew. Suze released her and sent herself on her mission to collect the cots. You chased close behind her. The two of you descended the basement stairs.

“Suze, what the hell is going on?” you said, an edge sharpening your voice. She ignored you, pulling out two folded up cots from against the brick wall. You pressed your hands down onto the mattress, blocking her path. “I’m starting to get real sick and tired of folks giving me the cold shoulder,” you huffed, “I’m trying to help you.”

“Help me?” Suze let out a humorless laugh, “If you really wanted to help me, you would buy a damn ticket back to the city and leave us alone.” She pivoted on the heel of her sneaker and began to march away. She angrily pulled out two threadbare blankets from a shelf. You stayed close at her side.

“I saw Alice,” you confessed, “My first night in town, I saw her with Re— with him. That’s why I was out at night. I promised Mrs. Lukas that I would tell her if I discovered anything about Alice’s whereabouts. I wanted to find out what he knew.”

Suze swallowed thickly. “What did he say to you?”

“She was headed to Memphis to be a singer. But then how could she back in town so soon? Why was she staring through her mother’s window? Why not just go inside?”

“Because that’s not her.”

You stared at the girl in disbelief. “You’re believing Mrs. Lukas’s story?”

“It’s not a story,” Suze snapped.

“You told her it was a demon, Suze,” you stressed.

“Didja you ever hear of what happened in Clarksdale?” she said, “The Juke Joint?”

“From twenty years ago? Why does that matter?”

“Dozens of people just vanished in the middle of the night, never to be seen again?”

“Spooky, yes, but that doesn’t mean it was demons,” you said, rolling your eyes.

“After that night, little by little, other towns across the Delta started havin’ folk turn up missing too. It’s said that they’d always leave in the middle of the night, without so much as a goodbye. Entire families would slowly slip away, leavin’ their houses abandoned. If it was small enough, entire towns would disappear.”

You creased your brows, trying to decipher what the point of this story was.

“Two years ago, my family picked up a hitchhiker on our way home. He looked pretty worn out and dirty and my dad took pity on him.”

“Was it Remmick?” you asked quietly.

She flinched when she heard his name aloud but nodded her head. “He started tellin’ us things about where he was goin’; some place, he said, where there was no black and white, no man or woman. Just people. One big happy family.

“I thought it sounded like Commie bullshit but Leslie —,” her words trailed off. You kept quiet, hoping she’d continue. Suze’s eyes glassed over with tears, her lip quivering. It broke your heart all over again to see her so distraught. You anchored her with a hand on her shoulder.

“Who was Leslie?”

Suze took a deep breath. “She was my sister. Oldest by 4 minutes and never let me forget.” She laughed inwardly at the memory. “She and I did everything together. We had no secrets between us. I looked up to her so much. It hurt me when she left.”

“Did he take her?” you asked.

“I don’t know,” Suze replied, “Leslie went on and on about this made-up place he said he was goin’ to and got it in her mind to follow him. I tried to get her to come to her senses but she wasn’t listenin’.” Suze wiped her eyes, “She went missing for 6 months.

“Then, one night, she just appeared, like nothin’ happened. She was thin, practically starved, and pale. But she was there, in the flesh. She got down on her knees, beggin’ for us to let her back in, that she was sorry she ever left. I remember my mama cryin’, takin’ her in her arms on the porch and rockin’ her gently. My daddy looked so relieved to see her, that was the first time I ever saw him cry.

“We brought her in and sat her down at the kitchen table. Mama piled food higher than the top of Leslie’s head and told her to eat. That’s when Leslie took a giant bite outta Mama’s arm.”

You hand clapped over your mouth, not fully sure you heard her right. “She bit your mother?”

“She chewed on my mother.” Suze’s eyes grew distant, reliving that night. “Daddy unloaded a full clip into my sister but it only slowed her down. She pounced on him like some animal, tearing his throat clean from his body. I-I’ve never seen so much blood in my life.” Suze started to tremble. “Whatever place that man said he was goin’ to, you don’t come back normal.”

“Jesus,” you breathed. You steadied yourself on the shelf, your knees wobbling under you.

“When I was sent to live with Uncle Jim, I thought I would never have to see that rotten man again. But then people in town started missin’ a-and then you were with him at the diner.” Her breathing came out fast and panicked, “A-And now Alice, and, oh God!” She collapsed to the concrete ground, sobs wracking her small body.

You lowered yourself and cradled her in your arms. Suze hyperventilated as you soothingly stroked her back, attempting to ground her.

I’m in way over my head, you thought miserably. You thought you had steeled yourself for whatever it was that you were going to discover about the missing people. A cult stealing innocents from their homes, simple. A serial killer on the loose, child’s play. Even if the missing people had nothing to do with one another and you ended up with a dead end, you were prepared for that too. But monsters? Flesh eating, body-stealing, blood sucking monsters?

“I’ll go,” you said, more to yourself, “I’ll pack up and leave first thing tonight.” The two of you rose from the ground. “Won’t you come with me? You’ve been through enough already. My husband and I, we don’t have any children. We’d take care of you.”

Suze brightened slightly but it quickly dimmed. “I can’t. I have to be here for my uncle.”

“You’re sure?” you pressed. When she nodded, you flipped to a blank page in your notebook and scribbled something down. You tore out the piece of paper and handed it to her. “That’s my address and telephone number, if you change your mind.”

Suze looked at the paper and back up to you with gratitude. She pocketed the paper and clutched the blankets back to her chest.

“Thank you,” she muttered. You offered her a warm smile in return.

You kept true to your promise. You went to the motel and threw all of your belongings back into their suitcases, not bothering to fold anything. You called your Editor first thing and told him you were cutting the trip short.

“Now, wait just a minute,” he said, “You mean to tell me, you get on my ass for days about sending you out to do this story and, two days later, you’re telling me you’re jumping ship?! Am I hearing that correctly?”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, “I’m sorry, Mr. Woodson. My husband said that he needed me back.”

“So did my ex wife but you don’t see me crying about it!” Your Editor let out a massive sigh, “Sweetheart, if you’re gonna keep running to your husband every time things go belly-up, I’m gonna have to start rethinking your future here.”

Your mouth gaped, “Are you firing me?”

“Hold your horses, don’t blow your lid. I wouldn’t need to be thinking about this if you stayed put and finished your assignment.”

“There’s nothing interesting in this hick town to write about,” you lied.

“Make something up. Not my problem. Stay in town and do your job because, if I find out that you hopped on a bus back over here, you’re finished. Besides, the room’s already been paid for.” The line clicked. You growled in frustration and slammed the receiver down with a clang.

Your suitcase stared back at you, waiting, calculating your next move. You heaved a sigh, pocketing your allowance, and walked out the room.

Your feet took you back to the corner store, where this whole debacle started. You avoided the pictures on the missing posters shamefully. The little bell jingled as you entered. The sun hung dangerously low in the sky, casting long shadows against the produce. You approached the clerk.

“Can I get a box of Camels, please?” you said.

“That’ll be ten cents,” the clerk replied. You handed him a dime and he traded it for the cigarettes. You stuck one in your mouth immediately. “Y’can’t smoke in here,” the clerk said.

You gave the boy a dark look before shuffling around in your purse for your matches. Once your hands found the compact case, you swiveled out the door. Breaking off a match, you ignited the tip of your cigarette and took in a long drag.

You could just say screw it. Being eaten alive by monsters didn’t sound very productive to you in your grand plan of becoming a journalist. If this seedy underbelly is what waited for you beneath the fold, you didn’t think you were cut out for this kind of work after all.

You could quit while you’re ahead, go back home to your husband, finally start that family he’s been getting on your case about, and live the remainder of your life fat and wrinkly. At least that ending saw you through old age. It’s what was expected of you.

The sun dipped below the buildings on your walk, melting the sky from a deep magenta to a navy blue. The summer air chilled you, painfully reminding you that you left your cardigan at the motel. The streetlights came on, lighting up the block piece by piece.

A low whistle sounded from deep within an alleyway. Your anxiety spiked but you chose to ignore it. Probably just some cat-caller lowlife, you thought. You huffed out more smoke as you picked up your pace.

Another pair of footsteps walked in tandem with yours. It matched your pace, blending seamlessly. The whistling carried on, bone-chillingly carefree. You clenched your fists at your side.

Don’t turn around, you told yourself, That’s what he wants. Just get to your room as quickly as you can.

Your vision sharpened due to adrenaline. You eyes darted across the surrounding area. The shadowy spaces that remained held untold dangers that your instincts left you to discover. You could make out shapes in the pockets of dark that lingered in the alleyways, seemingly human shapes. Some lounged against buildings, wearing the darkness as a cloak. Some stood upright, the light from the streetlamp barely kissing the tips of their feet. Every single one of them leered back at you with twin sets of shiny eyes.

You realized in horror that, not only were you being followed, you were surrounded.

Your blood turned to ice. Your teeth clenched so hard, you nearly sawed your cigarette in half. You began to hear light whispering on the wind. You couldn’t make out all that was said but you heard your name a couple of times. You took a chance and peered over your shoulder at your assailant.

The man was tall, sweaty, with the same sickly white complexion as porcelain doll’s. His yellow hair was muddied with grease that stuck around his ears at odd angles. He leisurely walked with his hands in his pockets and flashed a toothy grin when you met his gaze.

“Where d’ya think yer goin’, Little Miss?” he called to you, his voice rough as sandpaper. His pupils radiated a light yellow sheen. “Been hearin’ a lo-o-ot ‘bout you lately.”

You snapped your head back around, your heart thumping wildly in your chest. You wanted to cry. You fished around your purse for your keys, cursing how something so small could feel so bottomless.

You could see the door to your room beckoning you closer. You broke into a run, legs pumping out from under you. The man roared with laughter, the sound ricocheting across the street, pounding against your eardrums. A chorus of laughter encompassed you, leaking from the cracks of darkness.

You shouldered your way inside your room, slamming the door shut with a heavy bang. Your fingers slipped as you attempted to turn the deadbolt. You were quaking, hot tears clouding your vision. The laughter rang in your ears as clear as it sounded outside. You pressed your hands firmly against your ears, fingers digging into your flesh.

“Go away!” you bellowed, “Leave me alone!”

The laughter melted into the chanting of your name. You screamed, attempting to drown out the sound.

Heavy pounding shook your door. The world silenced. You gasped for air, your throat closing from dread. You didn’t dare lower your hands.

Nighttime had fallen, the pitch black swallowing you whole.

Two softer knocks sounded, followed by an equally soft voice.

“Anyone home?” Remmick’s voice rang out like the calm after a storm. You clutched the end of the table. In all the day’s excitement, you forgot about your meeting. You stayed rooted in place. You didn’t want to look at him and see glowing eyes stare back. It would break you unimaginably if he turned out to be a monster too.

“Hello?” he called.

Your voice lodged in your throat, unwilling to make any noise in reply. What would you even say? If you sent him away, would he just keep coming back, haunting you until you skipped town? What if he followed you like he did to Suze? You angrily scolded yourself for getting stuck in this mess, miserable tears free falling down your cheeks. You were boxed in, no right path to take. All you were doing was prolonging the inevitable.

Gradually, your foot swayed in front of the other, taking you towards the door. With an unsteady hand, you unlocked the deadbolt. You only allowed the door to open halfway, hiding behind it like a shield. Your focus fell to the asphalt, not willing to check if the dark figures were still surrounding you.

“Woah,” he breathed, taking in the wrecked sight of you, “You look like hell.” You scowled back at him. “Sorry,” he said sheepishly, “I just mean you look like you could use a stiff drink. I can buy the first round.”

“I don’t want to,” you mumbled.

Remmick paused. “What about our ‘collaborating’?”

“I’ve decided I’m not going to pursue that story anymore,” you said weakly, still not looking up, “I’m covering the bicentennial, like I was told.”

He furrowed his brows. “You don’t seem the typa’ girl who does what she’s told.”

“I guess you don’t know me as well as you thought.” You studied him now. He scrutinized you right back, chin tilted high. His shoulders were eased back, hands resting in his pockets. You could’ve sworn he looked disappointed in you.

“That’s a shame,” Remmick said finally, scuffling his shoes, “I was hopin’ to get to know you better. Maybe over a pint or two.”

“Why?” you scoffed, “I’m leaving to go back home in a few days.”

“Because I can tell you’re hurtin’,” he professed, “And I wanna help shoulder whatever it is you’re goin’ through. Even if just for a few hours.”

Your resolve wavered. The stupid bastard really knew what to say to disarm you. As if he could read your mind, he began to smile.

“Just one drink, s’all I’m askin’.” He clasped his hands together in a plea, “We don’t gotta ‘collaborate’ or nothin’. Let’s just be friendly.” He offered his hand for you to take.

You mulled over your options. Either take his hand and plunge deeper into the hole you were digging, potentially disappearing from all you held dear. Deny him, and run the risk of being devoured by monsters that lurked in the shadows.

You numbly closed your hand around his, sealing your decision.

He pulled you out of your doorway, catching you in his arms. They held you strong, stable, doing their best to convince you to trust him. You could pick up traces of his scent; campfire smoke, soil, and sweat. The smell embraced you back, relaxing your muscles.

“Attagirl,” he chuckled, pressing you to him tightly. “I gotcha.”

The bar was in the seeder part of town, standing alone on a dirt lot. It was a rectangular shack with no windows offering a glance inside. A single sign that was unceremoniously tacked to the front door read, “Come in! We’re open”, served as the only clue that this was a place of business.

Your stomach churned when the two of you passed through the door. The stench of stale cigarette smoke made the smell from your motel carpet seem like sweet incense. The entire town’s most unsavory characters were found within these rancid walls. Mean looking men packed the bar top and spilled amongst the billiard table. The smoke hung in the air as thick as soup, making it hard to breathe.

You could feel their waterlogged ogling on your body, like sailors to a siren. Remmick kept his hand on the small of your back, lightly applying pressure, directing you where to go. You allowed him to, your mind a fog. He sat you down in the farthest corner under a neon beer advertisement. Remmick sat in the seat beside you, squeezing into your space, knees knocking yours.

“What’ll it be?” he asked playfully.

“Gin,” you mumbled to the water stains on the table.

“Comin’ right up.” He gave your chin a quick pinch before making his way to the bar.

The room stilled when he moved. Men that had a few good inches in height over him awkwardly shimmied out of his way as he walked past. Conversations paused, eyes wandered, the air tensed. He made it up to the counter, stride unbroken. The unfortunate patrons that were packed in next to him leaned as far away as their drunken bodies allowed. You couldn’t help but watch in morbid fascination.

He returned with your spoils, a gin and tonic glistening in it’s glass. You reached for it and downed it in one go.

“Well damn, I guess you really did need a drink,” Remmick laughed.

“It’s been a rough day.” You reached for your Camels, hitting the pack with your wrist. You stuck another cigarette between your lips and dug through your purse for your matches.

“Allow me.” He procured a lighter from one of his pockets and ignited it. You leaned the tip of your cigarette into the flame. You watched the reflection of the red light dance in his eyes. When the fire died, the light remained caught in his pupils like a hazy after image. Your breath hitched. You turned your head away and squeezed your eyes shut.

This isn’t happening, you chanted to yourself.

Peeking back ever so slightly, the red light had vanished. Remmick remained curiously unaware, smiling softly. His nonchalance did nothing to help your nerves.

“How was work?” he asked, getting the conversation started, “Folks give you a hard time?”

“No, actually,” you said shakily, “It was very insightful.”

“What’d y’all talk about?” He inched closer to you.

You shrunk back, shaking your head. “I can’t do this,” your voice cracking, “Take me home. I don’t want to be here.”

Remmick’s eyes furrowed in concern. “Sure, okay.” You rose from your places at the table and he ushered you out. The throng of men parted, afraid to touch you.

The walk back to your motel room was silent. Not just that there was absence of talking, but absence of sound itself. There were no crickets, no frogs, no people. Not even the wind rushed past.

Your eyes flitted through the dark, searching for any more of those monsters lying in wait. Your entire body was tense, your teeth clenched, arms crossed tightly across your chest. Your footsteps were calculated in order to make as little noise as possible.

“Hey.” Remmick reached over and took your hand, “You can relax. I’m here.” He gave you a reassuring squeeze.

The weight of his hand felt like a stone drowning you further into the depths of your consequences. “Do you believe in demons?” you said quietly.

Remmick stopped abruptly. “Where’d this come from?”

“I went to the chapel this morning and Alice’s mother rushed in, looking frazzled, saying her daughter was back. Then Suze said it wasn’t her, that it was a demon instead.”

“And you believed her?”

Your voice faltered. “I-I know it sounds crazy. But, then I saw something weird when I was walking back to the motel and—“

“They’re just tryin’ to scare you.” he whispered definitively. He cupped your cheeks delicately, stroking his thumb against your flushed skin. “C’mon, you’re smarter than this. They don’t want you pokin’ ‘round so they made up some bullshit about demons to freak you out.”

“I saw them, though,” you shuddered, “The ones with the glowing eyes.”

“You got an overactive imagination is all,” he said, smooth as velvet, “Must be your writer’s brain.”

“You don’t believe me?” you whimpered.

“I believe that whatever they told you scared you good. But, I think they just wanted you to leave town, t’keep you from doin’ your important work.”

“Maybe they’re right. Maybe I should leave,” you said dismally.

“Now, I know you don’t believe that,” Remmick said sternly, “They just ain’t seen a lady like you do what you’re doin’ and it scares them.”

Your expression softened. “You know I’m right,” he whispered, “You’re better than they are by a country mile. Tougher than you look, too.” He smoothed a piece of hair from your face. “Don’t leave just yet, okay?” A whisper of desperation hung deliciously between his words. You felt your gut tighten. Something deep inside you pulsed back to life after years of lying dormant. The thrumming in your center hummed louder, aching to be heard.

Remmick swallowed thickly. Neck muscles jumped underneath his skin. For a tense moment, you two stood there in the tranquil quiet.

“Lemme take you to your room,” he said softly. You nodded, succumbing to his gentle tone. The two of you walked the rest of the length to your motel door. He waited patiently as you unlocked it, yawning it wide open.

“Thank you,” you said shyly, “For listening to me.”

“See what happens when we collaborate?” Remmick flashed a lopsided grin. “‘Suppose this is g’night?”

You shrugged your shoulders timidly, “Yeah.”

“Do I get a kiss?” he asked cheekily. You pressed your lips together, stifling the grin stretching the corners of your mouth. You leaned slowly into him and planted a gentle kiss against his scar. He flinched like you prodded him with a hot iron.

You pulled back, lingering, worried that you accidentally hurt him. You searched his blue eyes for any sign of discomfort. He dipped his head, gravity pulling him towards your lips. You met him halfway.

It started gentle, like wading in a pool on a hot day. Then, gradually, you swam deeper. You pulled him closer, wrapping your hands around his neck. He responded by skirting his arms around your waist. Your fingers tangled the strands of hair that curled at the base of his neck. He moaned softly against your lips. Your pulse thrummed quicker within your body.

“Stay with me tonight?” you asked breathlessly, fingers tugging around the collar of his shirt.

“Only ‘cuz you asked me so nice,” he smirked. You pulled him into your motel room and he closed your door with his foot. His hands found purchase around your waist again, securely locking you down. He pawed at the fabric of your blouse in protest. Your skin caught fire wherever his fingers roamed. You wasted no time unfastening the buttons on your blouse.

Remmick palmed your breasts beneath his hands, molding them into something that would forever be familiar with his touch. His lips attached to your jawline, tracing the curve, intimately memorizing the slope with his tongue. You melted onto the table in the kitchenette as he slid further into your neck. Your legs snaked around his torso, coaxing him inbetween your thighs. This earned you a shuddering groan that slipped past his lips.

The pulse grew to an aching burn that crescendoed into a scream. Remmick’s hips rocked against that ache, teasing it along further with the swelling mass in his pants. You quivered, needing his touch like oxygen.

“Fallin’ to pieces and I haven’t even done much to you,” he hummed, voice slick with honey, “It’s been a while for you, hasn’t it, girl?” You gasped sharply, face flushing with lust. “That no-good husband of yours not know how to touch you right?”

“Don’t talk about him,” you growled, “I don’t want to think about him.”

Remmick leaned in close to your ear, breath heavy and wet. “Don’t you worry,” he said, “I’ll send you home fucked so good, you’ll only ever think of me when he’s with you.”

It rang like a threat. Never had anyone ever spoken to you like this, so unabashedly crass. Not even your husband dared to toy with you this way.

A hot pit of shame carved out space in your heart. The thought of your husband back at home, oblivious, waiting for his wife to return from her pointless ego-trip, only for her to be mewling under the rough touch of another man, sent new currents of desire into your core. You squirmed, trying in vain to press your thighs together, only serving to nudge his bulge further into your folds of your soaking undergarments.

“You like that, doncha?” Remmick grasped the fleshy bits of your ass, jerking you towards on the edge of the small table. His cock twitched against your cunt. “His pretty little house wife, wetter’n sin, drippin’ so nice for a man she’s just met.” He reached under your skirt and stroked the head of your clit. Your back arched in response, nerves exploding. Remmick rubbed you slowly, mercifully, drawing out your gasps of pleasure. You began to pant, grinding in time to his touch. You naturally began to pick up speed, riding the building wave of pressure throbbing inside your core.

“Shhh, easy now,” Remmick cooed, “I wanna make this last.” Parting the fabric of your underwear, two fingers thrust into your hot entrance. He pumped and curled his way through your depths. He studied your reactions with care, nearly analytical, as if you were his test subject. You writhed, your hips bucking, needing to feel him deeper. You could understand why his wife married him.

Stars twinkled at the corners of your vision, thousands of tiny lights dancing in delicate swirls across the room. Your mouth parted in a silent scream as your body succumbed to tight numbness.

Remmick removed his fingers with a loud squelch before you could release. You whined in despair, feeling cold emptiness, clawing at the vacant air for something to fill you.

He smirked devilishly, taking his fingers close to your puffy lips. You opened your mouth obediently and sampled yourself, eyes fluttering at the taste of salt.

“Does he know he married a whore?” Remmick whispered, voice shuddering. His eyes were black wells, watching you hungrily. His chin dripped with saliva. He looked feral.

Your slippery tongue wound past his fingertips, his long nails leaving sharp impressions against it. He gently pulled his fingers from your mouth with a pop.

“Turn around,” he instructed, a dark edge cutting you. You pushed off the ledge of the table, spinning slowly. You felt those nails dig into your ass. Had they always been so long?

A hand wrapped around your throat, feeling your pulse thud as if trying to escape. Remmick lined himself against your entrance. He whined as he sheathed himself in you, your walls already latching onto him.

“Goddamn,” he moaned, “So eager.”

He pumped in his full length, not wasting any time. Your toes curled, taking it all, letting him fill you. The hand around your throat tightened. A whine managed to slip through a crack in your windpipe.

“I can make you feel this good all the time,” Remmick muttered, drinking in your lewd sounds, “You just gotta stay here. That’s all. Stay with me.”

He wrapped an arm around your torso, gluing him to you. You could feel the head of his cock punching up into your gut. He sloppily kissed the backs of your shoulders, jagged teeth scraping against your skin. He nicked your flesh with the sharp, angular tips. The small bites stung like exposed nerves, a trail leading from one shoulder to the next. You hissed in pain, the fluids from his mouth chilling the sensation of the burn.

His hips pistoned harshly, rhythmically slamming the small table into the wall. You cried out, your grip slipping away from the table’s ledge and anchoring onto the arm around your stomach. Remmick’s breath gasped as he built up speed.

“Everyone’s gonna know,” his speech slurred, “They’ll smell me on you—they’ll know you’re mine. Even your f-fuckin’ piece a’ shit husband—fuck!”

He slammed you over the table top, crashing against you. He fucked you like he was trying to carve a spot meant for him alone. He meant to bury himself, to break off pieces to leave behind as a reminder of what he did, who he shaped you to be. He burrowed into your flesh, animalistically growling and spitting. You were trapped, riding your pleasure at breakneck speed, thoughts only of him; his scent, his cock, his moans, his power.

Your climax violently ripped through your cunt, spattering over the smoke soaked carpet. He followed suit, hands balled tight at the sides of your head, spilling himself inside you. Your cunt twitched, a tingling sore feeling numbing your senses. You could hardly find strength to speak.

Remmick panted heavily in your ear. Weakly, he rose from the table, freeing you. He dislodged himself from your body. Your legs slumped and you collapsed in a heap on the floor. He chuckled warmly and bent over you.

“Was I too rough?” he asked rhetorically, “‘M sorry darlin’. I couldn’t stop myself.” He wiped his member clean before scooping you from the ground. You winced at his touch, your body one big sore spot. He carried you to the bed, gently unfolding you onto the mattress. He leaned down and sweetly kissed the tears that had fallen from your eyes. “I’d like to see him do better,” he smiled wickedly, “I almost feel sorry for the poor bastard.”

You silently agreed. Your body had transformed. Smashed into tiny bits and reshaped into something new, something that looked a little bit like him.

He placed the bedcovers over your shivering, half naked form. You raised your arm and took his wrist. He paused, waiting for you to remember how to speak.

“Your wife,” you croaked, “Is a lucky woman.”

A surprise snort of laughter filled the dark room. Remmick doubled over, shaking his head. “Yeah, she was,” he admitted, grinning like a fool, “She was.” He entwined his fingers in yours, your wedding ring catching the faint light from the street. He sat down beside you on the bed. He twisted your hand up, eyeing the diamonds baked into the metal. “She died. I just feel naked if I don’t wear my ring.”

You exhaled sadly. “I’m so sorry.”

“‘S alright,” he patted the top of your hand, “You didn’t know.”

You sat up, your pelvis screaming in retaliation. You brought your lips to his hand and tenderly pressed a kiss onto it. He looked at you with a guarded expression, not hinting anything resembling warmth. He studied you again, curiously, trying to peel back layers of complex emotions to find a nugget of truth lying under webs of deceit.

You faltered under that stare. Did you read something wrong? Maybe he wasn’t interested in anything outside of just sex. Perhaps he was still grieving his wife and didn’t want anything too intimate too fast. And, there was still the glaring issue of your current marriage to a husband that was very much alive.

You dropped his hand in your lap dejectedly. You crawled back under your covers soundlessly, bringing the blankets to your chin. With your back facing him, he stroked your spine once before rising from the mattress and exiting the room.

Tag list (lemme know if you wanna be tagged for p3): @creamqvvn @avidreader73 @kurapikasslutw @keeperskey @deadvilesworld @cryptidvillage @just-jack-oconnell @jocficblog

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selinakyle373 · 20 days ago

Text

Intentions Behind A Smile

Remmick x fem!reader

6k words | suspense

Summary: It’s 1954 and you’re a budding investigative journalist working on a fluff piece for a sleepy town’s bicentennial celebration. When you arrive, the townsfolk seem downright nervous, keeping their heads low and their voices quiet. You’ve been warned not to go out at night and not to follow the music. You chalk it up to simple ghost stories but, on your first night, you hear banjo music accompanied by a strange man luring outside your motel window.

Tags: suspenseful imagery; 1950s sexism; SLOW BURN (strap in folks) ; dark!Remmick

Part 1 | Part 2

Cow shit was the first thing you smelled as soon as you stepped off the silver Greyhound. It clogged your nostrils offensively as if it were an omen. Turn back now or you will forever smell like cow shit.

Your hands, already slick with sweat from the humidity, gripped the handles of your luggage even tighter. The doors to the Greyhound whined shut as the engine sputtered back to life, leaving you stranded at the bus station. There was no going back.

You were excited in the beginning when you heard this opportunity floating around the office. A small, podunk town right on the Delta was celebrating the bicentennial of the town’s founding. It wasn’t going to be anything major, no parade floats or any such pageantry—the town couldn’t afford it. They were going to send Jeremy Hunt from the features section to cover it but you took initiative and practically begged your Editor in Chief for the chance instead. Besides, Jeremy’s hubris was too big to cover small town events like this.

This was going to be your big step into journalism—actual, honest to God journalism. No longer would you be writing in the advice column preaching to your housewife audience that a particular soap could clean stains out of virtually any surface better than the leading competitors (your husband’s wallet will thank you!).

Your Editor in Chief turned you down in the beginning but you remained persistent and obnoxiously optimistic. You even wagered that you’d do the piece for half the pay they were going to give Jeremy, (not a great idea, you thought, but you had plenty of time to build your reputation to get the pay you deserved). It took three days of wearing him down for your Editor to finally agree to the excursion.

The bus station was coated with years of dust from travelers long since passed. A rickety ticket sign swung lazily in the breeze, the creaking of the chains mixing with the soft droning of the horseflies. There was a musician busking at the end of the stretch, the harmonica crying out a soulful tune to a small gathered crowd. You lugged your suitcases onto the nearest bench.

You were only staying for the week through the celebrations. This would be the first time in a long time that you would be out somewhere alone. Your husband didn’t like the idea of it when you brought it up to him. He lost his temper had nearly called your Editor himself to argue that letting you go alone was irresponsible. He was a very stubborn man but you were also very persuasive when you needed to be. All it took was his favorite dinner and his favorite dress in order for him to reluctantly change his tune.

You unhooked your smallest case which was your heaviest one. It held your most prized possession. The typewriter’s keys gleamed at you and shined like freshly brushed teeth in the Mississippi sun. You methodically counted each and every key as if the letters would’ve found a way to escape during the jostling bus ride. Once everything was accounted for, you closed the lid and clasped the closures tightly. You hefted the luggage off the bench and approached the exit.

A ticket salesmen snored loudly behind the glass of his little booth. You stopped in front of it and cleared your throat politely. The salesman jerked awake, a thin strand of drool tickling his gray whiskers. His bleary eyes blinked once, twice, before finding your warm smile.

“Pardon me. I don’t suppose there’re any taxis that can take me to the motel on Main, are there?” you asked with enough honey in your voice to attract bees.

The old man’s eyes wandered over your figure unabashedly. You felt your smile become tight with impatience. He let out a laugh that was halfway between a cough and a wheeze.

“Ain’t no taxis here, Miss,” he said, “Yer gonna haveta walk. ‘S ‘bout a mile past the corner store.”

“Oh. W-Which corner store?”

“We only got the one,” he answered, unamused. “Start headin’ to the right.” Before you could ask any more questions, he positioned himself back into his restful state and fell asleep.

You huffed through your nose and squared your shoulders before quickly taking a step into the beating sun.

The town looked as if it were a backdrop to a Western movie. You half expected to see a tumbleweed bounce across your path. The only indications that you weren’t stuck in the past was the black-top road lined with rusted up automobiles and the single phone booth that stood at the corner.

A giant banner was strung over the road, across two street lights, loudly proclaiming the weekend’s festivities in a charming hand painted font. Activities to be expected were a pie-eating contest, a potluck, and dancing under the stars.

You turned to your right and began to walk, your heels clicking against the sidewalk. Almost immediately, sweat rolled down the curve of your back, pooling at the waist band of your skirt. The muggy air clung to you like a second skin and you could hear the cicadas droning in your ears. Your arms started to feel every pound of your luggage.

When you could spot the corner store on the horizon, you stopped to rest yourself.

You had heard that the people of the south were known for their hospitality. These folks would scarcely look sideways at you. The few townies that were out and about shuffled around you like you were barely an obstacle in their path. They moved with purpose and caution as if something were about to jump out and spook them. They all looked so timid, their faces worn with worry, lips pursed with concealed secrets. And they were all quiet. Even their footsteps seemed muffled.

You started to dread your decision in coming.

You began walking again after you caught your breath. You rounded the side of the corner store but stopped abruptly. The red brick of the building was covered in missing persons posters. Reams of papers tacked onto the surface, overlapping some older entries, displayed pictures of people of varying ages and colors, followed by a small description and a sum of money for a reward if found. The descriptions spoke of beloved brothers, sisters, husbands, wives and begged for their safe return. There was even a crudely drawn picture of a spotted dog with the word “Lost” scribbled at the top.

Your face searched the eyes of the missing in horror. You didn’t know what upset you more, the ones of the children or the elderly. What had happened to them? Why were there so many? What secrets was this town hiding?

A loud engine revved in your ear, startling you out of your stupor.

“You need a lift, Miss?” a middle-aged man shouted from his beat up, sun-bleached Chevy. His face was tanned as leather and looked just as tough too. Next to him sat a teenaged girl with long tresses of brown hair, loose and unmanaged. She eyed you with a mixture of suspicion and pity. You couldn’t place why.

“That’s very kind of you,” you answered with a dazzling smile. You hefted the suitcases in your arms once again.

“Allow me,” the man replied. He scurried over to your side and gently pried the cases out of your hands. You watched him with a hint of worry for your typewriter.

“Just be very delicate with that one,” you said.

“You headed to the motel?” the man asked, “Suze, why don’t you make some room?”

The girl scooted towards the middle of the seat for you, her eyes never leaving your face. You took her place on the passenger side. The man hopped back into the car once your luggage was safely secure in the bed of the truck.

“Thank you very much for your help, Mister-“

“You can call me Reverend Jim.” the man smiled as he ignited the engine. The truck huffed down the street. The eyes on the posters seemed to follow you as you went. “What brings you to town?” the Reverend asked.

“I’m covering the bicentennial celebration this weekend for the paper,” you said with pride in your voice.

“Really? They sent a woman all the way out here by herself?” the Reverend’s nose scrunched up at that thought, “Doesn’t sound very smart.”

You wilted a tad. Your whole career you’ve had to deal with people underestimating you because of your sex. The passive phrases never seemed to change up but always managed to dig into your nerves. You could practically predict what would come next.

“This is no place for a lady. Why don’t you stick to what you’re good at.”

“When are you going to quit this ‘journalism’ nonsense and start giving me grandbabies?”

You weren’t going to let it bother you too much. Once you were an established journalist, everyone would eat those words and you’d finally gain a modicum of respect that came with being a woman in a man’s field.

The Reverend noted the pause in conversation.

“I mean no disrespect y’see. It’s just that, well, there’ve been some instances goin’ on lately and I’d hate to see a pretty thing like yourself get mixed up in all that,” he said.

“Instances?” you asked, “Does that have anything to do with the missing persons posters I just saw?”

The girl named Suze clenched her jaw a little tighter at the mention of the missing people. Her focus trained on the road ahead of her, lips drawn into a tight line.

“Ain’t nothin’ you need to worry about sweetheart,” the Reverend replied, “You just stick to your business and we’ll stick to ours.”

The Chevy pulled into the parking lot of the motel you would call home for the week. The engine died and the driver’s side door screeched as the Reverend stepped out. You followed closely afterward. Suze’s doe-like eyes tracked you once again.

“Psst,” she hissed at you, “Don’t go out at night.”

You drew your eyebrows together in concern “Why not?”

Suze looked behind her to check if the Reverend was in earshot. “That’s when he’s out. If he finds ya, he’ll take ya. And you ain’t ever comin’ back.”

“Who? When who is out?” You whispered urgently.

“Whatever you do, don’t go out, and don’t follow the music,” Suze warned through gritted teeth.

The slamming of the trunk door snapped Suze’s spine upright.

“Here y’are, ma’am,” the Reverend dropped your luggage gingerly at your feet. “You be careful now.”

“Thanks for the lift,” you said. The Reverend nodded his head and made his way back to his truck. Your eyes flitted onto Suze. She ignored you as the two of them peeled away.

The motel room smelled like stale cigarettes that clung to the old carpet with a vengeance. The walls were lined with knotty wood and the whole room bathed you in an orange hue as the sun sunk lower on the plain. The bed wasn’t nearly as comfortable as the one you shared back home but you laid on it all the same. The inside felt about as humid as the outside. The front desk clerk apologized that the box fan wasn’t working properly but promised they’d have someone fix it during your stay.

You struggled to push the window open to get a nice breeze flowing through the room. You decided to call your husband when you settled in.

“It’s too quiet here without you,” he admitted, “I had half a mind to go over to Henry’s tonight for dinner. You know how he’s always bragging about his wife’s meatloaf.”

You chuckled on the other line. “I’ll be back in no time. I promise.”

“You’d better. I can’t live off of TV dinners alone,” your husband laughed awkwardly. The silence between you crescendoed. You could feel him fighting back the urge to say something more about this trip but you were too tired to begin an argument. You said goodnight to him before he had the chance.

The sun had fully set by the time you unpacked everything from your suitcases. You hung up your outfit for the next day in the closet — something cotton to combat the incessant heat. Your typewriter was perched on the coffee table shoved into the wall near the kitchenette. Your fingers danced over the keys once more before climbing into bed. As soon as your head met the pillow, your mind wandered to the posters from the corner store. Then, Suze’s warning wove between your thoughts.

“Don’t go out at night.”

“Don’t follow the music.”

It was all starting to sound like a ghost story. You weren’t interested in ghost stories but you were intrigued by the mystery. The Reverend didn’t seem too keen to talk about the missing people but you had a week to gather whatever additional information you could out of the other locals. There was nothing a little charm and a warm smile couldn’t coax out.

Your heart beat with the excitment of a budding story. This could very well be the thing that got you noticed. You’d have to do some convincing with your Editor to allow the story to run but peoples’ lives were on the line. This was bigger than any pie-eating contest.

The wind floated the sound of strings through the crack of the motel window. The tune was lazy as if the person playing were just warming up. It was the unmistakable twang of a banjo. You sat up in your bed listening intently to the melody. Suddenly, the music kicked up to a jaunty little number. The musician began to sing along. His voice was raspy and untrained. The lyrics didn’t sound familiar to you. In fact, you found them to be a little creepy.

“… Lord, how that ja-a-ay bird laughed when I picked poor Robin clean…”

You pushed yourself out of bed and to your window. You fiddled with the lock in order to close it, to silence the noise, and caught a glimpse of the person playing the banjo outside.

The shadow cast by the streetlamp eclipsed him. His stature was strong and sure like he owned that stretch of the block. He wore dark jeans that were ripped at the knees and a white t-shirt that never knew the touch of an iron. His hair was tucked up under an old fashioned flat cap but the ends of it stuck out and curled at the nape of his neck. From what you could make out of his face, his mouth didn’t fit the rest of his features. He smiled too wide and toothy like a wolf. Although the cap concealed his eyes, you could’ve sworn you could still see them glinting a pale light when he moved.

He was haunting. Your hair stood up on your arms as you watched him play. The wind carried his tune towards you like smoke. It felt as if he were in the room playing behind you, despite him being a few yards away. You swallowed thickly and prayed the window didn’t screech too loud when you wrestled it back down. With the latch secured on the frame, you pulled at the chord for the blinds to conceal yourself from the strange man. The damn thing only pulled down one corner, leaving you halfway exposed. You cursed to yourself and tried tugging the chord again to get it to fall correctly.

With all the fussing, you didn’t notice that you were being watched. The musician’s eyes trained on you while you struggled, the unsettling glint hovering deathly still in the darkness. They bored through the window, memorizing your face, how it twisted and warped with frustration. He picked absentmindedly at the strings of his instrument, his muscle memory taking over as he started to cross the road.

The blinds fully came down when you saw the man getting closer. You sprinted to your bedroom door and twisted the lock on the deadbolt in place.

Two short knocks cracked through the silence.

“Housekeeping,” the man said. A slight chuckle curled at the edge of his words like this was his idea of a joke. You covered your mouth to stifle any noise that might escape. You got low, crawling on your knees, the musty smell of the carpet assaulting your senses. You stalked towards the bed at a painstakingly slow pace.

The stranger knocked again. “Were you enjoyin’ my music? We could sing something’ together if you’d like. Jus’ gotta open the door.” His darkened figure blotted out the window as he tried to peer past the blinds.

Your breathing shuddered as you slunk into the protective folds of your bed. You pulled the blankets over your head and curled your knees to your chest. You desperately willed the man away as you squeezed your eyes tight.

A muffled call came from outside in the distance, followed by the scuffled sound of the stranger’s receding footsteps. You exhaled shakily. After a good minute, you uncovered your head and saw the figure had, indeed, left. Curiosity bubbled within you and you crawled back to the window. You parted the blinds with your fingers and saw a young woman running up the road. She was short with black plaited hair that brushed her collarbone. She wore a bright smile when she saw the stranger coming towards her. She spread her arms wide and enveloped him in a tight embrace that sent her flying against him. He caught her and dipped her into a passionate kiss.

Your head tilted, watching them. You felt your heart pang softly with a feeling bordering on melancholy. You remembered being swept up like that by your husband in the earlier years. You two didn’t do that too much that anymore.

The stranger shouldered the banjo around and began to pick a slower, more romantic song that made the girl giggle and swoon. You decided you had enough excitement for the night and gave them their privacy.

You tucked yourself back under the covers and hugged the spare pillow tightly to your chest.

The corner store was bustling with patrons prepping for the celebration. The air buzzed with low chatter and gossip, wives telling each other about who was invited to whose cookout and which lady was expected to have a bigger turnout. They swapped everything from stories to recipes to plain old tall tales between the aisles of fruit.

Dressed in your professional best, you donned the same hushed conspiratorial whispers to entice the ladies to spill their secrets. You did your best to fit in with them, even though you rarely had anything interesting to offer their eager ears. Some of the ladies dished little morsels of information with a twinkle in their eye. Some flat out ignored you with a roaming stare and a purse of the lips.

The little bell hanging above the door twinkled and in rushed a woman with a distressed look in her eyes. Everyone’s attention landed on her. She stared right back, gaze hopping from face to face, searching for someone she recognized. She beelined up to the clerk behind the cash register and spoke in a hushed tone. Ladies leaned their bodies closer to catch the conversation.

“You swear she didn’t come by here?” the woman said.

“No ma’am. I ain’t seen Alice since last Thursday,” the clerk responded with a helpless shrug of his shoulders. The store held its breath, listening. The lady let out a choked gasp and brought her fingers to her lips.

“No, no, that’s— that can’t be right,” she muttered, “She told me she was stayin’ over at her friend’s house.”

“I’m real sorry,” the clerk said, “Maybe she ran off?”

“She wouldn’t do such a thing!” the woman hissed, “Don’t you think I know my own daughter?”

“Maybe you ought’nt’ve sent her out in the dark in the first place,” an older lady drawled from behind them, “What with that vagrant prowlin’ about.”

The woman’s head swiveled like a hawk, her face growing pale with anguish. She opened her mouth to lash out but the words caught in her throat. Tears pooled in the corners of her eyes like syrup before she stormed out in a huff. A collective whisper of pitying remarks trailed after her.

“Someone was tellin’ me that one of Harrison boys disappeared like that.”

“She should’ve known better than to let her daughter out past dinner time.”

“God help that poor girl, wherever she is.”

You slipped out of the store and lightly jogged towards the path of the distraught mother.

“Excuse me, ma’am, I don’t mean to bother you,” you called innocently.

“Just leave me be,” the woman barked. Her pace picked up, turning your jog into a run.

“Wait, please!” You crossed in front of her path, “What did she look like? Alice?”

The woman, taken aback by your inquiry, fumbled with her words.

“Sh-She’s about five foot three. Brown eyes. Petite.” She went for her purse and rummaged through it. “I-I have a picture. It’s an old one but it still looks like her.”

After plundering through the depths of her bag, she fished out her wallet and unzipped it. Clasped between her fingers was an old Polaroid that was creased with time. She presented it to you with a trembling hand.

The girl in the photo smiled a smile you faintly recognized. Because it was the same smile that you saw on the young woman last night. The girl even wore her dark hair in twin braids.

“When was the last time you saw her?” you whispered, your throat suddenly hoarse.

The mother heaved a broken sigh, her eyes welling with tears again. “She told me she was going to go out to her friend’s house last night. She left right before supper.” The woman’s hand grasped your wrist like a lifeline. “Please tell me you’ve seen her. This isn’t like Alice, she doesn’t normally run off without telling me.”

You cringed as her grip tightened. “Please, you’re hurting me.”

Immediately, she released you. “I-I’m sorry,” she whimpered, “I just don’t want her to be —“ She didn’t finish her thought.

“Do you think Alice could be,” you chose your words delicately, “with someone?”

Alice’s mother shook her head. “She isn’t with any boys.”

You remembered the mysterious man that creeped around your motel room. You shuddered inwardly when you recalled how he stalked over to your door like a wolf on the prowl. What would a girl like Alice be doing with an unsettling man like that?

“Can you tell me what that lady was talking about? The vagrant?”

The woman’s eyes went wide and shook her head. “I don’t want to say. It… makes me nervous to talk about it.”

“Do you think he has anything to do with the missing people?”

“I don’t know. There’re just so many of ‘em, I don’t think it all has to be one guy. I certainly know Alice is too smart to get involved with the likes of him.”

You smiled sadly and handed back the photo. “Thank you. If I find anything out, I’ll tell you.”

“Do you think I did the wrong thing?” the woman spoke softly, “Letting her walk out alone?” She thumbed the photo solemnly, not daring to look you in the eyes. Her voice wavered miserably.

You paused. You felt for this woman, truly you did. You wished you could tell her that everything was okay, that her daughter was safe. But, from the looks of that man, the way he toyed with you briefly in the middle of the night, set alarm bells ringing in your ears.

“No,” you said finally, “No, I don’t think so.”

It had rained that evening, leaving the streets slick. He still appeared under that streetlamp, regardless of the weather.

You were there in your room, posted up on a chair at the window, tracking him through the blinds. He leaned against the lamp without a care, picking at the strings. His gaze was fixed right back at you, challenging you to come out. You kept your breathing even and waited for any sign of Alice.

The hours ticked on and she was nowhere to be seen. The musician still remained, looking right through you. You steeled your nerves. You needed to know where she was. And, if she was truly missing, you were going to find out what he knew.

You pushed back the chair and threw on the one long sleeved piece of clothing you brought, a cream colored cardigan. You dug around in your purse for the allowance your Editor sent you away with. It was supposed to last you the whole week.

With your cash and your motel key in the pockets of your skirt, you breeched the doorway and into the night. The musician’s head turned towards you owl-like as you marched up to him.

“Evenin’ Miss. Anythin’ you lookin’ to hear?” he drawled out.

“I want you to tell me about the girl you were with last night,” you said.

His face twisted in confusion. “Girl? Do you have me confused for someone else?”

“Nope. Not unless there are other men who choose to busk the banjo outside my window in the dead of night.” You crossed your arms in front of your chest. “Her name is Alice. Her mother’s looking for her.”

“Is that so?” he crossed his arms, mimicking you, mocking you. “You a cop?”

“And if I was?”

“Then I’m Buddy Holly.” He barked out a laugh. “No ma’am, I don’t know no one named Alice.”

A five dollar bill poked out between your fingers. “What about now?”

The musician set his jaw, eyes darting between the bill and your face. A slow smirk spread like an infection.

“You thirsty?” he asked.

You blinked. “Why?”

He plucked the fiver from you and pocketed it in his jeans. “There’s a diner ‘round the block. Open twenty-four hours. They usually have a decent pot of coffee goin’.” Your brows furrowed indignantly. “You wanted me to talk. I’ll talk if you have coffee with me.” He flashed that wolf-y grin at you.

“I’m married,” you professed.

He held up his left hand. A simple wedding band glinted in the light back at you. He raised an eyebrow and smirked. Adjusting the instrument to sit behind him, he turned and began walking the other way. You huffed, not believing this man was expecting you to follow him. But, when he glanced behind his shoulder at you, you briskly started to walk with your tail tucked between your legs.

The neon welcome sign at the diner hummed mechanically as the two of you walked in. As expected, there wasn’t a single soul in the place, besides one cook and one waitress that were hiding in the back. Only when the front door closed with a clunk, did the waitress appear out to greet you. She fiddled in her apron for her pad of paper and pencil.

“Welcome in. What can I get started for y—“

The words died on her tongue. Suze’s doe eyes somehow opened wider when she recognized you. Her grip tightened on her pencil when she saw who you were with. A new tremble overcame her body as if she were charged with electricity.

The stranger didn’t notice the exchange (or, if he did, didn’t seem to care), and sat himself at the chrome bar.

“Just two coffees, darlin’. Thanks.”

Suze glared a mixture of horror and fury in your direction and you couldn’t help but feel a little ashamed. She pivoted on her sneaker and marched around the bar. It took everything in her not to slam two coffee mugs down in front of you. She retrieved the coffee pot and poured the brown liquid with a shaking hand. A few drops spilled over the edge but Suze was too frazzled to notice.

“You’re a doll,” the man said, pulling his mug closer to him. Suze didn’t meet his eyes as she placed a tray of cream packets in front of you. As soon as she finished, she hurried back into the kitchen. The man just shrugged his shoulders indifferently at her coldness, like he was used to her being this way.

You pulled your own coffee towards you and took a sip. It was burnt and coated the back of your throat like ash. You took three cream packets and poured them in.

“So, Alice,” you began.

“Alice,” he parroted. He brought a finger to his lip in mock concentration. “Alice, Alice, Alice. Now that you mention it, it does ring a bell.”

You stifled the urge to roll your eyes. “When did you last see her?”

“Now, hold on,” he said, “We haven’t been properly introduced. The name’s Remmick.” He presented his hand to you, gold ring standing out against his pale skin.

In the dim light of the diner, you could make out more of his features. He looked like he was recovering from an illness. His skin was a sallow pale gray with no hidden warmth behind his cheeks. His eyes were blue like an unforgiving sea. His hair was dark brown, unkempt, and laid flat due to many nights wearing his flat cap. His cheeks were textured with stubbly hairs of the same color that made him appear half feral.

Seeing his teeth up close gave you the willies. They were crooked and congested too tightly as if bound by wire. His canines split through the bunch like twin knives, overlapping the bottom row of teeth. The color reminded you of milk that was encroaching on becoming sour. His smile held unforeseen intentions, whether good or bad, you couldn’t figure out.

The most prominent part of him was that, striking the left of his face, there was an angry white scar that carved through the side of his head down to the corner of his lip. It didn’t look animalistic in nature and you weren’t jumping at the opportunity to hear the tale of how he acquired it.

You wondered unkindly if his wife had married him in the dark.

You wrapped your hand around his, the ring biting into your skin, and told him your name. You chose to ignore the absence of warmth in his grip.

“Can you please answer the question?” you said sternly.

Remmick’s touch lingered in yours a beat longer than you liked. “She’s just a girl that comes around to listen to me play sometimes.”

“Just a girl?” you asked. He hummed in response and you clucked your tongue. “For someone who’s ‘just a girl’, that was quite the kiss you gave her.”

“So you were watchin’,” he smirked, “Didja like what you saw?”

Your cheeks ignited in an angry blush. “I wasn’t watching anything,” you spat, “You two kept me up with that damn music.”

Remmick’s eyes flashed mischievously. “They sent you out all by yourself, didn’t they?” You brought the mug to your lips to avoid answering him. He leaned into your space, shoulder rubbing against yours. “Gotta be awful lonesome, bein’ away from family like that.”

“We’re not talking about me,” you hissed.

“Then again, some folks don’t have the most understandin’ and welcomin’ type-a family,” he continued, “That’s a special kinda loneliness, I think. Maybe you got one of those.” Your muscles jumped. His finger circled the lip of his own mug, elbow nudging yours. “Alice had that kinda family. The unwelcomin’ type.

“See, she had a dream that she could make it big in Memphis. Real pretty set of pipes and not too bad on a fiddle. Her folks didn’t think she could do it but I did.” He stared down into the mug. “She came to me because I told her I believed in her gifts.”

He got real quiet, hypnotized by the patterns in his coffee. You stared at him long and hard, searching his face for any indication of deception. He looked far away, solemn. A melancholy settled in him like a ghost.

“What happened to her?” you whispered.

He took a beat before letting out a tired sigh. “She’s gone. Probably on a bus halfway to Arkansas by now.”

You thought back to Alice’s poor mother and wondered how in the hell you were going to tell her that her daughter was far out of her reach. You suppose it’s better than her being dead. And, some part of you hoped that Alice did make it to Memphis and proved herself worthy of stardom. It would be a nice ending to her story.

“I’m sorry.” You felt the phrase slip out of you without thinking. Remmick tipped his head up, as if noticing your presence for the first time. “It sounded like she really meant a lot to you.”

“She did,” he said, “More than she knew.” His eyes held a sorrow that felt ancient. Bone tired but unable to fully rest. You felt a pang of pity deep in your chest.

“My husband is kinda like that. Not very understanding, I mean,” you offered him. “I want to be a journalist.”

“Ah. That’s why you’re being nosy,” Remmick chuckled. You found yourself laughing with him.

“I always have been, I’m afraid,” you responded. “I’m here to cover a story, actually.”

“About the missing people?” The way he said it so matter-of-factly shocked you. It was as if he naturally believed you would be covering something as mysterious and as grizzly as this, regardless of the fact that you were a lady. There was no one more qualified to do the job in his mind. It made your heart skip a beat in a way you forgot.

“The bicentennial, actually,” you corrected sheepishly, “But, I want to investigate more. If only the townspeople would talk to me, I could figure out what’s going on and give the families some peace.”

“I can help with that,” he offered, “If you’d like.”

“You’d do that?” You batted your eyes in the way that your husband thought was endearing. It always seemed to help you get your way, in some areas, with men. “For me?”

“Of course.” Remmick’s eyebrow quirked cheekily, “But only ‘cause I like you.”

You smiled brightly at him now. Finally, there was that southern hospitality you were missing!

“Let’s meet tomorrow afternoon then. We can come back to the diner.”

He sucked his teeth and shook his head, “I can’t do afternoons, I’m afraid. All these late nights got me pretty tired. I’ll be asleep until sundown.”

“You’re always up this late at night?”

“I’m what you scholarly types call ‘nocturnal’.”

Your mouth twitched, not fully committing to a grin. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

“Right. How about same time tomorrow, we’ll meet across the street from the motel.”

“Sounds like a date,” he grinned.

“No, no,” you sputtered, a blush betraying you, “Not a date. Just,” you struggled for the right word, “Collaboration.”

“Whatever helps you sleep, darlin’.”

“Y’all finished?” Suze returned against her will. Once again, she refused to look Remmick in the eye.

“Yeah, we done,” he responded anyway, laying the five dollar bill on the table. “Keep the change.” He rose from the bar, touching his fingers to your elbow, signaling to follow his lead.

Suze left the bill on the counter. She grimaced like he spat on it. “You forgot your receipt,” she said, a soft tremor tacked on the end of her words. She ripped a piece of paper out of her notebook and slammed it down. Awkwardly, you looked up to Remmick.

He was relaxed, almost bored. He stared at the poor girl evenly, the overhead lights reflecting unnaturally in the pitch black of his pupils. Suze withered like she was ready to collapse but grit her teeth to keep her lips from quivering.

“Thank you, Suze,” you said softly. You reached for the receipt but her hand clapped over yours. Her wide eyes pierced you, sending an unspoken warning. Her look flitted down to the slip of paper and back up at yours in an instant. Your breath hitched as you ripped the slip out from under her grasp. She watched you slink back to him like a death sentence.

“Gnight Suze,” Remmick purred, “You heard anythin’ from Leslie yet? I sure do miss her.”

A wretched sob broke Suze in pieces. You opened your mouth to say something but you were already being pushed out the door.

“What was that?” you asked, concerned.

“No idea,” he answered.

You looked behind you, hoping to see the teen again but she had run off. You remembered how terrified she looked at you, as if pleading with you to stay in the diner with her. To not walk home alone with him.

The crumpled receipt burned a hole in your palm. You quietly unfolded it out of curiosity.

In frantic pen scribbles were the words, Don’t listen to him.

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selinakyle373 · 20 days ago

Text

𝕹𝖔𝖙 𝖆 𝕻𝖗𝖔𝖕𝖊𝖗𝖙𝖞

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ᴘᴇᴛ!ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ x ꜰ!ᴏᴡɴᴇʀ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: ɪɴ ᴀ ꜰᴜᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴜʀᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ɴɪɢʜᴛ ᴀʀᴇ ꜰᴏʀᴄᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴄʜᴏᴏꜱᴇ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ꜱᴇʀᴠɪɴɢ ʜᴜᴍᴀɴɪᴛʏ ᴏʀ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ᴇʟɪᴍɪɴᴀᴛᴇᴅ, ʏᴏᴜ ꜰɪɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀꜱᴇʟꜰ ᴄᴏᴍᴘᴇʟʟᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ᴏɴᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ɪɴᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴏᴍᴇ — ᴀ ᴠᴀᴍᴘɪʀᴇ ꜱᴇɴᴛᴇɴᴄᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ. ᴏᴘᴘᴏꜱᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ɪᴅᴇᴀ ᴏꜰ ᴛʀᴇᴀᴛɪɴɢ ᴀ ꜱᴇɴᴛɪᴇɴᴛ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀ ᴘᴇᴛ, ʏᴏᴜ’ʟʟ ʙᴇ ꜰᴏʀᴄᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏɴꜰʀᴏɴᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴏᴡɴ ᴘʀɪɴᴄɪᴘʟᴇꜱ… ᴀɴᴅ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴜɴᴇxᴘᴇᴄᴛᴇᴅ ɢᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴍɪɢʜᴛ ᴀᴡᴀᴋᴇɴ ᴡɪᴛʜɪɴ ʏᴏᴜ.

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴘᴏʀɴ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀ ʟᴏᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴘʟᴏᴛ, ᴀᴜ, ꜱʏꜱᴛᴇᴍɪᴄ ᴏᴘᴘʀᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴ (ɴɪɢʜᴛ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴀꜱ ᴘʀᴏᴘᴇʀᴛʏ), ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴇᴜᴛʜᴀɴᴀꜱɪᴀ, ꜰᴏʀʙɪᴅᴅᴇɴ ʀᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱʜɪᴘꜱ, ꜱʟᴏᴡ ʙᴜʀɴ, ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ, ꜱᴍᴜᴛ, ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ, ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ʜᴜʀᴛ/ᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛ, ᴛᴏᴜᴄʜ-ꜱᴛᴀʀᴠᴇᴅ ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ, ꜱᴇʀᴠɪᴄᴇ ᴛᴏᴘ/ꜱᴜʙ!ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ, ꜰ!ꜱᴏꜰᴛ ᴅᴏᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ʀɪᴅɪɴɢ ꜰᴀᴄᴇ/ᴄᴜɴɴɪʟɪɴɢᴜꜱ, ᴘ ɪɴ ᴠ, ᴜɴᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄ�� ꜱᴇx, ᴍᴏᴀɴɪɴɢ, ᴡʜɪɴɪɴɢ, ᴍᴇɴ ᴡʜᴏ ᴄʀʏ, ᴇxᴘʟɪᴄɪᴛ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ, ᴇxᴄᴇꜱꜱɪᴠᴇ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴇᴛ ɴᴀᴍᴇꜱ.

𝘈/𝘯: 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘦-𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘪-𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴. 𝘐𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘕𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘺 𝘋𝘰𝘨 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴!

ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ: 13,2ᴋ

In a world where night creature adoption centers dotted every city block like pet shops once had, it had become almost unusual not to own one. Whether it was a shade for companionship, a domesticated kelpie as a therapy creature, or a vampire—rare—nightlings were everywhere. They had been folded into daily life, marketed as living luxuries, symbols of status and style. You couldn’t walk three blocks without seeing someone cooing over their duskbeast or posing their feathered hellcat for likes on Instagram.

For decades, night creatures were hunted on sight. No trials, no containment—just cold, clinical extermination. Vampires were the most visible, but they weren’t alone. Kelpies drowned in dry tanks. Fairies were burned to ash in “containment fires.” Merrows were dissected for study under the flickering lights of whitewashed labs.

It was done under the guise of safety. Public protection. Clean streets and peaceful nights.

But people watched. And people remembered.

It started with the footage.

Blurry, shaky clips taken on contraband phones. Videos of people laughing as a werewolf hissed and begged. Images of black bags dragged into trucks. The limp hand of a nightborn child, fingers twitching with the last of its stolen strength.

They called it evidence. The government called it fabricated.

The protests started small—signs painted on old bedsheets, marches in the dead hours, flowers left on government steps. “They Bleed. We See.” but the movement grew faster than expected.

The government could no longer call it fringe hysteria, they had to call it a crisis.

But they didn’t want to concede. Not fully. They didn’t want to admit they’d been wrong.

So they compromised.

They stopped the killings.

Not because they saw personhood but because they saw profit.

Sanctioned containment was proposed not as mercy, but as an “ethical, manageable alternative to wasteful culling.” The motion passed in the midnight hours, slipped beneath the noise of another budget bill.

The bill wasn’t called the Night Creature Protection Act.

It was called the Domestic Integration Reform Initiative.

DIRI.

Ownership was encouraged, even expected—especially in cities where the rehoming shelters were “overburdened” and the euthanasia rate for unadoptables hovered quietly above 38% and so it all began.

But you didn’t want one.

Not a vampire. Not a fairies. Not a werewolf, not a dreamhound, not a thing that could look at you and feel and still not be considered a person.

So you made yourself a promise.

No night creature. Ever.

No matter how lonely you got. No matter how beautiful they were. No matter how often your friends said you’d be such a good match for a nervous one.

No.

You didn’t want obedience, you wanted choice.

You wanted to look someone in the eyes and know they were staying because they wanted to.

You had stuck to that.

For years.

Until you met Remmick.

The road to the adoption shelter cut through the forgotten edge of the city, where the concrete split in long, pale veins and the warehouses loomed like sleeping giants. Chain-link fences rimmed the road in either direction, hung with tattered warning signs and the quiet menace of barbed wire. Steam leaked from the gutters, pooling low and slow around the tires of passing cars like smoke that had nowhere left to rise.

You rode in silence, watching the landscape slide by, as your friend hummed under her breath in the driver’s seat. Her scarf was slung loose around her neck, fluttering when the breeze slipped through the open window.

She was smiling, excited. Her fingers tapped rhythmically against the wheel as she navigated the turns, already imagining the collar she’d pick out, the bed she’d set up, the first photo she’d post online with a caption like “Welcome to the family.”

You stared out at the ruins of the old freight yards, where the government once processed surplus creatures for destruction—before legislation had shifted, before public outrage had spilled loud enough across newsfeeds and city halls to change the system.

Your friend was one of the good ones, you reminded yourself.

Her family had marched for nightkind rights during the following round of protests. She had stood beside you at rallies. Her father had donated to shadow-lawyers trying to push protection bills through the House.

But now, here she was—smiling as she pulled into the shelter lot, ready to adopt her second creature, like she was visiting a petting zoo.

“You really need another one?” you asked, eyes on the road. Your voice was flat, tired before the conversation even began. “What about the kelpie one?”

She sighed. “My brother wanted one. But he’s too young, and I want him to take care of something that’s… safe. Something trained. Predictable. So I give it to him.”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you looked out the window, watching the different types of creatures that were dragged around the city tied to their obligatory collars and harnesses.

“And do you seriously need one?” you said it in an almost reproachful tone of voice, even though you didn't mean to but she caught it anyway and looked at you askance.

“You know I’m not like that,” she said softly. “You’ve known me since we were kids. You know my family fought for them. They’re safe because they serve.”

The truth hung between you like fog in the car.

She was right. They’d been spared mass extermination only by offering usefulness in return.

As the car rolled to a stop, you caught sight of the shelter building ahead: squat and windowless, flanked by metal fencing and dead trees. A faded sign out front read:

NIGHTKIND INTAKE & ADOPTION CENTER – UNIT 7

The letters were plain. Official. Cold.

The kind of wording that left no room for mercy.

You stared at the sign, a bitter taste rising in your throat.

Your friend cut the engine and glanced over. “You sure you want to come in?”

You didn’t answer right away. Your hand was already on the door handle.

“I’m sure,” you said quietly, entering in the shop before her.

The creatures shelter smelled like antiseptic and something worse—like despair that had dried into the grout. Like bleach failing to hide the scent of fear. It was clean, yes, but in that too-quiet, state-funded way—where the color palette was limited to grays and yellows that used to be white, where every sound was swallowed by concrete walls and cheap, humming fluorescents overhead.

The kind of place where silence wasn’t restful. It was resigned.

Your friend didn’t seem to notice. She was radiant with excitement, practically floating beside you as the shelter clerk led you both through the first corridor. Her coat flared at her hips, stylish and bright against the monotony, and her boots clacked like punctuation against the linoleum floor. She was already talking about names.

You watched as she leaned in closer to the clerk, nodding enthusiastically as he launched into a lazy explanation about temperament ranges and adjustment phases. He looked bored. She looked enraptured.

“Now,” the clerk said with a grunt, stopping at a wide door, “the real stuff’s in the back.”

The lock disengaged with a mechanical clunk. The door hissed open.

Your friend lit up. She practically skipped ahead, her heels clicking against the floor like applause. Her silk scarf fluttered behind her, slipping from her shoulders as she disappeared around the corner.

You watched it float down near a cell in the middle of the corridor, totally forgotten.

“You coming?” she called, her voice light, sweet, unaware.

You sighed, moving forward beyond the door and entering the new wing. There was something heavier about this hallway. The quiet wasn’t sterile anymore—it was strained. Like the space itself had learned to brace.

You bent to pick up the scarf, its fabric whispering across the floor.

And then another hand reached for it.

A pale hand.

Too pale.

You froze.

The fingers were long, elegant in a strange, haunting way but covered in small sores. And when you looked up, you saw him.

He was crouched in the shadows of a side cell, where the corridor turned at a sharp angle. The bars cut harsh vertical lines across his face, but you could see him clearly enough. His hair was dark and matted. His face was like his hands, with scratches and cuts scattered here and there that were trying to heal. But it was his eyes that held you there.

Blue-grey. Bleached pale, like winter skies before snow.

They weren’t feral. They weren’t angry. They weren’t anything you expected.

They were… sad.

You stared. He stared back. Neither of you moved. The scarf lay limp between your hands, caught in the moment like a truce.

Then came the crack.

A flash of motion.

The clerk slammed his truncheon against the bars, the sound sharp and brutal. The vampire jerked back like he’d been struck, mouth parting just enough to flash two small, pitiful fangs.

He whimpered.

Not a snarl. Not a growl. Not even the sharp hiss they all expected from his kind. Just a soft, broken sound—like a wounded dog too scared to bare its teeth. It cracked something in you.

“Don’t do that,” you snapped, voice low, tight with something you didn’t want to name. You stood up without thinking, your body angling instinctively between the cell and the clerk like a barrier.

He looked at you with a scoff, as if you were the one being unreasonable.

“Trust me, this beast is unstable,” he said, lazily spinning the truncheon in one hand, like it was just another tool. “People keep bringing him back here after a week or two. Always angry. Always panicked. Bit a guy once just for trying to pet him days ago.”

He jerked his head toward the vampire, who had retreated into the furthest corner of the cell. There was barely any light back there—just the dim bleed of fluorescence from the hallway—but you could still see him.

Still watching.

He’d curled in on himself in a way that didn’t look defensive, just… small. His knees drawn to his chest. Shoulders bowed. Arms wrapped around himself like they were the only warmth he’d ever known. The long, tattered sleeves of his issued shirt had worn through at the cuffs, and his bare feet were pressed flat to the concrete, toes curled like he didn’t quite trust the ground beneath him.

He didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. He just stared, like he was bracing for the next blow—only it didn’t come from the truncheon this time.

It came from the clerk’s next words.

“Another few weeks and I’ll get him out of my way once and for all,” the man muttered, tired and unbothered, like it was just the weather or paperwork. He leaned against the cell, tapping the baton absently against the bars. “Useless stock like that? We can’t keep him forever. Not worth the space.”

Your blood ran cold.

Not adopted. Not rehabilitated. Not transferred.

They’ll end him.

Some quietly sanctioned protocol. A needle. A bolt gun. The kind of solution they saved for animals no one wanted.

Your friend called your name from the other end of the hallway. She’d picked a fairies already—a small, doll-like thing with green eyes and perfectly combed hair.

You turned back one last time.

He hadn’t moved.

Still curled against the wall. Still watching.

But now his eyes were different.

Not just sad.

Hopeful.

Like somehow, he knew you weren’t like the others. That you saw something—someone—underneath the filth and the hunger. The raw, trembling bones of a person no one else had bothered to look for.

You left with your friend. Her new pet levitating securely at her side, encased in a pink collar and leash.

You didn’t sleep that night.

The shelter was quieter the next evening.

It stood at the end of the street like a mausoleum waiting to be filled. No birdsong, no passing traffic—just the slow grind of your boots on frost-slick pavement and the low hum of distant machinery behind reinforced walls. The sign out front was the same as yesterday.

You had barely slept. You’d spent the night pacing your apartment, drowning in silence. Every room had felt too full and too empty all at once, like a life you’d half-stepped out of. The image of Remmick—curled in the back of his cell like something exiled from warmth—wouldn’t leave you.

Not his face. Not his eyes. That look—raw, trembling, and quietly hopeful—had followed you into your dreams. And when you woke to the first colorless light of morning, you already knew.

You couldn’t leave him there.

Not in that cage. Not with them.

The clerk at the front desk barely glanced at you as you stepped inside, his face lit with the glow of a cracked tablet screen. The front office smelled of sterile citrus and overheated plastic. Somewhere in the distance, a muffled voice called out a unit number, followed by the sharp click of boots on tile.

You cleared your throat. “I’m here for one of the nightkind. The one from Cell 17-B.”

The clerk sighed. “What for?”

You raised your eyebrow, your jaw clenched. “Adoption.”

He continued to stare at the tablet, looking perpetually bored. “Which breed?”

“Vampire. Dark-haired. Blue-grey eyes. Cell 17-B,” you repeated, harder.

Recognition flickered in his eyes, and then something colder settled in his expression as he looked up at you. He leaned back in his chair, sighed, and said flatly, “The biter?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

He clicked his tongue and stood, muttering, “I hope you know what you’re doing,” before disappearing into the back.

You waited in the small metal chair beside the front desk. The air conditioning was too cold, the hum of fluorescent lights like a constant headache burrowed behind your eyes. A security camera in the corner buzzed faintly. Time moved differently here—thick, slow, and hard to swallow.

When the clerk returned, he had a clipboard in one hand and a data-slate in the other.

“Your name? We’ll assign him an owner record” he asked.

You gave it. He typed it in. The screen flickered blue for a moment, then green.

“You’ll need to acknowledge liability. He’s been flagged. Former owners returned him twice for aggression. You saw the notes yesterday, didn’t you?”

“I did.”

“Still want him?”

“Yes.”

He looked at you again then, really looked—like he was trying to gauge whether you were stupid, noble, or just hopelessly naïve. But he said nothing more. Just handed you the stylus.

You signed.

And the deal was done.

They made you wait in a different room—a release bay with heavy double doors and iron anchors built into the walls. The walls were gray, institutional, and bore the telltale scuff marks of boots and struggling creatures dragged in or out against their will.

When the door opened, it was not the creature who stepped through first, but two handlers in matte black uniforms. Between them, shackled at the wrists, bound in a collar and with a muzzle over his mouth, was the vampire.

Remmick, from what you read in his file.

His head was lowered, hair wet from you didn't know what. His posture was hunched, shoulders curled inward, as though bracing for a blow. He was thinner than you remembered—sunken in, fragile. His skin had the translucent quality of someone who had gone too long without nourishment, wounds that failed to heal properly.

But his eyes—

The moment they found you, everything changed.

They widened first in disbelief, then in something else—something too complicated to name. His lips parted, just barely, and his breath hitched like he hadn’t drawn air in hours.

You stepped forward. “Take those off.”

The handler frowned. “Protocol says he stays restrained until he’s secured on property. For your safety—”

“I don’t care about protocol. Take them off,” you said, louder.

There was a pause.

And then, wordlessly, one of the handlers knelt and undid the cuffs. The metal dropped from Remmick’s wrists with a soft clatter. The other loosened the muzzle, and it slid down his face like dead weight. The collar remained. They were not allowed to walk without it, or they would be considered "unowned."

You took a careful step forward, keeping your voice low.

“Remmick. That's your name, right?”

His head twitched slightly at the sound, as he recognised his name.

“Do you remember me? We saw each other briefly yesterday.”

No reaction. You were starting to get nervous. Maybe you'd misunderstood. Maybe he had no intention of leaving with you.

“Do you want to come home with me?” you asked.

That word—home—must have done something. His shoulders gave the smallest jerk, and his eyes narrowed, confused, as if trying to decode a word he’d never heard used without consequence. He blinked slowly, once.

Then, finally, he took a single step forward.

You didn’t reach for him. You just stood there, hands at your sides, letting him decide.

It was slow.

Tentative.

Like every motion cost him something.

But eventually, he crossed the last bit of space between you and you took the leash that was hanging from his collar and swinging in front of his body.

The walk out was slow. You kept your hand tight around the rope but you didn't pull or tighten it, you let Remmick decide the distance and pace at which to walk. He suddenly tensed up at the sound of a horn in the night. Every sound made him twitch. Every light made him glance over his shoulder. But he stayed beside you, clinging to his collar like a lifeline.

The front desk clerk didn’t say a word as you passed. But you saw the way he looked at Remmick—like something broken that should have stayed on the shelf.

You met his eyes.

And kept walking.

Outside, the cold air wrapped around you both like a sheet of glass. Your car waited at the curb. You opened the passenger door and helped Remmick in gently. He stared at the seat, then at you, as though unsure he was really allowed to sit.

“Go on,” you said softly. “It’s okay.”

He settled in slowly, limbs still unsure. You closed the door after him, circled to the driver’s side, and got in.

You hadn’t meant to linger in the doorway, watching him.

But there was something about the way Remmick stood there—just inside your apartment, arms curled close to his chest, eyes wide as he took it all in like a wild animal unsure if the trap was hidden in the warmth.

His clothes hung off him in layers of gray and brown—threadbare fabric that clung like a second skin of dust. He smelled faintly of old concrete and damp metal. You didn’t say anything about it. You just smiled softly and said, “You must be freezing. Let me run you a bath.”

The water steamed as it filled the basin—an clawfoot tub tucked into your tiny bathroom, old porcelain but nice and clean. You added a handful of the nicer soap you’d been saving for yourself, watching bubbles bloom over the surface like fragile clouds. The steam fogged the mirror. It felt quiet in there. Safe.

You loved your bathroom. It was the one place where you could relax and leave your troubles at the door. You hoped Remmick felt the same.

You stepped from the bathroom and saw him standing in the hall, silver-eyed and hesitant. The guilt of his position prickled—somehow, you felt less human for seeing him so stripped of fear, so entire in his insecurity.

"Come." You called to him, waving a hand to inviting him closer.

He blinked, then walked slowly across the lacquered floor.

When he reached the bathroom door and glimpsed the tub fully—steam rising like mist from a secret pond—he halted again. Regulators clicked in his mind. Hope, indecision, fear.

He cleared his throat, voice rough as gossamer. “…All of this—is it… for me?” His fingers brushed the rim of the tub.

You nodded. “Yes, of course.”

He stared at you. Then he asked, voice pointed at the bubble-laced water, thick with fragrance and light flicker, “How long can I stay?”

You blinked. “You mean...in the bath?”

But just nodded. He wasn’t looking at the water anymore. His eyes were on you now—direct, uncertain, fragile.

You swallowed, your throat suddenly tight. “…As long as you want.”

He blinked at that. Once. Twice. Like he wasn’t sure he heard you right.

Then he looked back at the bath. His hand lifted slowly—hesitating in the air like it was reaching into a memory—and he touched the rim of the tub, tracing the porcelain edge with his fingertips.

“Alright,” he said softly.

And then, without any preamble, he started to undress.

Right in front of you.

The motion wasn’t sultry. Wasn’t calculated. It was casual, automatic—like the idea of modesty didn’t register to him as something that applied. He pressed his thumbs into the waist of his pants, tugged them down inch by inch, exposing thighs pale as polished bone.

Your breath hitched when the room suddenly felt too small. Embarrassment flushed every inch of you. Your heart thundered. You bolted upright.

“There are towels… on the sink.” You coughed, voice tight, a little choked. “And, uh, soap’s already in, just—uh—take your time!”

You didn’t wait for a response. You backed out of the bathroom like it was on fire and shut the door with a little more force than you meant to.

Outside, your heartbeat was in your throat.

You leaned against the wall and let out a long, slow breath.

It was fine. Totally fine. He didn’t mean anything by it. He wasn’t flirting. He wasn’t trying to make you uncomfortable.

You headed to your bedroom and grabbed the loose, comfortable clothes that your ex-boyfriend left at your place without ever coming to pick them up. You'd never felt like throwing them away, especially since if he ever knocked on your door again, you didn't want to tell him you'd thrown them away. At least they'd have a use now, even if only briefly.

The bathroom light glowed beneath the door, soft and golden. You’d given him time. Enough to sit, to soak, to breathe. Enough to warm the chill from his skin and loosen the weight in his bones.

But eventually, you needed to make sure he was alright.

You raised your hand to the door.

Knuckles hovered for just a moment. Then—gently—you knocked.

“Remmick?” you said, your voice low so it wouldn’t startle him. “Can I come in?”

There was a beat of silence. Then you heard the soft splash of water shift, a towel rustle on tile.

And then—his voice. Throaty. Thin.

“Of course.”

You opened the door gently.

Remmick was standing with a towel around his waist, hair damp and curling slightly now that it had been washed. He wasn’t looking at you directly—just standing there, uncertain, his hands gripping the towel too tightly. His collarbones jutted out like fragile sculpture, a faint bruise still visible beneath one. Steam clung to his skin like silk.

He was very frail; you could see the bones sticking out too far, and his skin was an ugly, faded color. He had probably not been properly nourished in months.

He cleared his throat to bring your attention back to his face, and you mentally slapped yourself for being so indiscreet in your analysis.

“No need to be askin' me for permission.”

You blinked.

A chill moved through you—not because of his words, but what lay beneath them. The quiet resignation in them. The learned pattern.

“…I belong to ya now,” he added, quieter.

You wanted to tell him that you didn’t agree with the system. That he could choose to say no to anything that was being forced on him. That he wasn’t a slave. He was no longer human, but he was still a living being.

However, a speech like that could have thrown him into a crisis or pushed him toward behavior that would get him into trouble.

So you simply added:

“I will always ask your permission,” you said softly, stepping in with a folded bundle in your arms. “For anything involving you.”

He looked up at you then. The light caught his face at an angle that made his eyes look like bright rubies.

You offered the bundle out.

“Here,” you said. “Clean clothes. They’re probably a little big, but soft. Thought you’d be more comfortable for tonight.”

He hesitated for a long second—then reached out, fingers brushing the sleeve of the shirt with awe. He stared at it in his hands like he didn’t quite understand what he was holding.

“There’s a hoodie in there too,” you added. “And tomorrow, if you’re feeling up to it… we can go out. When the sun goes down.”

His eyes flicked up again.

You smiled gently.

“I thought we could go to one of the nice shops. You can try on anything you want. Choose what you like. It’s up to you.”

Remmick didn’t answer.

Not right away.

He stood there, half-dressed in steam and silence, holding soft cotton like it was treasure. His lips parted, but no sound came out. For a moment, you thought maybe he didn’t hear you—or didn’t believe you.

Then, finally, in a voice that cracked on the first word, he whispered:

“I can… choose?”

“Of course you can.”

Another pause.

“No one’s ever…” he began, but the words trailed off. His shoulders slumped a little, eyes glassing over—not with fear this time, but something closer to disbelief. Hope, maybe. Soft and shaking and half-buried.

His fingers dug into the hoodie at his chest. He looked down at it like he was afraid you can take it away from him at any moment. Take away that moment of happiness for your own personal enjoyment.

“I don’t really know what I fancy,” he said, almost apologetically. “Clothes, sure. I just… wore what they handed me. What they picked out.”

“We’ll figure it out,” you said.

He blinked.

You could see it in his eyes: the way the idea bloomed. Slowly, quietly. The way it tried to take root in soil that had never been made to grow anything. The shape of a life he’d never been allowed to imagine.

“Thank ya,” he said finally. Not performative. Not automatic. Just quiet. Real.

The first weeks Remmick spent in your home felt like living inside the slow thaw of an ancient winter. He moved quietly, like someone learning how not to disturb sunlight—careful around corners, lingering with purpose but not permanence. It was as though he was still bruised by the shape of captivity, carrying the echo of barred cells inside his bones, and every step he took beside you was a question: Am I allowed this?

He never asked for help, but soon enough he offered it. You’d wake in the morning to find the living room arranged: pillows fluffed, the coffee table wiped, dust erased from corners you hadn’t even bothered to see. Dishes cleaned before breakfast. Laundry taken in sets, towels folded and stacked neatly on a rack.

He never show off. But you could feel him: the way he hovered at the edge of chores, hesitant, not sure yet if it was his space. Eventually, he began to follow timid instructions—“If you’d like help, Remmick…”—and he nodded, like an apprentice afraid to claim the title, learning fast.

You still found him watching you when you weren’t looking. His eyes—those eyes of his, grey during the day, and carmine red at night—drifted from the hallway, peeking around doorframes or across the kitchen threshold as you moved about. Not because he distrusted you. Not in any way you’d ever make something for ill intent. But because he hadn’t been sure anyone was trustworthy before.

In those first days, his hunger stayed muted. You left blood packets outside his laundry room door like a ritual—gentle, hands gloved, voice soft: Here’s today’s pack. I’ll check back in a while. He never asked for more. He never even lingered at the door. He took it. Walked away. Waited.

Blood for him was life. A way of reconditioning a body that had known deprivation. You found him this way: perched on the corner of the bed after dinner, blood packet in hand, head bowed. Trying not to make the slightest noise.

Almost cute.

That afternoon, you came home with groceries, groceries for you, groceries for your evening at home, and within the crate, tucked under your arm, a fridge box for his blood sacs. You rested the box on the counter, half-inclined to set it aside and when you looked up you found him sitting on the other side of the counter.

His eyes darted toward the box in your hands. His nostrils flared, just a bit. A tiny betrayal of the need he was trying to suppress.

You lifted the sac with a gentle tilt of your hand. “You want another one?”

The question was casual. Offered like anything else you might ask a friend. But the moment it left your lips, his body tensed.

Remmick’s gaze dropped. Then, slowly, he lifted his eyes to meet yours. Not directly. Slightly to the side of your face. A habit, you’d come to learn. A softened way of looking without confronting.

His voice came out quiet, dry with shame.

“I… I don’t wanna be a pain, ya know,” he said. It cracked partway through the sentence, just a tremor. His hands twisted in front of him, fingers digging nervously into the hem of his sleeves. “It’s grand by me. You’re already too kind. No need to be spendin' any more on me.”

He tried to smile after that, and it was the worst part of it all. That broken attempt at reassurance—at making you feel better for what he needed.

That smile, half-curled and tight at the corners, said more than the words had.

The bag in your hand felt heavier than it should’ve.

You set it down gently on the counter, your heart tightening in your chest. You took a small step toward him—not too fast, not too close—just enough that he could see you fully now, without obstruction. His breath caught slightly, a barely audible inhale, like a reflex he hadn’t meant to make.

“Remmick,” you said, softly, as if trying not to disturb something delicate. “You’re not a bother. You’re not costing me anything that matters.”

He blinked, rapidly, like the words didn’t compute. His jaw worked—once, twice—as if he were trying to bite back a response before it escaped on instinct.

“I mean it,” you continued, your voice steadier now. “If you’re hungry, you tell me. That’s not something you have to earn.”

His hands fidgeted again. A slow, unconscious gesture—you recognized it now. Like a tic he used to keep himself grounded when the emotions were too much to handle all at once. When shame wanted to eat through him faster than hunger ever could.

“I’m fine with less,” he murmured. “I can go a few days… or even weeks, sure. I’ve done it before. I just thought—I didn’t want to seem ungrateful.”

You exhaled, slow and aching. “You’re not ungrateful. You’re just… used to people expecting you to apologize for being alive.”

That made him flinch. Not visibly. Not in a way anyone else would’ve noticed. But you saw it. A twitch at the edge of his eye. A small shift in his stance. The way he held himself tighter.

“I’m here to make sure you’re safe,” you said, “not to ration your comfort. You’re allowed to ask for more, Remmick. You’re allowed to want more.”

He stared at your hand. For a moment, you thought he might back away because of your proximity and walk away. But he didn’t. Instead, he let out the softest, weakest laugh you’d ever heard.

“That’s… really hard to believe,” he said. “But I’m givin' it a go.”

You nodded once. “That’s enough for me.”

And then you handed him the blood sac.

He took it this time.

Carefully. Reverently, almost. Like it was a gift he hadn’t known how to accept.

And when his fingers brushed yours in the exchange, cold and trembling, you didn’t flinch. You just held his gaze for a moment longer than before. To make him understand that you neither feared him nor disgusted him.

Then, you turned back to the fridge and started putting away the rest of the box like it was just another part of your day.

But in your peripheral vision, you saw him.

Still standing there. Still holding the sac. Still stunned, somehow, for your unusual behaviour.

From that day on, you offered aloud: “Do you want two or three tonight?” And he began answering: “Maybe three… if that’s okay.” And it always was. You made sure it was—tucking away guilt with each pack you placed, ensuring his body could begin to heal and finally breathe.

Remmick hadn't gotten physically close to you until that fateful night.

The hum of the TV filled the living room. You’d chosen something mindless—a late-night reality show with canned laughter and predictable drama, the kind of background noise that didn’t require your attention more than necessary.

Remmick sat at the far end of the couch, knees drawn up, arms tucked in the pajamas he had chosen himself at the store under your constant urging. He had started sharing your space, becoming more verbally present. He was no longer just a presence, but also a companion. Sometimes he even made suggestions. Small ones, sure, but always made on his own initiative and with pleasure.

He especially loved playing and singing, so you bought him a banjo, which he strummed every now and then, writing down the lyrics and chords in his notebook.

But not tonight, tonight he seemed to want to share the evening of TV with you.

You were halfway through an episode when the camera panned across a couple on-screen, nestled in a corner of a nursery. A small baby curled between them, cheeks round and flushed. The father kissed the child’s head. The mother held them close. It was simple, mundane. Affection dressed in soft cotton and domestic warmth.

And beside you, something in Remmick shifted.

You didn’t notice it at first. Just a faint change in how he held himself—shoulders rising slightly, eyes flicking toward the screen, then away.

The next moment, he wasn’t watching the TV anymore. He was watching you.

You felt it more than heard it—that brittle stillness that signaled something unseen was breaking open beneath the surface.

Remmick didn’t speak. Didn’t fidget. He just sat there, folded in on himself, like something inside him was twisting tighter and tighter with every beat of quiet that passed.

His eyes were wide and red, unfocused, like he wasn’t seeing the room anymore. Like his thoughts were somewhere else. And then, without warning, without a sound—

He leaned in.

It was slow. Hesitant. Not like a predator approaching prey. Nothing calculated or hungry in the movement. It was more like watching a wilted flower lean toward the last light of the day—weak, instinctive, a pull toward something it couldn’t name.

His cheek came to rest against your shoulder.

You froze, not out of fear, but surprise. You hadn’t expected it—not from him. For weeks, he’d kept a careful, respectful distance.

But now he was here, curled gently against your side, head pressed just under your collarbone, like a creature trying to relearn touch.

His body was trembling. Not violently. Just a faint, barely-there shiver—like he was holding in every impulse not to bolt. And still, he stayed there.

“Just a bit,” he whispered.

His voice was raw, barely audible.

Then, after a breath, you felt something else.

Air moved across your neck. Cool, unnatural.

His breath.

His lips parted.

You didn’t see it right away. You felt the shift first—the soft draw of muscle, a change in tension where his mouth hovered just at your pulse.

And then you saw them.

Fangs.

Not bared. Not flashing in threat. Just there—half-covered behind his pink lips.

Your body reacted before your mind could catch up.

Your hand rose to your neck, more from the tickling than anything else. But Remmick probably interpreted it differently.

He recoiled like he’d been struck, crawling away from you before you could say a word. His face twisted in confusion and something that looked horribly like shame.

“No—” he gasped, voice cracking. “I—I wasn’t—didn’t mean to—I wasn’t gonna bite ya, I swear it—”

His hands flew up like he expected to be grabbed, shoved, punished.

“I was just—just—” His breath hitched again. He backed away further. “I’m sorry.”

His knees touched the floor of the apartment, right in front of the sofa you were sitting on. Clawed hands covering his face, and then—you saw it.

He bit down. Hard.

Not on you.

On himself.

His fangs dug into the side of his thumb, teeth sawing through the flesh like he couldn’t tell the difference between punishment and pain anymore.

You moved forward on instinct.

“Remmick—”

But he was already biting harder, his other hand twitching as he tried to steady himself, nails raking down his arms like he couldn’t bear the skin he lived in.

“No, no, no,” he muttered. “Stupid. I’m stupid. Ye were kind and I— I ruined it—”

You caught his wrists gently before he could draw more blood and do more damage.

He didn’t fight you.

Just stood there, shivering, eyes wide and terrified.

You guided his hands down slowly.

And in that moment, you understood.

He was asking about being held. About being seen. About the terrible, unbearable yearning to be near someone who didn’t flinch from him like he was a monster.

“Remmick,” you said softly. You didn’t let go of his wrists. “You didn’t ruin anything.”

His eyes flicked up to meet yours—startled, desperate, disbelieving.

“I know you weren’t going to bite me.”

He opened his mouth like he wanted to argue, but no sound came out.

“I saw you,” you continued, your voice as gentle as you could make it. “I saw what you were trying to do.”

He shook his head slowly. “But ye—ye froze—”

“I was surprised,” you admitted. “It’s not the same thing as being afraid of you.”

That stopped him.

His lower lip trembled. His arms had gone stiff beneath your touch, but he wasn’t pulling away anymore.

He was listening.

“Next time,” you said quietly, “tell me. That’s all.”

A long, shaky silence passed.

Then he nodded—once. Barely.

And then he did something you weren’t ready for.

He pressed his forehead into your stomach and let out the smallest sound you’d ever heard from him.

A whimper.

Not from pain. Not from fear.

From the awful, weightless relief of not being rejected.

Your arms came around him slowly, your hand absentmindedly scratching the base of his head.

He melted into you like a creature whose bones had forgotten how to hold shape without comfort. He sagged against you, arms around your waist, breath hitching softly. Not crying—he didn’t make a sound after that.

But you felt it in him.

The tension giving way.

The hunger easing—not the one for blood, but the other one.

The one deeper than anything physical.

The need to belong.

And you held him.

As long as he needed.

The bond deepened like rot in the walls—not sudden, not loud, not even visible at first. It wasn’t something you could name when it began, just a presence. A feeling.

Remmick began to exist nearer to you, in ways that weren’t quite deliberate but not accidental either. His hand brushing yours when you reached for the same mug. The way his shoulder sometimes bumped yours when you passed too close in the kitchen, and he didn’t recoil—didn’t apologise.

You stopped keeping physical distance like a boundary and started doing it like a dance. Testing where closeness didn’t overwhelm either of you. Letting moments bloom and soften instead of snapping them shut with polite withdrawal. You noticed how, when you curled into a blanket, he curled with you. How his head would sometimes tilt and rest lightly against your shoulder, and then stay there.

Months passed.

And also his appearance started to change. Slow, but unmistakable.

The vampire who had once been curled in your laundry room like a broken thing was growing into himself.

His hair, once matted and dull, now shone in the light. You caught him once in the hallway mirror, gently running his fingers through it, lips parted in faint disbelief. He hadn’t seen himself like that in years. Maybe ever.

His body had filled out, too. The sharp angles of his ribcage softened. There was muscle on his arms now, not from effort, but from consistency. From nourishment. From safety.

He still moved quietly, but no longer with the crouched, skittish gait of someone expecting to be punished for every step.

And his fangs—once a source of fear, of tension, of held breath and flinching instinct—now brushed your skin in moments of affection.

He’d lean in as you passed on the stairs, nose nudging your collarbone, his lips ghosting over your neck—not biting, never biting—just being there. You’d feel the faint scrape of fangs against your shoulder when he laid his head on you, and he always pulled back after, embarrassed, whispering, “Sorry,” even when it hadn’t hurt.

You stopped finding excuses for liking it.

Sometimes, in the quiet hours—when the lights were low and the world had gone still—he’d curl into your side and fall asleep like that, arm flung over your waist, breathing shallow but real. He didn’t make a sound. He just rested against you like someone who had finally found a warm place to die and realized, to his own confusion, that he was living instead.

Everything seemed to be going well.

Until something changed.

It was cold enough outside that your breath fogged the air. The city had quieted down to its late-night lull—stores closing, streetlamps flickering, the distant buzz of someone’s late dinner delivery echoing across the sidewalks. You walked side by side without touching, but close. Always close.

That evening, you felt like going for a walk after getting home from work, and it had been weeks since Remmick had set foot outside the house. He didn't seem to particularly enjoy going out (also because of the strange looks he got), but when you reached the old park, you could see his shoulders visibly relax. He loved nature and the solitude of the night.

You also liked it there. The wildness made it feel private.

Remmick’s eyes wandered like a child’s, curious and quiet. The moonlight caught his face in glints—his long lashes, the soft shine of a smile on his lips. He didn’t look like something anyone should be afraid of. Not like this.

You sat on a low stone, the surface cold beneath you, and leaned back slightly to look at the sky. He stood for a while, then crouched beside your knee. His fingers brushed the grass.

The trees were tall here. Older than the buildings that surrounded the block, their trunks thick and gnarled with time. At night, they cast deep, comforting shadows—like guardians rather than watchers. And when the wind moved through their leaves, it made a soft sound, like breathing.

And Remmick shared the same millennia-old age. Perhaps that was why he seemed to feel so at ease.

The lampposts barely worked—only one or two flickered on after dusk. They made the whole place feel like it lived just outside of time.

Then, he broke the silence.

“I used to sleep outside, before they took me back,” he said quietly, not looking at you.

You turned your head, unsure what thread of thought had led him there. But something in his voice made you pay more attention than you usually already do.

Remmick didn’t speak for another minute. Then, so softly it barely rose above the creek, he said, “I tried not to need folks.”

Your heart gave a small twist.

“I used to think… if I acted just right, maybe someone'd keep me.” He tilted his head back, exhaling. “Me first owner was an old woman. She was very… precise. Gentle, but distant. She fed me, trained me to sit proper, speak proper. She even let me read in the evenings. But I wasn’t meant to ask for more. When I started lingerin' too long by her chair, or… talkin' too much, she got cold. One night, I fell asleep by her bedroom door. Next day, she brought me back.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

“She said I was exhaustin'.” His smile was faint, tired. “She said I was clingy. Said I needed too much.”

Your stomach knotted. You wanted to reach for him, but he kept speaking, and something about the way his voice emptied itself into the night stopped you.

“The next one was a man. He believed in structure. Obedience. He never hit me, but he never let me touch him either. Not even to help him with his coat. I remember once, after he had a nightmare, I went into his room without knockin' to see if he was alright. I tried to explain, but he said I was manipulat'n him. Called me creepy. He locked me out of the flat for the night, and the next, I was sent away again.”

You exhaled slowly. The moon was brighter now, painting the grass in pale silver. Remmick kept his eyes down.

“I stopped tryin' after that,” he said. “For a while, anyway. I tried to be the right kind of quiet. Didn’t know when it was alright to look at someone. Thought maybe if I watched closely enough, I’d learn when to speak. When to smile. When I was too much.”

You reached out then, slowly, and let your fingers rest against the curve of his hand.

“I tried,” he whispered. “I tried so hard to be what they wanted. Quiet, obedient, grateful. I didn’t even ask to be touched after a while—I just wanted to be in the same room. Thought that'd be enough.”

He turned to face you, finally. His eyes looked too big for his face, luminous in the dark.

“But I was always too much. Or too little. Too clingy. Too cold. Too hungry. Too strange, so I was.”

You swallowed against the tightness in your throat.

“They didn’t know what they wanted,” you said.

He smiled again, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “They didn’t want me. That was all.”

The wind shifted. A few dead leaves skittered across the path.

“You’re not too much,” you said, barely more than a whisper. “You’re human.”

“Not technically,” he said with a soft laugh.

“You know what I mean.”

You didn’t take your hand away. Neither did he.

You stayed in the woods for a while, talking about this and that. You told him the reasons why you had never wanted one of them — and the reason why you wanted him instead. The atmosphere, and his devoted attention, made you want to tell him everything. To get closer and open up in ways you couldn’t allow yourself.

You walked for a while, following the beaten paths, venturing into the small dense grove further ahead. Away from the city lights.

Remmick walked ahead for once.

You let him. Unclipping the leash from his harness. No one would see you, no one would report this improper behavior of yours.

He seemed to be looking for something with his gaze, shifting his head from side to side as you kept a respectful distance. Then, when he found it, his face lit up.

He turned toward you with a small, crooked smile. “Close yer eyes.”

There was no command in it. No expectation.

You obeyed before you knew you had decided to.

The darkness behind your eyelids was soft and strange. You felt vulnerable in a way that wasn’t frightening—like laying down trust in its purest, simplest form. You could hear him shift beside you, the gravel beneath his shoes crackling faintly as he turned toward you.

And then you felt it.

His hand, reaching out. His fingers hovered near yours.

Not grabbing.

Offering.

You opened your hand without hesitation.

When his palm finally met yours, the contact was almost nothing—just warmth, cool around the edges, a trembling stillness beneath the surface. But it was everything. Because it wasn’t just a touch.

It was pure and complete trust that you were giving him.

He led you a few steps deeper into the grass, toward the little clearing where the trees bowed back and let the sky in. You could hear the creek nearby. The night was full of quiet things—crickets, the rustle of leaves, Remmick’s breath.

“Alright,” he whispered. “Ye can look.”

You opened your eyes.

He’d led you to a place where the grass opened like a nest, and there—tucked into the curve of a mossy root—was a tiny cluster of white flowers. You recognized them immediately: moonblossoms. Fragile, delicate things that only opened at night.

He knelt beside them and picked one.

Carefully.

Like it was a sacred thing.

He stood again, approached, and without a word—tucked it behind your ear.

“There,” he said softly, fingers lingering near your cheek. “It matches the way ya glow.”

You laughed gently—because that was what you were supposed to do. That was how people responded to soft gestures, right?

But your throat was suddenly too tight.

His smile faltered. “Was that… weird? I just thought ye’d like it. I can take it off, I didn’t mean—”

You grabbed his wrist before he could pull away. Held it. Pressed your face in his open palm.

“Remmick,” you whispered. “You’re perfect.”

He blinked at you, startled. Blushed faintly.

And in that moment—his eyes glowing faintly under the moon, his mouth soft and uncertain, his hand brushed your cheek slightly—you felt it.

Like something cracked open in your chest.

The shift was subtle, but it roared through you: I’m falling in love with him.

Not kindness.

Not pity.

Not caretaking.

Love.

You were in love with the way he looked at you like you were the only safe place he’d ever known. With the way he was learning how to smile again. The way his fingers grazed yours when he thought you weren’t looking. The way he wanted to make you happy, even if he didn’t know how.

And gods, it terrified you.

You pulled back, turning your face away from his hand.

He frowned.

“…Did I do somethin' wrong?”

“No,” you said too quickly. “No, it’s not that.”

Then softer: “It’s me.”

He tilted his head, brows creased.

You stepped back another inch. Your skin ached where he had touched you. You could still feel the weight of that flower behind your ear.

You weren’t allowed to love him.

Not by law.

Not by society.

And not by the promise you’d made to yourself the day you first saw him, curled in that filthy cell like a broken thing. You had sworn you would never become one of them. You would never use him. Never blur the line.

But love… love had blurred everything.

“I can’t—” you whispered, mostly to yourself.

Remmick’s expression shifted—softened into something so heartbreakingly gentle.

“Ye don’t have to say nothin',” he murmured. “I know what we are.”

You looked at him.

Really looked.

And it shattered something else inside you. Because he meant it. He was trying to make it easier for you. Trying to protect you.

Even now.

Even when it hurt him.

You wanted to fall into his arms. You wanted to kiss him. You wanted to take his hand and run as far from the world as you could until the only thing left was the feeling of him, safe and warm and yours.

But you couldn’t.

So instead, you nodded, barely holding back the tears. And whispered the only thing you could manage.

“Thank you… for the flower.”

He smiled faintly.

But it didn’t reach his eyes.

And neither of you said another word on the walk home.

Relationships between humans and nightcreatures weren’t just taboo.

They were illegal.

The law was clear: no intimacy, no romantic involvement, no crossing the line. Not even implied affection. Nightkind existed under conditional protection—leased, trained, collared. They could serve. Be owned. Be fed. But never loved.

Never wanted.

The consequences for violating that law weren’t a slap on the wrist. They were sharp, immediate, and permanent. And Remmick… he had already been marked once. A returned “asset.”

You knew better than anyone that if someone reported him for behavioral aggression—or worse, for unauthorized companionship—he’d be taken away in hours. No trial. No questions.

So you never crossed the line.

The days piled up quickly. You dedicated a lot of time to work and your deadlines — partly to push away that knot in your stomach, partly because you needed to bring order back into your life (the one you had set aside to help Remmick recover).

As busy as you were, you didn’t notice the vampire’s response to your behavior, but he had begun to withdraw again. Afraid he had made — or might make — another misstep.

When you came home, he always tried to have everything ready and in place for bedtime. He no longer sought your touch, but his fingers would tremble and claw at the fabric of his pants whenever you passed too close or brushed against him by accident.

But he said nothing. He remained respectfully silent — so you wouldn’t have the chance to start a conversation he’d already heard a million times.

One evening, however, you decided to take a step that might finally drive Remmick out of your heart for good — and everything would go back to the way it was before.

You told him you had a date.

You tried to say it casually, just a murmur as you passed through the living room. You were barely even out of sight before you heard the change in the air.

Remmick’s breath hitched. You turned. He was sitting hunched on the couch, blanket half-fallen off his shoulder, face pale, eyes wide and dim.

You forced a smile. “I won’t be long.”

“…oh,” he said.

That was all.

But you felt it. Like something inside him wilted.

You left anyway.

You had to.

Some part of you needed to prove—to yourself, to the law, to your own racing heart—that you could still live within the lines. That Remmick was a creature you had saved, not a man you were falling in love with.

The man you met at the bar was nice. Polite. Handsome in a polished, too-clean kind of way. He talked about his job. His apartment. His own registered nightkind—one of the elegant, docile ones, purchased for status.

You laughed in the right places. Smiled when he touched your hand.

But as you stood together at the curb, shoes scuffing concrete, something began to twist in your chest. A wrongness. Subtle. Creeping. Like a stone lodged just behind your ribs.

He stepped in close.

Too close.

His hand brushed yours, then settled at your side like he had every right to it, and your spine stiffened under your coat. His scent—cologne and something warm and unfamiliar—clung to your skin. Then his hand slid further around your waist. His voice dropped, a murmur meant to be sweet, intimate.

“I had a really great time.”

And before you could answer—before you could step back, laugh it off, say me too and mean it without meaning more—he leaned in.

For a kiss.

It wasn’t hungry. It wasn’t aggressive. It was gentle, even tentative. But the moment his face moved toward yours, the moment you felt his breath brush your cheek, your entire body tensed like an animal beneath a spotlight.

No.

Something cold snapped through your gut. Not because of him—not entirely. But because this wasn’t it. This wasn’t who you wanted this closeness from. The thought made your throat tighten, made the moment feel strange and unreal.

But just before his lips could touch yours, an arm wrapped around your neck from behind, and you were yanked away from your date in a sudden jerk.

You landed hard against a cold chest, your back pressed into something solid and trembling. Arms locked tight around you. An embrace—not tender, but possessive. Shielding. Terrified.

Remmick.

You knew it was him before your brain caught up to the moment. The chill of his body. The way he pulled you in, arms around your neck, one hand splayed flat across your stomach like a barrier.

He was shaking.

Not with fear.

With fury.

You could feel it rolling off him in waves—hot and icy at once, a storm under skin. His breath came fast, sharp through his nose. You turned your head just slightly and saw the way his eyes had narrowed —two bright red discs lit by something primal locked on the man in front of you.

Lips peeled back. Fangs bared.

Like a wolf guarding a mate.

“W-What the fuck—” your date staggered back. “Is that—is it yours?!”

You didn’t answer right away. You couldn’t. Your heart thundered in your chest, not from fear, but from the sheer violence of the moment. Not violent in action—Remmick hadn’t hurt anyone—but in presence. In the way he loomed behind you, wrapped around you like armor.

His fingers twitched against your side, and you realized then: he was waiting. Not for permission to attack—but for you. For your reaction. For confirmation that you were okay.

“…yes,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper. “He’s mine.”

Your voice shook.

Your date scoffed and took another step back, already shaking his head. “You should have him collared if he’s gonna act like that in public. I could call enforcement, you know—”

“There’s no need,” you interrupted, faster this time. “It’s my fault. I forgot to feed him before I left. He… he gets anxious. I’ll take him home now.”

You didn’t wait for more. You just turned, guiding Remmick with you, his body still taut and coiled around yours. You opened the car door with one hand, and he followed wordlessly, slipping into the passenger seat like a storm being ushered into a bottle.

The ride home was quiet.

Your hands shook on the wheel from the sheer weight of what had just happened.

And beside you, Remmick sat curled into himself. His posture hunched, head bowed, one hand gripping the hem of his hoodie like he might unravel it.

He looked broken.

Ashamed.

You pulled into the drive, turned the engine off, and turned to him—but before you could speak, he did.

“I’m sorry.”

His voice was barely a thread.

You stared at him, then the fury came.

“What the hell were you thinking?!”

Remmick flinched, taking a step back. His jaw clenched. His mouth opened. Closed.

You kept going. You couldn't stop. Your brain was spinning, your heart was pounding against your ribcage.

“If someone had called the police—you could’ve been taken—do you understand that?! You could’ve died! I wouldn’t have been able to stop it—you’d be gone, Remmick!”

His eyes widened. His shoulders curled inward. His voice came out small, quiet.

“I didn’t mean to… I wasn’t tryin' to be scary. I just… I saw him that close to yer face, and I—I didn’t think. I didn’t even know I was running until I had ya.”

You shook your head and got out of the car without looking back. You knew Remmick was following you back into the house.

“I'm sorry if I—I scared ya. Y'know I would never hurt ya!”

You kept walking. You didn’t want to listen to him. You needed to calm down. But before you could take another step out of the apartment hallway, his claws wrapped around your wrist, forcing you to stop your escape.

“Please… please don’t be angry with me.”

You stared at him. Breath caught in your chest.

You ran your free hand through your hair, letting out a loud sigh. You hadn’t meant to let the words slip out. They came out on a breath, caught in the thick silence of the room like an echo you immediately regretted.

“God,” you murmured, voice thin, “I don’t know what to do with you.”

You sighed. Loud. Tired. Overwhelmed—not by him, never by him.

But Remmick didn’t hear the fear in your voice. He didn’t hear the heartbreak. He only heard the sentence.

And it shattered him.

He flinched like you’d struck him.

His whole frame tensed, and then he dropped—just dropped—to his knees with a breathless panic, his hand came off your wrist like you burned it with your skin.

“No! No, please—don’t—don’t send me back!” he cried, eyes wide, face crumpling into desperation. “I can do it right this time, I swear, I swear I will—just don’t—don’t give up on me, please—”

Your eyes widened. Confused by his reaction. Your heart fractured.

“I’ll behave, I’ll stay quiet—I was bad, I know, I shouldn’t have gone out—I’m sorry, just punish me if ye have to, just don’t abandon me—please—”

He was trembling, folding in on himself, hands splayed on the floor like he was trying to ground himself in the floor of your apartment so that it couldn't be dragged away. He was breathing too fast. His shoulders shook with the effort of holding in tears, because he’d learned not to cry out loud. Even that had been trained out of him.

And you—

You dropped to your knees beside him, the motion swift and wordless, driven by instinct more than thought. One hand went to his cheek, guiding his face up to yours, the other curled gently over his shoulders. His skin was cold, but his panic was burning.

“Remmick,” you said, voice breaking around his name. “No. No, no, no, listen to me—baby, please, look at me.”

His eyes snapped to yours. Wide. Shining. Desperate. And it gutted you.

“I’m not angry,” you whispered. “I’m not sending you back. I’m never sending you back.”

His lips trembled. He didn’t believe you. Not yet.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you said, brushing a tear from his cheek with your thumb. “I was scared. Not of you—but for you. I don’t know what I’d do if they took you away. That’s what I meant. That’s all I meant. I didn’t choose the right words and I’m so sorry.”

He was still shaking, still clinging to disbelief like it was the only thing that had protected him for years. He tried to apologize again, stammering, but you stopped him—gently, firmly—with your fractured words.

“I can’t lose you.”

That word hung in the air—thick and raw and real.

You leaned in, pressing your forehead to his, your breath soft between you.

“I’m the greedy one,” you whispered. “Because I want you. Because I keep thinking of you. Because I’ve fallen in love with you.”

His breath hitched.

“And it’s okay if you don’t feel the same,” you whispered, your voice threading between the silence and his heartbeat. “I’ll never force you to do anything you don’t want to. I’ll keep protecting you. I’ll keep caring for you, no matter what—”

You didn’t get the chance to finish.

Remmick’s lips found yours before the next breath could pass.

He kissed you—hard, desperate, like the truth between you had finally split open and neither of you could survive keeping it buried anymore.

His hands tightened gently against your back, and your body answered before your mind caught up, leaning into him like you’d been waiting for this touch your entire life.

You let him pull you against him, mouth devouring yours like he’d been starving for it since the first moment you’d touched him and not been afraid.

The world stopped narrowing to logic. It bloomed around sensation.

You had barely caught your breath from the kiss—your heart still fluttering wildly in your chest, your fingers still curled in the fabric of his shirt—when he pulled back just enough to look at you. Really look.

His eyes were wild with disbelief and something rawer, something almost wounded in its hope.

But then, slowly, his mouth softened into a smile—wide and crooked and so heartbreakingly sincere it made your chest ache.

And then he laughed.

Not loudly. Not mockingly. But stunned.

“For heaven’s sake, darlin',” he whispered, his voice rough with emotion, eyes shining as he leaned closer, “ye should’ve told me months ago.”

His hands cupped your jaw like you were something fragile and holy. His lips brushed against your cheek, then the corner of your mouth, then lower—trailing to the base of your jaw where he kissed you once, twice, then lingered, the warmth of his mouth sending a shiver down your spine.

“What the hell were ya waiting for?” he murmured against your skin, the words half-laughed, half-confessed.

You couldn’t speak. Your throat was too full. Your hands slid up his back hair, clutching at him with something between relief and disbelief, like now that you’d opened the floodgates, nothing would ever be the same again.

He pulled you on his lap—arms wrapping around your waist with the kind of desperate reverence that said I need you close or I’ll fall apart. And then, quieter, his lips still against your jaw:

“I love y'too,” he breathed. “So fuckin' much.”

It came out cracked, like he was afraid it would break if he said it too loud. But he said it anyway.

You touched his face with careful hands, your thumbs brushing the soft hollows beneath his eyes. His skin, always cool, seemed to flush beneath your fingertips—not with heat, but with something just as alive. You tilted your head, searching his expression, trying to decipher the look in his eyes.

There was too much of it—too much feeling. Too much need.

“Are you sure it’s not just gratitude?” you whispered. The question came out too small, too soft. Your heart bared itself in the silence that followed, every beat echoing like footsteps in a chapel.

His eyes darkened—not with sadness, but with something else entirely. They burned low and rich, like embers finding oxygen, igniting from within. The red hue bled through the pale blue of his irises like spilled ink in water. He blinked once. Slowly.

And then he moved.

You gasped as his hands gripped your hips—not rough, but firm, possessive, grounding. His fingers curled against you, claws barely grazing the fabric at your waist, not threatening, just present. He pushed you gently, deliberately, until your body hovers over his and your hips are perfectly aligned — pressed against each other. Your legs wrapped around his waist, his legs neatly positioned beneath him.

He held you down against him with one hand behind your neck and an arm wrapped around your waist, chest to chest, breath against breath.

His voice was a low growl in your ear, but it wasn’t angry—it was honest. A deep, raw vibration of restraint and need wrapped in reverence.

“Gratitude?” he repeated. “Y'think this is just gratitude?”

The space between your bodies was gone. You could feel him—every line of him—solid and real. The hard, undeniable form of his cock pressed against your thigh through clothes that suddenly felt like they barely existed. Your breath hitched again, this time from the sudden pulse of heat that spiraled low in your belly.

“Do ya have any idea what ye’ve done to me?” Remmick's mouth closed over the curve of your ear, making you shiver and clutch his hair tightly. His warm tongue licked and wetted your skin, and you’re sure that something else between your legs was slowly getting drenched too.

“I was a ghost before ya. Not just locked up in that place—they’d already buried me inside meself. No one ever saw me. They wanted obedience, silence, something that smiled when fed and vanished when ignored. And then ye—”

His nose brushed against your temple, and you could almost feel his lips trembling slightly against your cheek as he continued.

“Ye treated me like I was real. Touched me like I mattered. Ye let me want things. Feel things. Ye were gentle. I’d follow ya into sunlight if it meant one more second being yers.”

Your breath caught. Your heart raced.

His voice, laced with fierce devotion and vulnerability, reached into the deepest, quietest corners of your heart, lighting fires you didn’t know were waiting to be ignited.

He pulled his head back to look you in the eyes. He looked desperate, eager to make you understand.

“Please don’t call this gratitude. It’s love. For ya. All of it is for ya.”

And without waiting any longer, you lunged forward, your mind blinded by a sudden impulse you could no longer contain. You tilted Remmick’s neck, your fingers tangled in his soft hair, and pulled him toward you with a firm, almost possessive force to devour his lips.

You felt his body respond beneath your touch: a slight tremble, a muffled sigh that turned into a soft moan, almost a whisper of surrender. His lips, soft and warm, gave way to yours as he held you balanced against him, moving his hips in small, quick thrusts.

His lips parted slightly, silently inviting your tongue in. You felt his breath deepen and slow as his mouth closed around yours gently, as if wanting to suck away every thought and hesitation.

His words slipped against your lips like a whisper filled with devotion, each syllable soaked in an almost sacred sweetness.

“Me mistress is so sweet,” he murmured in a low, vibrating voice, his eyes shining with an intense light as he looked at you like you were the center of his universe. “So carin'. Think so much about me well-bein'.”

His breath grew deeper as he lifted you up so your feet were back on the ground and he was kneeling before you. The promise in his voice became palpable, almost tangible.

“Let me make ya feel good,” he continued, the determination to make you happy clear in every word. “I’ll be so good, darlin'.”

He grabbed the waistband of your elegant pants — the ones you had carefully chosen for someone else and that were clearly driving him crazy. You felt enveloped by a wave of emotions — tenderness, desire, and a warm, comforting certainty that only he could give you.

“Ask me. Like a good boy.”

You looked down at his lips parting into a dumbfounded, fucking smile, his sharp teeth on full display.

“Ride me face, love. Ya won’t regret it.”

You nodded slightly, letting Remmick pull down your clothes all at once with a tug. You were almost certain you heard a rip, but you didn’t want to think about it — not when Remmick’s face and tongue were desperately reaching for your center.

You pressed a palm against his hair and tilted his face enough to free yourself above his mouth, one leg straddling his shoulder to keep yourself steady.

His name rang on your lips like a sacred whisper, a spell lost between his cold breath and the racing beat of your heart. His tongue slid slowly and surely, drawing soft, delicate curves over your clit, exploring every millimeter with a precision as sweet as it was voracious. Every small movement was a caress that lit fires beneath your flesh, and when he lightly nibbled your thighs, an electric shiver ran through you, making you spread your legs just enough to let him turn, inviting him to discover new corners of your desire.

A cool hand rested on your ass, the contact featherlight, as the heat flowing between your legs grew, palpable and enveloping. His rough beard caressed your skin in perfect contrast, sending shivers down your spine. You felt his warm breath as you brought your hips closer to his mouth, as if his breath could merge with yours, warm and protect you. Your muscles tensed, your senses sharpened, and time seemed to slow around you.

Then, suddenly, his tongue invaded you with a sudden thrust, making your head spin and erasing all other thoughts. You felt yourself engulfed in waves of pleasure as he whispered words that intertwined with the heat enveloping you. “Ye’re incredible,” “So perfect,” “Let me lose meself in ya.” His other hand, the one not pressing you against his mouth, rose slowly, like a promise, and began to move over your body with sweet determination. His fingers traced light, bold lines on your clit, like an artist painting his most precious work, and each caress was an invitation to let go, to immerse yourself completely in that moment of intimacy and pleasure.

“Remmick…Remmick, God,” you murmured, your voice broken by desire, an echo that shattered your soul.

“Gimme everythin', darlin',” he begged you, his mouth hovering just to touch yours, “ye taste so good.”

His fingers curled and rubbed against your bundle of nerves and the orgasm hit you in waves, making you cling to his shoulders and head to keep from being dragged away.

The whorelike moan of pleasure that escaped your lips echoed through the hallway, but you didn't have the strength to be ashamed. Your legs trembled under your weight, but Remmick was already there, supporting you and sliding you back down, straddling his hips.

His lips covered you in soft kisses, scattered like rain across your face, while his fingers dug into your hips with gentle urgency, holding you close. You felt the cold of his skin against yours, his breath brushing over you in deep pants—a symphony of longing and intimacy.

Your thighs parted gently, embracing the sides of his body, as your hands tangled at the nape of Remmick’s neck, pulling him softly toward you for another slow kiss, heavy with promise.

His whimper, lost between your lips, vibrated like a whisper of deep pleasure, and he held you with a strength that felt like he wanted to fuse your souls into a single breath.

You could taste yourself on his lips, and it made you smile without even realizing it.

Your hands began to wander downward, fingers brushing along the waistband of his clothes, tentative but steady. But before you could go further, Remmick’s lips pulled away, just enough to speak, and a faint growl rumbled from deep in his chest.

“Ye don’t have to,” he murmured, breath catching. “I’m great. I don’t need—”

You tilted your head, meeting his gaze with a calm you didn’t quite feel, false sadness outlined all over your face. “You don’t want to fuck me, Remmick?”

His breath faltered, and he closed his eyes as if the weight of the question undid him.

“Jesus, darlin',” he whispered, almost broken, “there’s nothing I want more than this. Than ye.”

You leaned forward, brushing your nose against his. “Then shut up.”

Remmick became docile, remaining still as his hands gripped your hips tightly, anchoring you to him. You gently and confidently sank your hands between his legs, pushing apart the barrier of his jeans and firmly grasping his thick, throbbing cock. A muffled moan escaped him as he clamped his lower lip between his sharp teeth, his head tilting back slightly, his chest heaving in ragged breaths to contain his impatience.

“Fuck…”

You felt the thick, moist tip press against your entrance, and for a moment it felt like the world stopped.

Then, slowly, painfully, inch by inch, you let go, sinking into his length. The sensation was dizzying, a sweet and powerful relaxation that filled every corner of your body, as if every fiber craved that union. Your flesh welcomed him eagerly, sucking him in with an ancient and necessary intensity.

A low, muffled moan escaped his lips as you reached the bottom, the sensitive tip of his penis gently resting against the deepest part of you, a contact that sent both of you shivering.

“You feel so good, darlin',” he gasped, his words broken as he nuzzled his forehead into your shoulder. “So perfect around my cock.”

His tongue slowly slid down the side of your neck, leaving a trail of hot shivers that made every fiber of your body vibrate. Then, with malice and desire, his teeth barely grazed your artery, that light, dangerous touch that made your heart race, as a thrill of pleasure and tension mingled within you.

With a decisive movement, his legs spread further, forcing your thighs apart, granting him complete access. He sank into you with a new, profound depth, as if wanting to melt completely inside you, awakening every hidden corner of your desire.

His name escaped your lips spontaneously, a bold, shameless moan that was lost in the air, filling the room with that intimate, burning confession.

Before you could truly grasp the full force of his movement, his hips snapped upward with sudden, almost ferocious force, echoing the sound of his skin slapping against yours—a wild, primal rhythm that saturated every sense.

The pleasure that washed over you was so intense it dazzled you, igniting your nerves and vibrating every nerve beneath your skin. His thrusts were swift and precise, penetrating you with a consistency that made your heart race.

“All fuckin' mine...yes...No one else gets to see ye like this. Not that bloody prick...not any other loser. No one. Just me...”

Remmick's muffled moans and whimpers mingled with the incessant sound of skin against skin, overriding every other sensation, and his head rested close to your ear, his hot, labored breathing a whisper of need and adoration that made you feel desired like never before.

“R-Rem....Remmick—”

Your voice broke as he tilted his hips just enough to grind his pelvis against your swollen clit.

“Aye, just like that, sweetheart. Say me name. Tell me what a good boy I am for fuckin' ye so well.”

“My precious boy...” You lowered your head into his neck, hugging him tightly as you tried to follow his movements with the new orgasm slowly approaching. “I'm close...So close...you're doing so good...”

His muscles tensed beneath you as your walls gripped him tightly, his hands digging firmly into your hips as his body trembled with an almost painful intensity.

“Come on, love. I'm right here. I got ye. Let me feel ye come 'round me cock, please. I'm beggin' ye...”

Your body responded with a deep shiver, a wave of heat emanating from your core, expanding and enveloping you, making you gasp for breath. Your nails dug into his back as a strangled cry escaped your lips, your mind clouded only by the sensation of being completely possessed and loved.

His moans, now deeper and more vibrant, mingled with yours in a symphony of pleasure and abandon. Remmick trembled, his body tensing as he reached his climax, and you felt his cum invade you, a fire that united you in an indelible bond.

You remained like that, clinging to each other, your hearts beating in unison, your breathing wheezy and your bodies filled with a primal sweetness, leaving only the two of you, wrapped in that fragile, fierce intimacy.

Fuck the world and its rules.

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selinakyle373 · 22 days ago

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You know I am always thinking about the immense trauma dump he's forcing on his hive-mates. Inspired by a joke I made to someone in my notes.

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selinakyle373 · 28 days ago

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blessed be the whore - part 1

Priest!Remmick x fem!reader

summary: The old priest in your small town has died a gruesome death. The new one has an... eccentric way of doing things. 18+ READERS ONLY PLEASE!!!

word count: 6.3k

warnings: smut, sacrilegious actions, blood, praying, quoting the Bible during sex, sex in a church, sex on an altar, P in V, Oral F! Recieving, cum play, reader's first time, religious themes/imagery, blood play, blasphemy, abuse of a rosary, drool, squirting, degradation if you squint, praise kink, allusions to murder

a/n: HELLO! I have been working on this fic for weeks, and I finally came to the conclusion that it just needs to be a two-parter. I want to keep this A/N short and sweet because I have so many people to credit, all from Rosie's lovely Discord server! Firstly, my two beta-readers, @confetti-cakemix and @fuckoffbard! LIZ, YOU ARE MY NORTH STAR WHEN I'M WRITING, THE BESTTT, and CONFETTI!!! YOUR DESCRIPTION OF IMAGERY, EVEN WHEN YOU'RE JUST BETA READING, IS PEAK. Now that that's out of the way, I'd like to tag each and every person in the server that also gave me suggestions and helped me in ANY way! @spikedfearn @somnolenthour @citrinedigital @eternalstrigoii @le-temps-viendra36 @iceemochaa @hyoscyxmine @otxiycohcoy @flixpii @faestunna Clown (also not sure if they have a tumblr but that's my twin!!) @cherryxhaze. If I forgot ANYONEEE please please comment or DM me and I'll add you immediately! I got so much help in the server, and I had to scour through almost a month of messages to find everyone!

tags: @moyavsemoya @slasherflickchick @reneeswrld @made2wait @horror-moviehoe @arminstopguy @weirdblob21 @writersp3n @endofradio @thecontortionistsportal @notabot2 @spikedfearn @fuckoffbard @madkingcrowley @manyimaginativemuses

The new pastor of your quaint village church was strange.

The village itself was old. You’d grown up with wrinkled hands drawing ash crosses on your forehead, strings of garlic hanging on doorways, barefeet in hot, red dirt. When you were younger, you were never allowed out after dark. No exceptions. Kids who went out after dark went missing. Their names became prayers on the congregation's lips at each church service.

The old pastor, Monsignor Quinn, had been so kind. He’d listen to your panicked confessions, fleeting feelings of lust with a boy from school. Brushes of fingers against skin that kept you awake at night.

He’d died so suddenly. He hadn’t been very old, not even past his thirties. And the weirdest part - the local sheriff wouldn’t tell you or anyone in your village how he died. You heard rumors of blood-streaked walls and screams that had only been heard by those awake that late into the night. You watched people cross themselves as they passed his boarded-up house. Little children crossed the street to avoid passing it.

And now, you were shaking the new pastor’s hand, rough and firm. Father Remmick. His lips curled like he could tell what you were thinking, his tongue running through the folds of your twisted mind. His eyes, calm and clear blue, never left yours when he introduced himself. Your father’s arm rested protective and heavy on your shoulders, the heat radiating from him comforting you like a blanket.

“Pleasure to meet y’all.” Father Remmick drawled, hand still wrapped around yours. His accent was strange - deep, and Southern, but mixed with something old that you couldn’t place. Something thick and gooey, honey falling slowly off a wooden spoon. “I’m sorry for what happened to Monsignor Quinn. Tragic… truly.”

He didn’t look sorry—not really. His other hand pressed to his chest in sorrow, but his eyes shone with a playful gleam that was sinister, bloody, and cold.

Your voice was dry when you spoke to him for the first time, having to turn your chin up to look at him. “What happened to him?”

“Oh,” Remmick’s smile fell, but the concern didn’t feel real. It felt mocking. You felt his thumb stroke your knuckle. “Nothing that needs to fall on ears as sweet as yours.”

Your father’s arm tightened, and you were grateful for his presence. When Remmick released your hand, you fought the urge to wipe your palm on your dress, to wipe him off of you. His crooked grin remained, and his tongue slowly ran over his bottom lip, licking the sweat from his chin.

“I can’t wait to get to know you.” He looked away from you like he had to force his eyes away, like it was painful not to be looking at you. His gaze left you feeling naked, the inside of your body tingling like someone had dug around inside and pulled out everything sacred. “All of you, of course.”

His sermon had been even stranger than he was. He said all the right words, but they came out of a twisted mouth. A serpent’s tongue ran over the words of God, words meant to comfort and uplift, but coming from him, made your stomach twist. Your fingertips ran over the silver rosary underneath your shirt as he spoke, his eyes never drifting down to the Bible before him. He knew the words by heart, and they still sounded so wrong.

When you got on your knees to pray, you felt something so deeply, internally wrong in your chest. You couldn’t help but look up while everyone else’s heads were down, their lips moving silently in prayer. You found Father Remmick, hands wrapped tightly around the lectern, looking at you. His knuckles were white, his eyes roaming over you ardently. A rust color flashed over the blue of his eyes, like the nictitating membrane of a reptile. His gaze violated you, drilled a hole through your chest.

For a single heartbeat you kept your gaze locked on his. When he smiled at you, you swore you watched something crawl under the skin of his forehead, two points—like horns—begging to poke out of his skin.

That night, and for many nights onward, you dreamt of Father Remmick.

The church was empty, save for you and him. His clerical collar glowed against the black of his button-up shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal veiny forearms and slender fingers following it. Fingers that reach for your rosary beads, let them clatter to the floor. He spoke in a language you didn’t know, touching you in a way you’d never felt. A way that felt too good to be holy.

When you woke, you prayed. You prayed for hours into the early morning until the skin on your knees was raw and your eyes were sore from being squeezed tight. The rosary left a red and stinging imprint on your hand that would be there for days.

But what frightened you most was the throb between your legs, pounding rhythmically and making you yearn for… fullness. After every hour of prayer it seemed only to get worse.

At church, you couldn’t listen to the sermon. You couldn’t even look up at Father Remmick. Not without images flashing behind your eyes, sounds so vile and loud in your ear that you couldn’t even hear the words he was saying.

Throaty moans. A hot, wet tongue between your legs. The feeling of rhythmic thrusts, something pressing into a spot inside of you that made you feel more euphoric than God himself ever could. You felt weak every time you looked at him, your fragile body giving in with every glance.

“My child-” His voice echoed through the rickety church, but you knew he was speaking to you.

“You look distracted.”

Your throat ran dry as you stared at the scabbed-over skin of your knees, just below your dress. You could feel your father's demanding elbow digging into yours. Be respectful.

A flash of something else when you looked up at him again. Something softer, something tender. Lips pressed to your skin, dragging against the top of your breasts.

“What could be more important to you?” He was smiling. Smiling like he knew what you’d seen, and the devilish things you’d heard. “Than worshipping and praising God with your community… with me?”

His tongue ran over his bottom lip as he raised his arms to grip the sides of the lectern. The muscles under his shirt tensed, and your eyes lingered. By the way his smile widened, he noticed.

“Be sober-minded and alert, Miss.” He nodded his head toward you, like some kind of twisted teacher. “Your adversary, the Devil, prowls around like a roaring lion…” His eyes, gleaming again like something inhuman. “Looking for something to devour, like a lamb wandering from the flock.”

Remmick paused, smiling to himself. “Be glad that I arrived here at the right time, to lead you down the path of righteousness.”

Your skin had grown cold, like spiders were running up your arms and the back of your neck. But it wasn’t just what he’d said that made you rigid, a dripping of cold sweat rolling down your spine. It was the agreeing hums of the congregation, like they knew what you’d been thinking.

You couldn’t sleep that night. The pillow's satin fabric was coated in sweat, which clung to the back of your neck and made your butter-yellow nightdress stick to your back. You stood from your bed, bare feet pressed against the hardwood of your bedroom floor. As you left your room, you knew every creaky spot to avoid, opening the door with close precision to keep it from making a sound.

You could hear your father snoring from the cracked door of his bedroom as you slipped through the hallway like a ghost. You blindly slipped your feet into slippers in the dark, your hand wrapping around the gold door knob of your front door.

The cool breeze of a late July night kissed your skin, making your hair prickle against the fabric of your nightdress. The sky was black, stars spilled across it like bleached sugar against molasses.

The walk to the church was by memory, your feet crunching above the gravel road in the cool dark of your village. No light was lit in anyone’s homes; the only sound was the cicadas whining in the trees surrounding you. As you passed Monsignor Quinn’s home, the foundation seemed to creak before you, the sound almost like a weeping in the air. You didn’t cross the street and kept your head forward to pass by it. It was just another house. Just another death.

The church was dark but buzzed with an energy that made the air feel electric. You could see its indent in the darkness. It was made of white siding sun bleached from hundreds of years under the sun of the South. The smokey-colored brick spires reached out into the dark sky, pointing to the stars. Their elegance had entranced you as a child. Now it just made you feel sick.

A rectory with a gabled roof and dead bushes surrounding it stood next to the church, just a few yards away. There was no light to be seen, no sign of life. Father Remmick would be asleep in there, sleeping soundly despite his completely taking over your mind and your body.

As you entered the church, you didn’t make a sound, creaking the door open just wide enough to slide your body through.

You moved blindly down the pews, hands running across the cool wood, hoping it would comfort you. It didn’t. You fumbled around until you found a box of matches and lit the candlesticks at the table behind the altar. It didn’t provide much light, but you could at least see the flickering expression of Jesus on the crucifix before you, He who had died for your wretched, terrible sins.

Knees hit wood, your hands gripping the fabric of your nightdress as you prepared to grovel. But you wouldn’t get the chance to. Not to God, at least.

“Couldn’t sleep, sugar?”

A voice that echoed through the dark like it- he owned it. You stood, turning around and searching the dimly lit dark for him.

Father Remmick was sitting in the pew furthest from you, legs crossed and arms stretched long behind him. He was smiling; crooked,pointy teeth nearly glowing in the dim light. Your eyes roamed over the clerical that remained against his neck.

Your throat had gone dry. You swallowed hard, one hand reaching out to steady yourself on the altar rail.

“You could say that, yeah.”

Remmick’s legs uncrossed, spreading out in a way that felt like it couldn’t be anything but disrespectful. His eyes didn’t look blue in this light. They seemed almost amber, gleaming and ever-changing in the flickering candlelight.

“In peace, I will lie down and sleep,” Remmick said quietly, a teasing little smirk on his face. “For you alone, Lord, make me dwell in safety.”

Your knuckles had turned white against the altar railing, and the sudden realization that you stood before him in nothing but a nightdress made you freeze. You should have felt empowered by his words, but instead, you felt like prey under that violent gaze. You kept your expression blank.

“Yes, I will perhaps follow those words when I know peace.”

Remmick’s head cocked to the side, like a dog sniffing out a treat. His eyes rolled down your body, stopping at your bruised knees.

“You troubled, darlin’?”

He didn’t sound concerned, not really. He sounded starved the question dripping off his tongue like drool rolling down a chin. He looked at you with mock-concern, eyebrows just a little too furrowed, his lips just a little too downturned.

“Have somethin’ you’d like to confess?”

His eyes flickered to the confession booth. Two purple, velvet curtains opened to a small wooden box—one side for the priest, the other for the sinner.

You didn’t know what it was. Maybe it was the throb between your legs, or the puppy-dog shine of his eyes in the candlelight that made them look almost like melted caramel. Or perhaps the way his voice lingered in the room like steam after a hot bath. But you nodded, quicker than you’d meant to.

Remmick stood on long legs, the sleeves of his black shirt rolled up to reveal curling veins that traveled along his forearms. He gestured toward the booth, lips curling deviously like he’d won something. Like he was collecting a prize he’d been patiently vying for.

“Ladies first.”

The confession booth was dark, except for the little light that flickered through the intricate carvings on the wood door. The worn leather cushion sank beneath you, full of cracks and creases from years of use. You could hear Remmick shuffling on the other side as you closed yourself in. You could hardly see him through the lattice-patterned window separating him from your booth, just the shadows cast over his face and the bright white of the clerical covering his throat.

Your hands were tangled in your lap, your leg bobbing up and down under your nightdress. You listened to Remmick’s calm breath as he settled into his seat, closed your eyes for a moment, and envisioned his hands running over his pants, his head bowing in silent prayer. The thought of it made more heat travel down your body, your heartbeat loud in your skull.

“Sign of the Cross, yes?”

His voice seemed even deeper, even more irresistible in the dark—something as velvet as the curtain before you. Your hands trembled as you made the Sign of the Cross over your face.

“Bless me, Father,” you paused, licking your dry lips. “For I have sinned. It has been… far too long since my last confession. These are my sins.”

Remmick was smiling. Hands clasped in his lap, burning eyes staring into the wood of the booth. He could hear every shift you made, every breath coming from your heaving chest and out of your beautiful throat. The throat that pulsed with your heartbeat. The heartbeat that hadn’t left his mind since he’d laid eyes on you. He thought of your blood pooling in the dip of your collarbone and shifted in his seat.

Your chest was heaving, your nails digging into the seat's leather. You pressed your legs together, glanced at what you could see of Remmick’s face.

“Father, I have impure thoughts. I fear that the Devil has his hold on me, making me yearn for…improper things.”

Remmick’s smile curled, teeth sharp against his lip. You were right where he wanted you. Hot, pulsing, panting. His hands unclasped, his palm pressing into the seam of his pants. His head fell back, eyes slipping closed at the pressure against him.

“Improper things?” he asked you, his voice leveled as much as possible, but you caught the hitch. “Do you think the Lord would accept this confession… if you can’t even say what sin you’re thinking of?”

Your throat bobbed as you realized he was right. You were a sinning coward, unable to tell God what He needed to forgive you for. Your hands left sweat marks on the seat, palms raised to grip the rosary around your neck. The marks on your knees from groveling for God had started to sting, as if the Devil himself scratched down your legs. Reminding you of who you thought of and who you wanted to be on your knees for.

“I think of someone… touching me. Their hands against my skin, defiling me in a way that-”

A sound, guttural and desperate, left Remmick’s throat. His hand had continued to press against him, thick tendons and veins straining under his skin. His eyes opened, pupils nearly flooding his entire iris. All that was left was a ring of red on the outside, the color of blood stained on satin white sheets. He was silent, marinating in how you gasped at the sound he’d released. You were so deliciously untouched.

“And who is that you think of?”

The question lingered in the air, heavy and charged with something dangerous. It felt as if the rosary in between your hands were being tugged from your grasp, until you looked down and realized that it was just you releasing it, letting it clatter onto the floor.

The point of no return. Letting the Devil take you by the hand and dance you into Hell. You’d called to God so many times and He’d never answered, but Remmick was here. Real, tangible, beautiful. You dug your nails into your palms, prayed for your soul one last time before diving into the deep end.

“...I think you know, Father.”

Silence, at first. Something that made the air hot, that made your breath catch in your throat.

The wood groaned as Remmick shifted, his feet scuffing against the floor. You could hear the screech of metal rings against a rod, Remmick pushing the curtain open.

He didn’t ask for permission. He pushed your curtain open slowly, filling it with his broad frame and slender fingers. His fingers gripped the velvet, and a brass ring around his finger caught the light. He was a wolf in wolf's clothing, teeth sharp and bright in the dim light.

One hand left the curtain, reaching out to touch the lines of your collarbone. He ran his nail up your neck to rest the pad of his finger against your pulse.

“I do know,” he hummed, applying pressure to the pulse, just enough for you to feel him there. “And I always knew you’d come.”

His other hand flew from the curtain with a speed that didn’t seem human, fingers gripping your hair and tugging your head back to expose your throat.

“God.” You moaned low in your throat, breath ragged as Remmick lowered himself enough to be straddling your lap, thighs warm and solid on top of yours. He leaned forward, his mouth finding your ear. You felt his tongue run over the shell of it, something long and cold like a serpent.

“Not sure your God is here, sugar.” His voice was low and sweet, rattling the inside of your body. “He woulda saved you by now, right?”

Remmick looked down into your nightdress, lip caught between his teeth. He was quiet as he raised his hands to the fabric, gripping it tightly before tugging. The nightdress split apart as easily as tearing paper, your skin prickling with goosebumps as the cold air hit your naked chest. He looked at you like a sinner did the cross, eyes nearly glowing. He waited; waited for your invitation to touch you, thick drool rolling down his chin like a rabid dog. It dripped onto your chest as you nodded, your hand shaking when you wrapped your fingers around the white clerical collar at his throat. You tugged it off, letting it fall to the floor beside your rosary.

“Touch me, Father.”

Remmick was on his knees in a second, tearing away the rest of the ruined nightdress from your body as he nestled his shoulders between your thighs. The only thing that remained between you and him was a thin pair of underwear, lacy trim at the edges that he ran his fingertip over with a twitching smile.

The pad of his rough fingertip pressed over the fabric of your underwear, firm against your clit. Your body jolted forward, legs falling open for him as the pleasure traveled up your spine.

Remmick laughed, his head thrown back and mouth open wide.

“So wet for having never been touched, little lamb.” Remmick’s fingers hooked into the waistband of your underwear, tugging it down your smooth legs. “Do you want to be worshipped, as your God is…” He tucked your underwear into the back pocket of his black pants. “Or ruined, like the Devil would do to you?”

“I want…” Your words cut off with a whimper as he pulled his finger from you, only to open your legs wider. “I want what you want, Father…”

Remmick hummed, weighing his options. “Lil’ bit of both then, I reckon.”

His head dove in between your legs like he’d been starved of water for years, and you were the first drop of salvation he’d found. He groaned, deep and low in his throat, that sent a vibration through you that had your hands flying to the dark waves on top of his head, pulling him against you.

His hands gripped your thighs hard enough to bruise as he licked against your cunt, long tongue rolling around your clit like he’d been made to worship it.

“So sweet,” Remmick smiled against you, warm and wet for him. “Like the Lord made you just for me.”

Remmick’s hands left your thighs, palms searching the floor as he continued to suck on your clit, pushing his tongue into you, curling it up in a way that didn’t seem possible. When he found what he needed, he pulled away, looking up at you through half-lidded eyes and your wetness dripping from his lips.

His hand raised, your rosary beads tangled between his fingers. With careful precision, he lowered the necklace against your cunt, the coolness of the beads making you shiver and scratch marks into the leather seat beneath you. As the beads pressed on either side of your clit, your head fell back against the wall, heat traveling up your neck as if the flames of Hell were already licking against your skin.

“Thy two breasts are like two young roes that are twins, which feed among the lilies.” He cocked his head to the side, eyes penetrating and sharp on your face. He could sense your impending release, the way your heartbeat quickened, your back arching off the seat.

“Don’t.”

Once low and ragged in the dark, his voice had become clear. He closed your legs with one large hand and dropped the rosary beads back to the floor so he could lean forward, pressing his other hand against the wall next to your head. His face was inches from yours, and his breath was hot on your neck.

“Not yet, darlin’. Not ‘til I say.” His lips found the pulse point on your neck, nipping before kissing tenderly. “The Lord teaches patience, lamb.”

Remmick’s hand left the wall to grip your hair again, tugging your head back. It made your scalp sting in a way that made you want more, your mouth parting to whimper against him.

“That bein’ said,” A crooked smile - lips baptized in your essence. “I’m bettin’ you sound real pretty beggin’.”

His tongue was long and rough against your cheek as he tasted your sweating skin, a deep rumble in his throat as if he was tasting the sweetest nectar. He stopped at your temple, placing a gentle kiss there. His lips remained there, teeth grazing skin.

“So go on, darlin’. Pray for me to fuck you.”

Your breath caught, your entire body going hot from his words. He laughed against your skin, like he could feel the very chemistry in your body change, the way you grew slicker from his twisted request. The way you knew that you would do it for him. You’d pray to be spread open by him, explored in a way not even God could do.

“Oh, you will do it, won’t you…”

It wasn’t a question. Remmick knew you’d beg; he knew how far gone you were. He laughed against your skin.

“Doesn’t matter how good of a girl you are… how much you love Him. You’ll give it all up just to get off, won’t you?”

Remmick pulled back, hands sliding down to hold firm on the flesh of your hips. He lifted you from the seat like you weighed nothing, turned both your bodies around until you were straddling him. Your naked core rested against the rough material of his pants and made your body shiver. He smiled.

“Go on… hands together in contrition. Do it right…” His rough hands grabbed your wrists, pulling your hands flat together between your bodies. When they were pressed together to pray, he let his fingers linger on the bare skin of your thighs, fingers just too long and nails just too sharp against your skin.

Your lips were dry, and Remmick’s eyes drifted to them like he wanted to lick across them, make them wet again.

“Heavenly…”

Remmick hummed in glee already, just from a single word. His head bowed, as if to join you in prayer, his eyes slipping shut.

“Heavenly Father… forgive me for what I am about to ask of you. I know I do not deserve such a blessing as being touched…” Your words faltered as one of Remmick’s hands slid up your thigh, gathering the slick in between your legs. His finger pressed against your clit, and you gasped, hands pressing together tighter. “As being touched by someone so good, so…”

Remmick’s finger pushed inside of you, pressing up to a spot that made your throat close up, the only sound coming out a pathetic squeak of a whine.

“Aww, darlin’, that’s so sweet of you. But you don’t have to lie.” His body leaned forward, his wet mouth pressing against your ear. “Tell your Heavenly Father what I am. What you know I am.”

“I’m…” You continued the prayer, voice deep and rasping. “I’m going to fuck the Devil… and Lord, I beg you to have mercy on my wicked soul.”

Remmick laughed against the skin of your neck, drawing thin beads of blood with the sharp points of his teeth.

“Are you now? Going to fuck the Devil?”

All you could do was whine at the pleasurable pain in your neck, your hands shaking with the desire to pull them apart, to grab at his skin and his hair.

Remmick hummed to himself, pulling his finger out of you with a slowness that made you bite the inside of your cheek. His cold hands slid up your arms, pulling your hands apart from their prayer.

“Get up.” He said quietly, with that same thick, gooey voice he’d had when you’d shaken his hand for the first time. You did as he asked, spreading your legs and backing off his lap. His eyes traveled up your bare body as he stood, towering over you inside the booth. With a firm hand on your hip, he nudged you toward the curtain.

“To the altar.”

Remmick’s breathing was heavy behind you, his gaze burning holes into the bare skin of your back as you slowly walked to the altar. You looked to the cross just above, and you felt no remorse, not anymore. Whatever God could do to punish you, you were sure Remmick could do worse. Maybe you wanted him to.

You ceased walking once you had reached the altar, your belly just close enough to feel the cool wood against your skin. Remmick was behind you, his breath hot and wet on your neck. His eyes ran over your skin, from the top of your head to the balls of your feet. The expanse of a human body that he was now free to ruin. That he’d be begged to ruin.

With one swift movement, he grabbed your wrists, raising them and placing them flat on the altar. Your fingers brushed the closed Bible there as your breath hitched. Remmick made no effort to remove it. He only slid one hand down your body, as soft and languid as a serpent, and pressed down on the arch of your back.

“Look at you…” Remmick murmured, fingers sliding into your folds, finding you warm and wanting there. Your legs quivered at his simple touch, so his other arm found its spot under your belly, assisting in holding you upright. “So nervous… shaking. You must honor God with your body, little lamb.”

Two fingers entered you, pushing in and out with a torturous speed. Your legs spread wider, your nails scratching into the leather-bound fabric covering the Bible before you.

“Please..” Your voice quivered as you tried to keep it level. Your head fell against the Bible, leaving sweat marks. “I need you inside me, I need it more than I need God.”

Remmick’s fingers pulled out of you, and you heard the faint sound of his lips licking his fingers clean. He moaned at the taste of you, his other hand pulling the clasp of his belt buckle apart. “Aw, sweetheart, that’s so kind of you.”

By the press of him against you, hot and pulsing, you could tell that Remmick was big. But nothing could have prepared you for the way it felt when the head of his cock began to press inside you, hardly able to breach your entrance. He pulled back, body lowering to press lips against your sweat-slick spine.

“Gotta open up for me, baby.” He said against your skin, running the length of himself against your folds. His tongue was cold and barbed as it ran up the expanse of your back and to the shell of your ear. “Take me all at once, and maybe I’ll make you see Him. Denying yourself would be the true sin…” Remmick tried once again, his cock slowly able to start stretching you, inch by torturous inch. Only babbles came out as your mouth fell open, tears beading at the corner of your eyes from the sheer size of him.

“Haven’t even fucked you good yet,” He groaned as he pushed in. “And you’re already speaking in tongues.”

When he’d bottomed out inside you, pressing deep on a spot inside you that only made a guttural sound escape your throat, his large hand pressed against your belly.

“Feel all that pain, lamb. You’re just getting used to me… your body will learn quick.” He slid back slowly and pushed back in with just as much resolve. Your legs nearly gave out, hands scrambling for purchase on the lectern as he fucked into you. “Soon, all you’ll feel is me.”

Remmick was right.

Soon, the only feeling that remained was deep, wicked pleasure. Every thrust of him inside of you felt like another ring lower into Hell, the souls eternally damned there shaking their heads at you as you made the same mistakes they did. But the problem was - you didn’t fucking care.

A whine escaped your throat as Remmick picked up the pace, just a little bit. One hand on your belly, the other gripping your hip so hard you were sure you felt the cold prick of blood on your skin. Every thrust was hitting something inside you that somehow made you wetter, something that had you dripping onto him like some kind of deranged baptism.

Remmick was grunting, getting louder with each thrust into you. He tried to hide with honeyed words, but you felt too good around him.

“So easy, aren’t you?” Remmick was grabbing one of your arms, pulling your hand into his to press onto your own belly. You felt the bulge of him with each thrust in, and the pressure on your stomach made your cunt flutter around him. He groaned, words faltering as you squeezed around his cock. “You…” He nearly whined, hand gripping yours on top of your belly. “Just a few words about your corrupt God and you... you spread your legs for me?”

He laughed, hand leaving your stomach to grab at your hair, tugging until your head reeled back just enough to see him. He was beautiful like this, pupils blown out, and the first few buttons of his clean shirt popped open. Blood streaked down the corner of his mouth from the wound on your neck, and his tongue was unnaturally long as it unraveled out to wet his lips.

“Do you know something, sweetheart?” He asked, dark eyes meeting yours. “Your God isn’t here.”

A whine broke through your mouth as he rolled his hips in a particularly torturous way, hitting the spot in you that he’d found with his fingers in the confession booth. There wasn’t anything you could do but let your body go slack against him, head kept in place only by his grip on your hair.

“What would your God say, hm?” Remmick asked, pressing into that spot again, making your vision go white. “If He saw you split open for me?”

Remmick released you, and your head fell forward to the altar. He leaned forward, and you felt the cold press of something against your neck, a chain or something of the like.

“Do you still believe in Him?” He asked against the nape of your neck, pressing deep into you. He nipped at you again and lapped the blood up with his tongue with a soft moan.

“Maybe you should apologize to Him, hm? How does that one go again?” Remmick pulled out, almost entirely. You felt the cold air hit the wetness of your cunt, and you whined at the loss of contact from him.

“Forgive me my sins, Oh Lord,” Remmick spoke, moved both of his hands to your hips, and thrust in with one swift move that made you cry out in shock, in pleasure, in shame. “The sins of my youth.” Another deep thrust, and back out again. “The sins of my soul,” Another. “And the sins of my body-”

The last push inside of you made you see streaks of color in your vision, your mouth hanging open, and your lips wet with drool. You felt something like a spool form in your stomach, desperate to unravel. It was an odd feeling that you’d never felt before, akin to the feeling of nearly wetting yourself, and it made your face burn with embarrassment.

“Father,” Your voice was gone, raspy and unrecognizable. “Father, I feel…” You whined as the feeling grew, doing everything in your power not to let the spool unravel. “I think I‘m gonna pee… it feels like-” Remmick chuckled, increasing the speed of his thrusts.

“Oh, my poor baby.”

You could hear the smile in his voice. He was the Devil himself.

“You don’t even know what your sweet little body can do, do you?”

And with that, Remmick was reaching around your body, pressing two of his fingers against your clit and rubbing, coaxing something out of you. The more he coaxed, the tighter the spool wound.

And then it snapped.

You didn’t recognize your voice as you came, nails scratching into the altar so hard that the wood began to splinter, piercing the tips of your fingers. Remmick was laughing as wetness coated him, the front of his pants and the fingertips at your clit. You’d provided an entire baptism for him, and he wouldn’t let it go to waste.

He pulled out of you, gripping your hips tightly and whipping you around so your back hit the altar. Remmick’s knees hitting the floor and his tongue diving inside of you happened in one action, in one second. He licked up everything you gave him, your essence leaking onto his face and dripping down his chin.

His cock remained hard, long, and red below you as he sucked on your clit. You wet your lips, a shaking hand lifting from the altar to grip at his auburn waves.

“Touch yourself,” You whimpered, voice coated in overstimulation. “Please… let me see the image He created you in…”

Remmick’s eyes slid open, peering up at you needily. His nose brushed your clit as his tongue pushed up inside you, and he grabbed at his cock with a strong, blood-covered hand. Immediately, he was moaning, the vibrations in his throat traveling through your entire body and making your head feel airy. His hand was so beautiful pleasuring himself, pulling up and down the length of his cock and making himself leak. His hips thrusted up into his fist, and you found yourself longing to see the muscles that flexed beneath his shirt.

Your trembling hand scratched at his scalp, and Remmick sighed happily underneath your touch. He wasn’t even eating you out, not anymore, just nuzzling his face into your skin and breathing you in as he touched himself.

“Beautiful…” You whispered to him. “Like an angel.”

Remmick growled, hand tugging on your thigh and yanking you to the floor. Your back slid against the altar as he pressed the head of himself against your cunt. His forehead pressed against yours as he came with a groan. The warmth of him spilled against your clit and downward, and Remmick’s fingers gently pressed into you, making sure it stayed tucked away inside you.

Your body trembled as Remmick pulled his forehead from yours. His thumb came up to brush against your lips, and for a brief moment, he pushed it inside, humming as the pad of it pressed against your warm tongue. He leaned forward, replacing his thumb with his mouth. A small squeak sounded in your throat at the feeling of his tongue pressing against the roof of your mouth, licking away the last of the prayers that stuck there.

Remmick’s lips remained connected to yours as he helped you stand on shaking legs, his hands pulling you up effortlessly by your waist. His hand reached behind him, grabbing the underwear he’d tucked in his back pocket as he’d prepared to stick his tongue between your legs.

He leaned down, untangling the delicate material and holding it out.

“Step in, sweet thing.” He peered up at you through half-lidded eyes. “Gotta keep everything I gave you inside… keep you close to me.”

Your hand gripped his strong shoulder as you stepped into the holes of your underwear. Remmick pulled them up slowly, leaving soft kisses on your skin as he went. When they were fully up, getting soaked with the mix of Remmick’s and your release, he straightened. His lips pressed against your forehead for a brief, sweet moment.

“I’ll see you at Sunday service.” He said as he pulled back, his voice just as fucked out as yours had been.

“Front pews. Don’t think you can hide from me in the back.”

His hand grazed your arm, almost innocently.

“Or anywhere, for that matter.”

pls comment if you’d like to be tagged in part 2 <<3

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selinakyle373 · 1 month ago

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I love how "Sinners" didn't villify the sinners in the movie. Sammie's father told him that playing music for "drunkards and philanderers who abandon their family responbilities to sweat all over each other" was a sin. And he was right about the kind of people going to the juke joint: Delta Slim is an alcoholic, and Pearline a cheater. It would have been easy to villify them, but the movie tells us that despite their flaws, they are humans worthy of love, respect and freedom.

Delta Slim drinks because he's traumatized by the horrors Black people of his time face. And he's kind and compassionate, encouraging and reassuring Sammie, and sacrificing himself to save everyone else.

Pearline literally saved Sammie's life and sacrificed herself to protect him, a boy she had only known for a day. It shows her kindness because she could have easily stayed back when Remmick tried to bite Sammy and not endangered her life more than necessary.

The movie shows us that preachers blindly condemning those sinners are wrong: Sammie is only alive because drunkards, philanderers and gangsters (Smoke) gave their lives to protect him. They are people, with flaws and qualities.

I love how nuanced the movie is: Sammie's father is not wrong about the kind of people Sammie wants to associate with and their potential bad influence, but he's wrong about them being evil and not deserving of respect.

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selinakyle373 · 1 month ago

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aaaaand I'm back...

I self-indulged, and now I'll post it here. That's basically my entire blog.

*tap for better quality* ;)

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selinakyle373 · 1 month ago

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Day of Days

Warnings: non/dubcon, public sexual acts, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: biker!Steve Rogers

Based on this ask": "Scary biker!Steve with a surprisingly soft touch who gifts himself you for his birthday 🥴🫠" from @stargazingfangirl18

Note: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, STEVERINO. I know this is late but I didn't get to start it when I planned to due to some terrible circumstances.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

The bell on the shop door jingles. You crane to see the new customer as Arlene steps up to the counter. The owner hovers her hands over the edge as she freezes in surprise. You can only see the back of her head but you can tell how she gapes.

You look past her again. The man is tall, bearded, and stoic. His expression is both cryptic yet deters approach. In the small sewing shop, his leather vest has him out-of-place.

Arlene coughs before she can get her words out. She drops her hands behind the counter and wrings them. She’s a kind woman, in her late fifties, but she’s quiet. She keeps to her sewing mostly and barks at those who come in with gossip to keep it to themselves.

“Sir,” she greets the man as he strides evenly across the shop. Three whole steps. Most of the space is shelves of watches and yards, and mannequins for display. “How might I help you today?”

Her voice is wobbly, betraying her fear. You frown. She’s quiet but never afraid. At times, she’s even stern. When it comes to work, she’ll never shy away from telling you to redo a stitch.

The man considers her. His eyes scan around and snag on you. It’s too late to feign ignorance. You can’t just turn around and go back to sorting spools.

“Her.” He points.

“Sir?” Arlene sniffs.

“She can help me,” he insists.

Arlene glances over at you. She nods as her lips tug down. She backs away from the counter and nears you. She touches your arm, an unusual gesture for her.

“Do whatever he says, honey.”

The tender epithet further tweaks your uncertainty. Who is this man? Why is she so afraid?

She turns to flatten herself against the shelves to let you pass. You sidle by and approach the man. Her anxiety has your brewing with a whirlwind.

“Hello, sir,” you greet him.

“Steve,” he insists. You nod and repeat his name. He glances once more at Arlene. “She doesn’t need help.”

You peek over as Arlene flinches. Her eyes flick between you and the man as her face lines with concern. Her lips open and the lower one quivers. She shuts her mouth and nods. She turns and goes into the backroom.

What the heck is going on?

You face the man again. His dark blond hair is thick. The tails at the back flip out a little and his beard is grown long, curling around the shape of his jaw. His eyes are a bold blue and his thick brows add to his stern look. His nose is long and defined, complimenting his chiseled features.

He shrugs and slips his vest down his arms. You watch him. He strips the vest off entirely and lays it on the counter. His scent tickles your nose as it clings to the leather.

“Fix it.” He demands.

You lower your eyes slowly to the vest. You lean in and reach for it warily. You peek at him, thinking he might snatch it back. He just stares at you. Your forehead speckles with heat.

You focus on the vest and touch the seams at the shoulder. You cautiously examine every inch. On the back, a large emblem is imprinted on the leather. You touch the flaking decal. A print that was never going to last on the fabric. There’s only a bit of blue and red around the rings that incase an entirely black star.

You step back and look under the counter. You reach beneath and he shifts. “What are you doing?”

You pause and look up at him. You blink. “Getting my notebook so I can make notes.”

He dips his chin and his forehead lines. You take your notebook and flip through to a blank page. You grab a pencil and start your notes.

He sighs, “it’s only this.” He taps the emblem.

“Oh, sure,” you scribble that down. “The patch here,” you extend the chest of the vest, “the thread is loose here. It will come off soon.” You gentle touch the collar, “may I turn it over?”

He shrugs and and waves his hand derisively. You turn over the vest. As you expect, the lining shows its use. “I can redo the lining. I could show you some options.” You point across to the rolls of fabric. “As for the back, it might be best to go with an embroidery pattern rather than a print. We don’t do prints.”

He puts his hands on the counter, fingers curled, tattoos above each knuckle. On his middle finger, you see the pommel of a sword, the blade extended down his finger but hidden in his fist. Your neck tingles hotly. Is he one of them?

“How much are you gonna rob me for to do that?” He snips.

“Mostly your time,” you answer thinly. “It takes time but I can do it.” You turn the vest again and feel along the remnants of the print. “One moment, please.”

You look up at him. His eyes are unreadable. He tilts his head.

You grab your pencil and bend over your notebook. You do your best to recreate what you can make out of the emblem. When you finish, you stand and show him the page.

“Does that look correct?”

He nods.

“Alright, I can do that,” you assure him and set the pencil down. You frame the old print with your hands, “this is a good size?”

He dips his chin again.

Before you can retract your hand to make another note, he grabs it. You squeak and tug only once. He pulls your hand closer and with his other, extends your thumb. It’s swollen and poked up from your stubbornness. You forget your thimble often.

“Looks painful,” he says.

“My fault,” you assure him.

His strength has you trapped. His hands are much large than yours, rough too. He lets you go and grips his hips as he blows out another breath through his nose.

“How long?” He asks.

“Not today, but when’s best for you, sir?”

He considers you. Silently. You dare to look up and meet his blue irises. You still cannot read him.

“July 4th. I need it then.”

“I can have it done on the third. We’re closed for the 4th, sir.”

He tuts.

“The 4th.” He repeats, adding your name on the end. You nearly gasp at that before you remember your name tag pinned to your blouse.

You hesitate. “Okay, I can meet you out front with it.”

His eyes drift down and back up. He reaches up to his chest then stops himself. He grabs the vest and slides his hand into the lining. He slips free his wallet and unfolds it. He takes out several bills and holds them out.

“That enough?”

You look at them and pluck only three. “I’ll get you change.”

“Keep it,” he grits.

“Sir.”

You fold up the money in your hand. He spins on his heel and marches to the door. You wait for him to turn back. Your heart is racing, you don’t know why. He leaves without another word or look.

You stand in silence. You can’t move. You look down at the vest slowly then the money in your hand.

“Honey...” Arlene’s voice startles you, her appearance more so as she emerges from the backroom with fright in her eyes. “Are you okay?”

You face her and hold out the money. “He just needs an alteration.”

She nears and takes the bills. Her cheeks are dimpled with chagrin. “Alright then, you do that for him. I’ll take on the rest of your tasks.”

“Arlene, I can--”

“No, you must do it right,” she says. “Be sure you do.”

⭐

There’s a parade on the main street. You can hear it even from there. Three blocks down to the east.

You wait outside the sewing shop as promised. You have a hanger with a garment bag draped over it. You have it hook over your fingers as you cross your arms and sway anxiously.

A rumble cuts through the distant din of the celebrations. You turn and watch the motorcycle and its rider roll down the avenue. It steers toward the curb before you and you back up. You nearly collide with the brick wall behind you.

You realise then it’s that man. Steve. He plants his feet and shuts off the roaring engine. He kicks the stand down and reaches for the strap of his helmet. He takes it off, his hair mussed and slightly shiny with his sweat.

He climbs off the motorcycle and faces you. He hangs his helmet from the handlebar. He steps over the curb and approaches you. You make yourself move away from the wall.

You hold up the hanger dumbly. You can’t speak. His arms are bare. He wears a navy shirt without sleeves, a small vee cut into the round neckline, a silver chain peeking out over a hint of his chest hair. His jeans are dark and worn out to fading, and his leather boots are studded with flat silver studs.

He hooks two fingers in the top of the garment bag and tugs. You wince.

“What’s this?” He growls.

You gulp and fumble to unzip the bag. You nearly drop it all as you reach inside and struggle to free his vest. You slide it free. It’s heavy in just one hand. Real leather, you know. You were careful in your work.

He takes it and you stare. He holds it up and examines the liner first, then the patches. You fixed more than one. He turns it and brings it closer to his face to check the emblem. He drapes it on his forearm and feels the thread; rich royal red and a bold blue, ivory too.

He clicks his tongue. His eyes meet yours and he stands up straight. You feel smaller as he does. He puts the vest on.

“Good work,” he praises.

“Thanks, sir.” You fold the garment bag over the hanger. You peer up and down the street. “Well... happy 4th!”

You teeter, ready to go. He stares at you. Or is he glaring? It’s hard to tell. His silence is as sweltering as the sun.

“It’s my birthday.” He says.

“Oh...happy birthday.”

His gaze stays on you. Like an animal in a trap, you just stare back. He moves towards you suddenly. You swallow a squeak and lean back on your heels. He snatches the garment bag and the hanger. He marches down to the metal trash bin and stuffs it inside.

“I-- sir?”

“Can’t ride with all that,” he struts back toward you.

You blink, confused. You watch him.

He goes to his bike and grabs his helmet. He offers it to you. You look at it, then him.

His mouth slants. He flips the helmet over and puts it on your head. His thumb brushes your chin as he secures the strap in the buckle. You stare at the crook of his neck. What’s happening?

The same scent that wafted from his vest stains the helmet. It’s all you can smell. He backs up and taps the helmet lightly with his knuckles.

He’s smirking at you. You shiver at the crack in his mask. That can’t be good.

He turns and straddles the motorcycle. He looks over at you expectantly. You push your shoulders up.

“Get on,” he demands.

Your feet are stuck to the pavement. You were going to head down to the parade. Maybe by some funnel cake and slushie before you go hide at home.

He watches you. You lift one foot, then the other. Your legs are heavy. Your mind screams ‘run’ but your body is bound up in terror.

He kicks up the stands and straightens the motorcycle. He keeps it steady as you approach. You look at him then the seat behind him.

“Grab onto my shoulder,” he commands.

You obey. You use him to haul yourself up. You barely keep your skirt from flying up and flashing the neighbourhood... if anyone were there to see. They're all at the parade.

You sit stiffly behind him.

“Get close and hold on,” he demands over his shoulder. “You’ll fall off.”

You carefully slide closer to him. You put your hands on his sides. He scoffs. He grabs your hands and pulls your arms around them, placing your palms on his stomach. You’re flush to him as he squeezes your fingers.

You stay like that, turning your head so the helmet touches his back. He twists the throttle to kickstart the engine and you close your eyes. He steers the bike as he walks it away from the curb, then sets off down the street with a tear of diesel.

You don’t know what scares you more; the motorcycle or the man.

⭐

The bar looks old. The blend of wood and brick suggests a foundation built at least two centuries ago. The dimples in the pavement outside lend to its antiquity. You take it all in as Steve leads you up to the door.

There’s a man in leather leaning against the wall, puffing on a thick cigar. He puffs out a cloud of grey and Steve swats him away. “Do that somewhere else.”

The man quickly moves away, holding in his next exhale until he’s well away. Steve opens the door and nudges your lower back. You wince and stagger ahead. What are you doing here?

The interior matches the exterior. Almost to a farcical degree. An old bar with leather trim and a man with a braided goatee behind it. All sorts of characters line the stools as they shout their orders, chatter incessantly at their companions, or drink grimly from a tall pint.

A pool table clacks and a jukebox drones. Shelves of tinted bottles and portraits of a bygone error line the walls. The lighting is dim so that it all feels smoky.

You glance back at the door. Steve snakes his arm around you and curls his fingers around your hip. You put your hand on his and squirm.

“What--” you bite down on your question.

“Don’t want to have my birthday drink alone.” He says plainly.

He walks you across the bar. As he does, you notice the looks in his direction and how those who get in his path are just as quickly out of it. They know who he is and you are only getting the gist. He must be dangerous.

He takes you to a table in the corner. A cushioned bench lines the corner of the wall. He points you in and quickly follows. He stretches his arm across the seat above you. You twiddle your thumbs and glance around. People pretend not to look but do.

“Um...” you whittle away in the silence. “Do you like your vest?”

He snorts. He bends his arm and touches your cap sleeve. A white blouse, simple, and a floral skirt with a bit of flare above your knees. You must stick out sorely among the denim and leather.

“I like this,” he diverts. “Pretty.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Steve,” he insists.

“Steve,” you utter and cower as a man approaches the tables.

“Usual for me,” Steve says to the man. “And something sweet for her.”

The man nods and just as quickly stalks away. You shrink down even further. This must be some sort of game to him.

“I like the vest,” he says at last. “I can see all that care you put into it.” He reaches to take your hand. He brushes your swollen thumb with his. “Blood, sweat, and all.”

You stare at your hand in his. He brings it closer and kisses your soft skin. He purrs. You shake and he chuckles as he lowers your hand to rest on his thigh.

“Can’t be alone on my birthday, can I?”

You shake your head. He hums again and pulls you closer. The man returns with the drinks. A short, wide glass for Steve with black liquor; something red in a tall glass for you. The man ducks down and retreats.

He lifts his glass and raises it. He hovers it. You take the other glass then slowly it clicks it. You clink it against his.

“Happy birthday,” you murmur.

“So far,” he drawls before he takes a swig.

⭐

As soon as you reach the bottom of your glass, another appears. Three? Four? You’re not so sure.

The alcohol softens the hard edges of the bar, and your anxiety. Still, you can’t help but be unsettled by the man at your side. His arm on your shoulders as he keeps you close like a possession.

“Sweet enough for you?” He slides the drink closer.

You shake your head sit back, your head pressing into his arm. “I think I need water.”

He chuckles and lifts the glass. He brings it close to your lips. You seal them for just a moment then put them to the glass. He tips it and you drink. Half or so before he relents.

You cover your mouth as a bubble works it way up to your throat. You exhale through the gas and cough.

“Please, no more,” you beg. “I’m dizzy.”

He puts the drink down and rubs your arm with his other hand. “You don’t wanna celebrate with me, sweetheart?”

“I... am. I just...” you blink heavily. “I can’t...” you touch your forehead. “Oof.”

“It’s okay, sweetheart, I got you,” he rubs your thigh and you flinch. You slap your hand down on his and tense. “Gonna be okay. So long as you’re with me.”

You look up at him as his fingertips caress you through your skirt. You squirm and latch onto his thick fingers. Your head wobbles.

“What?” You babble.

“You know what these other men would do if you weren’t on my arm?” He growls as his nose presses to your cheekbone. “I won’t let them get their paws on you.”

“Huh?” You utter.

“Trust me, sweetheart, okay?”

“I don’t... understand.”

“Shh,” his hand slips from beneath yours. “You just be a good girl, alright, and give me my birthday present.”

His fingers dance down your skirt to the hem. He delves below and tickles up your thigh. You wiggle and push on his forearm. You squeeze your legs together.

“Steve?” You squeak.

“You’re gonna wanna be quiet unless you want an audience, sweetheart,” he coaxes as he pets your upper thigh. “Now open up.”

“Why-what--”

He pushes his fingers between your thighs until it hurts. You grip his arm tight as your eyes sting. Your legs shake as fear courses through you. The tension lets out as you’re drained of all courage and strength.

He shoves his hand between your legs as they slacken. You hold your breath as he pushes his fingers along the front of your cotton panties. His arm curls around your neck as he presses his lips to your temple and snarl.

He rubs you through the fabric. As the friction builds, the cotton clings to your wet folds. He pushes your panties between your lips as the heat of his touch burns through. You hiccup and your head lolls into him.

He brings his arm up to hug your head, petting your hair with his fingers.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he traces along the edge of your panties. “Be good for the birthday boy.”

He pulls your panties to the side and his fingers glide up and down your folds. He teases you as you squirm. He flicks your clit and you spasm, choking on a whimper. He rolls his fingertips around as you writhe.

You bat your lashes. There are shadows around you but you can’t see their eyes. You hope they’re not looking. You close your eyes and hide. From them, from him.

He drags his fingers up and down, spreading your shame across your cunt. He angles his hand down and prods at your entrance. He dips a finger into you, wiggling as he slowly pushes deeper and deeper.

He cradles your head in his large hand and exhales into your hair as he plays with you. He pulls his finger out and adds a second. He dives into you until the heel of his hand is against your clit.

You bite your lip as your eyes roll back. Your head stirs in delirious delight as he plucks at your nerves. He rocks his hand as your thighs clench around him and you arch your back. He lets your head fall back and he kisses your throat.

You moan as you fall into his embrace, too drunk to resist. His rhythm shakes your entire body on the bench as it quickens. You heave out breaths as you cover the back of his hand with your palm, urging him on mindlessly.

“I want my gift, sweetheart. You gonna cum?” He rasps into you ear. “Go on and cum for the birthday boy.”

You dig your nails into his hand and your hips buck. You quiver and push your head into his other hand as your orgasm bursts from your core. A ripple swells and spills from you, gushing out around his fingers.

He purrs and chuckles against your cheek.

“Mm, happy birthday to me, huh, sweetheart?”

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selinakyle373 · 1 month ago

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patient is the night

─ remmick x f!oc

─ synopsis: for so long, she had thought she might be the last of their kind. until one night, as she feasted, another reared its ugly head. and he seems to follow her throughout time itself.

─ warnings: mild smut, lots of blood, violence, french oc (french jumpscare!)

─ w/c: 8.8k

i have crossed oceans of time to find you.

bram stoker, dracula

1410

SHE GIGGLED AS THE MAN TWIRLED HER AROUND. The instruments played, the room filled with laughter and cheering. Her dress swayed along with the music, arms surrounding her as she spun from partner to partner. The tavern was filled to the brim, drunkards, peasants, and knights alike. They were all one in this moment, in this fleeting moment. A war was to begin on the morrow, death was looming over them all. But death did not reside in this room tonight. Tonight was for laughter, for gaiety, for love.

In the corner of the room, three men played instruments, singing songs of brave warriors, of noble kings, of wise men. As she swung into the arms of a knight, her own arms slung around his neck, holding him close. Her face burned, flushed from the exhaustion of dancing and the copious amounts of mead she'd drunk. She could never say no to a free drink. Especially when they came from such handsome strangers.

In a darker corner of the room, a lone man sat at a small table, nursing his ale. His dark eyes watched her flit about, dancing from man to man. Something in his chest tightened at the sight. Something unnamed, ignored and unknowable. His hand clenched around the pint, his jaw following suit. There was something about her, though he'd never spoken a single word to her. Had only caught sight of her a handful of times. Had heard many tales of the lovely maiden that danced among moonlight. Some said she was a siren of the land, luring men into the woods. But none in the tavern seemed to heed this warning tale. Especially not the knight that she continued to return to, her arms flinging around him, letting him pick her up in his arms and spin her about. It was a pathetic display, he told himself. And that is precisely why the knight would die before he ever got a chance to see the battlefield.

Her arms around the knight's neck pulled him close, their lips hovering just close enough to mingle breath. She smelled of mead and jasmine and sweat. He found it all so enticing. He found her so enticing. "Come with me." She spoke so softly that he almost wondered if he had imagined it. But, as her arms pulled him towards the door of the tavern, he found himself floating, his feet stumbling to follow closely behind her.

The man in the corner stood from his seat, tossing down a coin for the ale. If he had to take the maiden as well, he would. It would be no issue. She would likely freeze from fear, too frightened to even scream out before he sunk his teeth into her and drank from her. The mere thought did more to fulfill his thirst than the pint of ale. He neared the door, following the two into the night air.

There was a soft breeze, sending a shiver up her spine as her fingers intertwined with the knight's. Her thin dress swayed in the breeze, the moonlight illuminating her figure hidden beneath the fabric. The knight could feel himself tighten in the breeches, quick to chew on his bottom lip as she led him towards the edge of the woods. She was a haunting visage, her dark hair flowing loose and long. Her fingers tightened around his, tugging him along. His feet caught on branches and discarded sticks as he followed her into the woods, deeper into the darkness.

When the two came upon a clearing, she halted, spinning on her heel to throw her arms around his neck once again. She pulled him close, their lips pressing together in a mash of lust and want. A moan escaped him, his hands quick to catch her hips and squeeze the flesh. Pulling back just barely, she looked up at him through half-lidded eyes that seemed to glow in the night - a trick of the light? Drool dripped from the corner of her lips, gently caressing her chin. Her hands slid down to palm his chest, gently pushing him back towards the grassy floor.

As the knight lied back against the grass, she climbed atop him, her legs straddling him. Leaning down, she pressed wet kisses to his cheek and jaw, trailing down to the crook of his neck. The two panted obscenely, his hands clawing at her dress, wanting nothing more than to rip off the fabric. His fingers dug into her thighs, sure to leave marks behind.

The man from the tavern strolled past the building and into the woods. Their scents could lure him for miles. He stepped through the woods, careful not to catch on any broken limbs. As he made his way through, he could hear the steady thrumming of a heartbeat. A smirk spread across his lips, thick gobs of drool beginning to seep from his lips. A gasp cut through the air, halting his movements. Had he been seen? Had he been caught? The heartbeat thudded heavily and quickly before beginning to slow, slow, halt. His eyebrows furrowed for a moment.

Taking careful steps, he found himself at the edge of a clearing. The knight lay on the grass, the woman straddling him. Her dress pooled all around his legs. Watching carefully, his eyes narrowed when the woman lifted her head from the knight's neck. Dark blood ran down her chin, coating her chest and staining the front of her dress. The knight lay still, dead. His eyes widened. "I know you are there." Her soft voice cut through the night, cut through his chest. "Come out of the shadows and show yourself." As if she could see right through him, her eyes stared into the darkness, directly at him. Two red pinpricks in the deep dark.

He stepped out, exposed by the moonlight. Her lips spread into a toothy smile, her fangs flashing. "I smelled you in the tavern. Had hoped you would follow." Her bloodied fingers lifted, scooping the blood from her chin and placing it in her mouth. The sight itself was sinful. Desire swirled along his stomach, need filling his every pore. "Aalis. Pleasure to make your company." She held out a bloodied hand towards him.

With a frown, he stared at the hand. His eyes slowly trailed up her arm and towards her features, slightly obscured by the shadows that seemed to pulse and waver. It was as if she were some divine creature made from the night. Stepping forward to close the gap, his hand slid into hers. The viscous fluid encompassed his hand, sending him wild, feral. Thick saliva quickly flooded his mouth, too much to contain as it dribbled past his lips and down his chin. "You must be starved. Here, have a taste." She pushed herself off of the knight, presenting the corpse like an offering, a gift.

He spoke no words as he crouched down, leaning over to latch onto the throat and begin gulping down all he could. She watched wordlessly, her tongue darting out to lick the corners of her lips. For a moment, she had found herself saddened to see the knight go. He was quite handsome and very sweet. But this man in front of her, this man drinking from the open wound she had, was far more delicious. Her lips curled into a devious smile, full of cruel and wicked intentions.

The man unlatched himself from the knight's throat, taking a deep gasp of air. The two were quite the sight, blood dripping down their chins, coating their chests and clothes. "Your manners seemed to have escaped you. I gave you my name." She spoke, her eyes watching him closely.

"Remmick." His voice was thick.

"An Irishman." Her own voice was fond, gentle and almost loving in a way. "You and I have a common enemy."

"You're French." He spoke, not a question, merely a statement. They both understood that this common trait did not make them friends or even acquaintances. They merely existed together, not ready to kill the other yet. "You speak like them." Like the English, he left unsaid. A gaping wound of an insult. Hurtful only to them. He can tell his words have left a mark by the way her jaw visibly clenched. The two fell into a tense silence, watching each other like lions from rival prides. Two predators in the night, only common consolation the hunger that swirled around the pits of their stomachs.

"You smell like them. With your ales and your cheap whores. Disgusting lot." She practically spit, a glare in her eyes. The anger that warped her features left her ugly and witch-like. No longer was she this siren, a harbinger of death for young, lustful men. Now she was a monster, a creation so abominable that all who looked upon her would cower in fear. He found her even more enticing this way. As if she were showing him her true self, not the facade she wore for others. This was who she really was. This was who she was deep down to her core. And it was so delectable.

Tension filled the air surrounding them, listening and watching their every move. All that separated them was the cold corpse of the knight, drained of all blood. Her bloodied hands rested on her lap, glowing eyes watchful. Hesitance coursed through her body, her fingers curling into the fabric of her thin dress. Slowly pushing herself up from the ground, she stumbled on weak legs like a freshly born fawn. The pleasure from her feeding still filled every speck of her form. "A pleasure this has been. Mayhaps I shall see you along the path. Blessed be, Remmick."

With that, she spun on her heel and disappeared into the woods, leaving only her lingering scent. The back of his hand wiped the drying blood and drool from his chin. In the morning, the war would commence and thousands would die before King Henry V would marry Catherine of Valois.

1603

THE MAN SITTING NEXT TO HER LET OUT A WET COUGH, saliva and phlegm splattering everywhere. Her jaw clenched, holding back a sigh of frustration. The feed was not worth it, she wanted to tell herself. Grabbing the cloth, she dabbed away at the dribbles of drool across his chin. A small frown painted her lips. "You're not well, my love. Perhaps we should fetch the doctor?" She spoke as if she cared whether the man lived or died. A pathetic display of emotion that she felt she was almost incapable of. Pulling the rag back, her hand curled tight around the cloth, nails dug into the fabric. Her eyes glanced around at the servant's quarters, filled to the brim with coughing patrons.

All of them near death. All of them ready to cease breathing, their hearts steadily thumping with blood. It was all too much sometimes. She swallowed back the saliva that filled her mouth to the brim. Clenching her jaw tighter for a moment, she sighed softy. Many nights had been spent contemplating smothering the man in his sleep. The flute he played so carefully, so delicately, sat next to his bed. The only reason she hadn't killed him yet. His only savior, though he was impervious to that information. But, now he was too sick to continue playing. There was no need for the man to continue his life if he could not play such joyful melodies. "Please, perhaps you should sleep. Let your body rest while it heals you." Her voice was soft, gentle, caring.

Her hands lifted to caress his shoulders, steadily pushing him to lie back on his bed. Night was upon them, it would soon be time for all of the servants to go to sleep in preparation for Queen Elizabeth I's funeral. One by one, each servant and maid slowly succumbed to their slumber, coughing and hacking in their sleep. But Aalis remained wide awake, her eyes watching each of them fall one by one, until she was the final eye open.

Slowly, her eyes scanned the room before she pushed herself out of the bed. Her movements were sluggish, carefully dragging to make sure none of them awoke. Kneeling before the bed of the flutist, her sharp fingernails ran gently along the dampened skin of his neck. Leaning in, she took a deep inhale, letting his intoxicating smell fill her senses. He reeked of plums and wasted potential. It was a shame that he would die so brutally. The tip of her nose ran along the crook of his neck as her lips settled along the thrum of his throat. Her fangs pierced the skin, blood filling her mouth.

His eyes shot open and her hand was quick to cover his mouth with the rag. He writhed against her, his hands grasping the fabric of her dress in a vain attempt to push her off. None of his attempts worked. Already, he was too weak to fight back. It was useless for him to even think to do so. She loved them like this - too weak to defend themselves from her. A sense of power surged through her as she sucked at his throat, a soft moan slipping from her as pleasure shot through her, running straight down to the apex of her legs. She climbed onto the bed, crawling on top of him. The rag stuffed inside of his mouth muffled any attempts to call for help.

Her body ground against him, using him as her personal plaything. Another soft moan dripped from her as she continued to drink from him. Very soon, his body fell limp. But she continued to writhe against him, her clothed core rubbing against the rough fabric of his trousers. Her clawed fingers ran up into his hair, tugging and pulling as she drank the last droplets she could get. Just before she unlatched herself, a surge of pleasure shot through her as she reached her high. She whimpered against his bloodied neck as she rode out her high against him.

As she felt herself winding down, she herself fell limp against the corpse, her mouth unlatching from his throat. She pressed a bloodied kiss to his jaw before prying herself off of him, standing on wobbly legs. "Quite a show." She startled at the soft voice just behind her ear. Spinning on her heels, her eyes widened slightly at the man standing just behind her, towering over her. "You're quite the needy one." She could place that voice in another place, another time.

"Remmick." She croaked out, blood congealing along her teeth.

"Aalis. A pleasure." His hand gently grabbed hers, pressing a polite kiss to the back of it. "Seems you really enjoyed that feller there."

"He had the plague. He played the flute nicely, though." She glanced back towards the corpse, shrugging her shoulders in indifference. Turning back to face him, their glowing eyes met. So much blood coursing throughout this room. So many willing victims. So many that would soon die anyway. To die so peacefully that they were willing to give would be considered a blessing by even the most pious of them. "It's sad, don't you think?" She let her eyes scan the room, brushing across each sleeping form, each beating heart. "To have lived such a short life of misery. Never knowing true happiness."

His eyebrows furrowed as his eyes ran along her face, her soft frown. Saliva began to fill his mouth as he looked over the blood now caked across her chest and staining the front of her green dress. Christ, he thought to himself, just the sight of her was sinful. Everything about her was catastrophic. He swallowed thickly, trying to contain himself. "Perhaps we could end their suffering. Do 'em all a favor." His jaw clenched as he tore his eyes from her, forcing himself to look out at the room of servants. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her turn back towards him, her piercing eyes staring at him. For the first time since his change, a shiver ran up his spine.

Her eyes narrowed for a moment as she watched him carefully. He was quite the character, she thought. It was rare to have met many like herself, and he was the only one to stand out for her. The only one who'd stuck with her. For several years after their first meeting, her mind had lingered on that hand of fate. She wondered what the odds of them crossing paths yet again were. Fairly high as two immortal creatures, she pondered. "You're keeping yourself together for a starved man." Her voice was soft, quiet. Taking a step closer, her fingers gripped his chin and turned his face towards her. His flinch was nearly imperceptible when she grabbed him but she noticed. She noticed these things. "You have suffered greatly in life. Perhaps as greatly as some of them." Her thumb drew soft shapes into his stubbled skin. "Would you have wanted the same fate, given the choice?"

With a deep frown, he watched her just as deeply as she watched him. Her words slowly processed in his mind, his eyes dancing across her face. His own hand lifted, his thumb swiping at the congealed blood at the corner of her lips. Bringing his hand up to his lips, his tongue darted out to suck it into his mouth. She watched him, her gaze turning curious. The metallic taste of the cooled blood did little to satisfy his hunger. But it seemed to satiate him for the fleeting moment that it lingered on his tongue. "Maybe. More of a choice than I've ever been given."

A small smile began to spread across her lips. There was a sincerity in his eyes, a kindness that she hadn't seen from others before. She wondered how long before time would corrode such a quality. "I look forward to the next time our paths cross." Her hand fell back to her side as she moved past him, leaving the servant's quarters and leaving him alone. His eyes remained glued to where she had just stood, his senses on fire and his hunger cramping his stomach.

1888

A DEEP SIGH ESCAPED HER LIPS AS SHE RESTED HER CHIN ON HER HAND. Her eyes watched the patrons of the bar, watched the prostitutes approach the so-called gentlemen, propositioning them. Her drink sat on the table in front of her, hardly touched. Smoke filled the room, billowing from all of the pipes that the men carried. Pulling a pocket watch from her coin purse, she checked the time. Midnight. Soon, they would hurry home for fear of being the new victim of the murderer lurking along the alleys. Her eyes watched one man in particular. A soft-spoken gentleman with a thin mustache and a wooden pipe pinched between his lips. He discussed finances with an older gentleman, white hair poking out beneath a top hat.

Snapping her pocket watch shut, she let her hand fall onto the table, her nails tapping along the wood. The man had been here for two hours now. She was sure his wife and daughter were waiting patiently for him to return home. If she thought about it too long, she might grow remorseful. But there is no changing this. His fate had been sealed the moment her eyes cast upon him a week prior. Benedict Bakers was his name. He was a banker, a businessman. He had fingers in plenty of very important pies. The loss of him would be felt greatly within the business world. And it would bring a great deal of comfort to many around London who owed him debts.

A body stumbled into the chair across from her, startling her from her trance. "Excuse me, sir, but that seat is taken." She spoke, her painted lips pursed in a frown of disdain. The man across from her paid her no mind, her words falling on deaf ears. Her frown deepened the longer he remained seated, a scoff escaping her lips before she could stop it.

"Oi, love, what's a birdie like you doin' all by your lonesome?" He turned to face her, leaning across the table to get a better look at her. "Don't see no ring. You a whore?"

Her jaw clenched tight, her teeth threatening to shatter under the force. "No, sir. I'm an honest lady. And I would like for you to find another seat."

"Didn't see no one sittin' 'ere. Looks like I'll be just fine 'ere."

A hand clamped down on the man's shoulder, squeezing tight. "That's my seat you're sittin' in, my good fellow." Her eyes trailed up the arm to take in the man standing over him. She bit back a smile, watching the drunkard frown as he pushed himself up from the table, muttering apologies as he stumbled back towards the bar. Taking the newly open seat across from her, he rested his elbow on the table. "Hard to picture a lady such as yourself takin' up space in a place like this."

"Remmick."

"Aalis."

"You sound like them now." Grabbing her glass, she took a sip of the liquor. Her eyes ran along his features, nothing different since their last interaction so long ago. Had it really been almost three-hundred years? She hadn't realized how much she had missed him until he appeared again. "Adapting well, I see."

"Better than being killed for being Irish." His voice was hushed, low, so that no others could pry.

She hummed softly, her eyes dancing between him and the banker. "I take it you're the one they all fear? The Ripper?"

With a low chuckle, he shook his head, leaning forward onto the table. "No, wish I could take credit for that one. I half-thought that one might belong to you."

"I'm not one for theatrics." She smiled, her focus slowly fading from the banker. Too entranced by the man sitting across from her. Bad business, she knew it. Needed to stay fed. But it was so difficult to focus on food when the man across from her was so delectable. So enticing. Her face grew warm as their eyes met, fondness hidden deep within their features. "I had hoped you knew me better than that." Her tone is teasing as she lifts her glass to take another sip.

His eyes watch carefully, something akin to care in his gaze. It's a fleeting notion, but it's still there, just barely hidden behind the faint glow. There's something here, something between them. Maybe a kinship? She's one of two of their kind that he'd met. The other being the one who'd turned him and that creature hadn't been seen since. She had been the only consistency, his only comfort. And there was something unnerving in that. Something that felt forbidden in it all. Like he shouldn't taint this with his touch. But she had been corrupted long before his appearance in life.

A comfortable silence settled between the two, like old friends catching up. After a moment, her hand darted out, catching his and holding it. "I'm glad you're here, actually." She spoke with her soft smile and gentle voice. Like an angel sent from above. If he hadn't known better, he would have never thought her capable of such violence, such deplorability. "I've been considering a change of pace recently. And... Well, I had hoped maybe you would join me in such an adventure."

"Are you proposin' to me?"

She giggled, ducking her head before shaking it. "Something of the like, I suppose. I... I want to go to America."

He fell silent again, his eyes widening slightly at her words. America. He'd heard plenty of it, had seen ships leaving and returning to and from there. But he'd never considered it. Not for himself. But, from her lips, the offer seemed so tempting. Looking down at their intertwined hands, he gently squeezed her fingers. "As much as I'd love to, my business isn't done here."

Her smile slowly dropped, a frown quick to replace it. Not one of anger or disdain, but one of sorrow, of rejection. Pulling her hand from his, she hesitantly nodded. "Well, if you happen to change your mind." With that, she pushed herself up from the table, hands smoothing out the skirt of her dress. The bodice hugged tightly against her abdomen, the corset tight. It was a wonder how she could even breathe, though he was sure she really didn't need to. Pushing her way past, she made her way out of the bar and into the night air.

Why she was so upset, she wasn't sure. Maybe a part of her had convinced herself that this was the hand of fate stepping in. That he had shown up just as she contemplated her travel to America so that he would join her. But maybe she was being overzealous. The two had only met twice before, hundreds of years apart. He owed her no allegiance. Maybe it was just the sting of rejection that got to her. Had nothing to do with him, after all. But even she could not fool herself into believing that. It had everything to do with him.

Footsteps beside her startled her from her thoughts. The banker leaned up against the brick building, reeking of alcohol. "Excuse me, miss." He slurred, his words practically running together as he neared her. Swallowing back her self-pity, she cleared her throat and turned towards him. "I seem to have lost my pocket watch." His hands tapped at the pockets of his vest, finding them empty. "Have you perhaps seen it?"

"I fear I have not. Though I could help look for it." She offered kindly, stepping towards him. "Where have you been? We could retrace your steps."

"Well, I noticed it when I was walking through the alleyway-"

"Perfect!" She exclaimed, her own excitement startling herself. "We should start there." All things were falling into place. She would not let the little hiccup with Remmick earlier set her off course. Rejection was always a possibility. She knew that, deep down. But it still hurt. It still meant that she would be alone to face this new world across the ocean. Pushing past the banker, the two made their way into the dark alleyway.

His body pressed against the wall of the building, too dizzy to hold himself up. She moved ahead of him, leading him deeper into the alley. Snaking her hand into her coin purse, she fished around. Her eyebrows furrowed in confusion when the purse was empty, all contents missing. "What...?" She whispered, her hands patting around her dress as if there was any room to conceal anything in there.

"Looking for this?" A voice called out at the entrance of the alley. The two spun around, the imposing shadow holding out the pocket watch. Her lips pursed in a deep frown. The banker's features brightened, his smile wide, thanking the man. "Oh, no worries, chap. Just bein' a good pal."

As the banker neared the man, reaching out for the watch, the man dropped it to the cobblestone street, quick to grab the banker and slam him into the wall. Before the banker could react, Remmick bit into his throat, his hand covering the banker's mouth to muffle his shouts. Blood poured down the front of his clothes, drenching him. His hands grasped at Remmick in a vain attempt to push him off, but his movements were quickly becoming sluggish, drained.

With a glare in her eyes, she watched Remmick feed on the man she'd been watching for a week now. It wasn't fair. That he could come in and strong-arm his way to a meal. Meanwhile, she'd always had to play it safe. Always had to bide her time, wait for the perfect opening. Her jaw clenched and her arms crossed over her chest as she watched the horrid display of gluttony. After a fleeting moment, he finally unlatched from the banker's throat, half-lidded eyes searching for her. "C'mon now. Get yourself a taste. Can hear your hunger from here, dove."

"Don't call me that." She spat at him, huffing with frustration as she approached the banker's weakened body. Grabbing his vest, she yanked him down to latch onto the wound that Remmick had left behind. It was a bloody, messy affair. Far worse than she had hoped it would be. Through time and practice, she had gotten more precise with her work. Had been able to avoid disgusting spills. It had taken plenty of trial and error. It was clear he had yet to learn the art of a clean kill.

Stumbling back, he watched her feed like it was her final meal. The banker slowly grew weaker, his body beginning to slump. But that did not stop her. She followed him down to the ground, climbing on top of his lap to straddle him. It was a sinful sight, itching at the back of his mind and gluing itself into his psyche. A part of him wanted to yank her off and pull her onto his own lap. But he swallowed that thought back down. Let her feed herself. His hand lifted, wiping some of the blood from his chin and sticking the digit in his mouth, sucking it clean.

Unlatching herself, she was careful not to let any blood spill across her dress. It had been expensive and it was one of her favorites. An emerald green that she didn't see many other women wearing. Pushing herself off of the banker's lap, she caught her breath. Blood dribbled from the corner of her mouth, her finger quick to catch it before it fell any further. Pressing her back against the wall, she looked up at Remmick through heavy lids. "Why did you take the watch?"

"Wanted a reason to see you again." He shrugged his shoulders, noncommittal in nature. "Wanted you to come lookin' for me for a change."

Her eyebrows furrowed at that. At the confession. As if she were a priest and he a humble sinner. Could she forgive his sins? Could she absolve him of all that he had done wrong when she couldn't even absolve herself? "You look for me?" Her voice is small, minuscule in nature compared to her usual commanding presence. This was not the same woman he had seen in the tavern four-hundred years prior. The woman who had led a knight to his untimely demise. The woman who had seduced the queen's flutist and murdered him in his sleep. This was an entirely new being.

"In everything." His feet carried him closer as he neared her side, pressing his back to the wall and sliding down to sit next to her. Staring ahead, he could already feel her eyes lingering along his features, dancing along. He wished so deeply that he could ignore this unsettling feeling deep in his gut. It wasn't hunger. And it wasn't even lust. But something far, far worse. Something unquenchable. A void only she could fill. It was too much power for one to hold. It made him feel weak and disgusting. It was pathetic that he searched for her in everything. Always looking for her, for her hair, for her laughter, for her trail of ruin left in her wake. "What's in America?"

"New foods." A playful smile danced on her lips as he finally turned to face her. The two chuckled softly together, more in tune than they had ever been before. "Cuisines of all kinds and the freedom to try them all. No one to stop us, no one to hunt us down."

His eyes narrowed as he listened to her speak. It was tempting. Not just the offer, but her. She was tempting. After a silent moment, he sighed and rested the back of his head against the wall. "Trust me, doll," he spoke with a frown, "there's nothin' I want more than to follow you to the ends of the earth. But... I got some unfinished business here. Give me a few years, yeah?"

"I'm leaving tomorrow."

The silence that now fell upon them was charged, filled with a kind of sorrow. An ultimatum. Now or never. He felt like a cornered animal, ready to lash out and ruin any of his other options. But he couldn't do that. Not with her. Never with her. "Then I'll meet you there." His voice was soft, softer than he'd ever let it become. He wanted her to feel safe, to feel secure in his company. "Set us up a real nice place, yeah? Keep the bed warm for me."

She offered a sad smile and a polite nod before pushing herself up from the ground. She bid him goodbye and disappeared into the night. The next night, she left for America by boat. He watched from a dock far off, regret slowly sinking in, feeling a part of him now missing.

1910

SHE RESTED AGAINST THE BUNK, a book in hand. A soft sigh escaped her lips as her eyes glazed over the words, barely letting any of them sink in. Across from her, she could hear chains rattling, a groan echoed somewhere deep inside the corridor. Her lips pursed as someone near her sobbed quietly. Rolling her eyes, she huffed and set her book down, glaring in the direction of the sobbing. "Will you shut the hell up? Can't rightly think with all that cryin'!" She called out, her arms crossing over her chest.

"Hey! Cut that out!" The baton slammed against the metal bars of her cell, shutting her up. A scoff escaped her lips as she let her head fall flat against the bunk. Prick, she mumbled under her breath. Her stomach rumbled, cramping as it twisted and turned from hunger. On top of all of this hunger, her entire being ached with longing. A deep settled loneliness that was beginning to eat at her. This entire thing was growing old, living forever. What good was it if you were on your own the whole damn time?

Letting her eyes shut, she felt the weight of a millennia crashing down on top of her. Her hands lifted, the heels of her palms rubbing her tired eyes. With a sigh, she grabbed her book again and opened it up, continuing from where she started. A scuffle could be heard down the corridor, gasps and the shuffling of feet. She paid it no mind, too tired to be yelled at again. Very soon, the entire building fell silent. Even the sobbing had ceased. She thanked whatever higher power might exist for the momentary respite from all of the noise.

"Ma'am," a voice spoke at the edge of the cell, a southern drawl similar to the one she'd put on, "your husband's here. Paid your bail."

"Husband?" Her eyebrows furrowed as she shut the book and lifted herself to sit up on the bunk. A figure stood just outside of the now open cell, shrouded by shadow. Squinting her eyes, she stared at the figure for a fleeting moment. Familiarity hit her like a train. Dropping her book, she bolted for the figure. Her arms flung around his neck, body slamming into his sturdy form. A deep chuckle escaped his lips as he lifted her into the air, arms locked tight around her waist. She giggled like a schoolgirl, the weight of her existence shrugged from her shoulders just by his touch.

Her hands grasped the sides of his face, holding him in the light of the oil lamp to gaze upon his features. "You came for me." It wasn't a question, merely an observation. Stubble dusted across his chin making him devilishly handsome in a way she hadn't noticed before. Her fingers ghosted along his skin, as if to convince herself that his presence was real and not a hallucination.

"Told ya to set us up a nice place. This don't look too nice." His eyes glanced around, a playful smile dancing on his lips. When he finally pulled his gaze back upon her, he was struck by how beautiful she really was. How she'd always been. Even five-hundred years ago when she danced in the tavern with the knight. Even when she was cooped up in a servant's quarters with some flutist dying of the plague. It had crossed his mind plenty of times to find her, fall to his knees before her and beg for forgiveness as if she were some goddess that could grant him true serenity. All he wanted was to gaze upon her again, to touch her and hold her and keep her close.

She smiled bright, her teeth flashing. "Well, had to underwhelm ya first to make the home look extra nice is all."

"That right?" He chuckled, his hands squeezing her waist. "Gon' have to give me the grand 'ole tour, then."

"Well, what the hell we waitin' on?" She turned, pulling from his grasp to grab her book before rejoining his side.

The two made their way out of the jail, stepping over the bodies of the officers strewn about the floor. She paid them no mind, not sparing a second care as they left the building and entered the night air. A wide grin spread across her face, plastered and glued still. Her fingers twitched at her side, itching to reach out and grab him. As if he'd read her mind, his arm slung across her shoulders, pulling her into his side. Her skin buzzed under his touch. She wound her arm around his waist, her head leaning against his shoulder. "Missed you." She mumbled, barely audible under the hum of cicadas, of the croaking of frogs. But he'd heard it nonetheless.

"Glad to hear. 'Cause I ain't gon' leave your side this time 'round." His voice lowered as he pressed his nose against the top of her head. Her skin sang, tingling. Her very form seemed to warm under his touch. There was something so rich about him, made her feel like the most important woman in the world when his attention was on her. And it seemed that his attention hardly strayed from her in her presence. A part of her had wondered how many women he had turned into one of them, how many women he had been with. How many of them felt as important as she did around him. It was stupid and childish - deep down, she knew that. He was here now and that's all that mattered. No one else could have what they had.

As they walked into the night, it was as if they had never been apart. The two spun tales of their adventures; his in London and Ireland, hers in America. "In my defense, he wasn't a very good sport 'bout the matter." She chuckled, shaking her head. "And he's a pussy for callin' the law on such a pretty young thing." Remmick smiled down at her, his arm around her tightening its grip. She had led them through the thick woods, finally stumbling onto a clearing that held a small wooden cabin. "Home sweet home." She muttered as they neared the porch.

In the windowsill sat a small grey cat, quick to stand and stretch as they two entered the home. She smiled, leaning down to run her fingers along the cat's spine. "Wish we could turn animals sometimes." She spoke softly, crouching as she scooped the animal into her arms like a newborn baby. "This here's Daisy May."

With a small smile, Remmick pet the cat's head, offering the creature a gentle greeting. He'd normally never been one for pets, but even he couldn't deny the appeal. Especially when she looked at it so lovingly. There's a sting of domesticity within it all. In the back of his mind, he pictured her holding a child that way - their child. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he let his hands fall back to his sides as she set the cat back down onto the wooden floor. "Feel free to look 'round. You want anythin' to drink?" She asked as she made her way deeper into the home, disappearing into the dark kitchen.

"No, darlin', I'm fine for now." He called out, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his trousers as he strolled through the home. He started with the living room, eyes glossing along all of the decorations. Photos of people he couldn't recognize hung up all over the walls. A vase of wildflowers sat on the mantle above the fireplace. Something deep in his gut struck him. Had she picked those herself or were they given to her as a gift? From some admirer of sorts? He'd been with plenty of women in his time, there's no room for him to cast judgement. But... something about the mere idea of her with another man set something inside of him ablaze. "Where, uh... Where'd you get these flowers from?"

"Huh?" She called back, her faint steps echoing throughout the empty house as she made her way into the living room. "Oh, there's a field just a li'l bit from here. I like to go there some nights, picked 'em myself."

The answer soothed the fire inside of him, cooling him down. There was no indication that there was anyone else living here with her. And that brought him back to Earth. Brought him back to the present. Reminded him that, at the end of the day, she was his and his alone. And he was hers, until the two met the sunlight together. "I could show you sometime." Her soft offer brought him out of his thoughts. His eyes glanced towards her, her gentle features looking back towards him, her eyes glowing in the darkness. He almost fell to his knees then and there, begging her to join him in some form of unholy matrimony. There was a kind of twisted romance about their story. The star-crossed lovers of damnation.

"I think I'd like that very much."

A bright smile spread across her lips, her teeth flashing in the moonlight. Her hand slid into his as she pulled him out of the house and back into the woods. And he followed, like an obedient servant, at her beck and call. If she asked him to jump, he would simply ask how high. If he were thrown out from the pits of Hell, he would beg to crawl back if it meant he could spend an eternity with her. It was almost pathetic, he knew it deep down. But he found that he didn't quite care about being pathetic. As long as she kept holding his hand like this, their fingers intertwined tight as if loosening might mean a permanent separation. Never again. He would have to be pried from her side. Only until she got down on her hands and knees and begged him to leave would he even entertain such a preposterous notion.

Finally coming upon another clearing, a field of wildflowers came into view. "I come here some nights, just to keep to myself. Helps clear my mind." She spoke, her head hung low to avoid his gaze. A tinge of embarrassment filled her as she divulged precious information of the like. She's sure he could care less about things like this, about fields of flowers and what she does in them. She leaves out the tidbit that some particularly stressful nights - usually after a feeding - she comes to the field and lies down among the flowers, her fingers buried deep inside of herself as she moans his name, pictures his hands all over her, his mouth all over her. That piece she decides to keep to herself.

His eyes looked out over the field, a sense of familiarity washing over him. His hand squeezed hers, pulling her against his side. Glancing down at her, a soft smile spread across his lips. She looked so precious, like something you needed to cradle in your hands so that she wouldn't shatter. "Reminds me when we first met." He spoke, his southern drawl forgotten to the wayside in favor of his true accent given to him from the hills of Ireland. "All them years ago in that field."

She finally gathered the courage to look up at him, their eyes meeting in an intense display of affection. Something about his real voice being on full display set something deep inside of her on fire. A pit formed deep into her gut, settling into her core. "That knight was quite handsome, no?" Her own voice had forgotten its southern twang, a French lilt hinting at her words. It had been so long since she'd let her true voice free that it almost felt foreign on her tongue. "He was quite stupid, too." She chuckled.

As his smile turned fond, his free hand lifted to cradle her jaw. His thumb drew soft circles along her cheek, his eyes darting between her own and her lips. There was a shift in the air, a newfound tension that maybe had always been there but she'd been too stubborn to notice. Too stuck in her ways to accept the kind of love that she might have deserved. "Ever since I caught sight o' you in that tavern, I ain't stopped thinkin' of ya, dove." Her fingers intertwined with his squeezed unconsciously. "It's always been you."

Her own free hand was quick to grab his collar and yank him down, their lips meeting in a heated clash, their teeth knocking. His hands were quick to catch her hips, pulling her body flush against his. A soft moan escaped her lips, vibrating against his own lips. His movements became frantic as he stumbled down into the tall grass, pulling her down on top of him. "Christ," he hissed against her lips as she ground her hips against him. Their lips rejoined in wet display, saliva meeting and spreading across their lips and chins. His fingers began tugging at the skirt of her thin cotton dress, pulling it up her legs bit by bit. When he finally reached the hem of it, he slid his hands along the exposed skin of her thighs, fingers digging and leaving bruises. But she couldn't bring herself to care. If anything, she welcomed it. Let him mark her up, claim her to anyone who might even consider looking her way.

His hands slip further up the dress, brushing along the sides of her underwear before settling on her waist. Pulling back from the kiss, she lifted and grabbed the edge of her dress, pulling it over her head and tossing it to the side. Breathing heavy, his hands brushed along her abdomen, fingers ghosting along her breasts. Her nipples hardened under the cool night air. She was an absolute vision of beauty, of sin incarnate. He wanted her, to keep her forever. If he could hide her away from all of the world, he would in a heartbeat. The mere idea of others looking at her and wanting her was enough to set him off the edge.

Her hips ground against him, a bulge now tenting his slacks. His fingers continued to dance upwards, grasping her ribs just below her breasts. His thumb ran along her pebbled nipple, a soft whimper dripping from her lips like the blood he'd seen her consume so many times. "Ya like that?" His voice was husky with desire and want. His eyes watched her intensely, the glow turning a deep shade of crimson. She simply nodded, at a loss for words as his fingers roamed along her body in an attempt to lay hands on every inch he could. Her hands splayed out across his chest, nails digging into skin even through his soft blue button-up. Her fingers began quick work, unbuttoning and pulling it off, moving swiftly to untuck his wifebeater and toss it with the rest of the clothes.

The way he lied beneath her was its own work of art. She wished she could photograph this moment, save it forever. She would keep it near and dear. Something soft and precious to her. Something she could maybe take to the afterlife with her. Her fingers soon moved to his slacks, unbuttoning and unzipping. He lifted his hips, kicking them off and out of the way. Now the two were left only in their underwear. Her clothed core pressed against his own clothed erection, the heat from her palpable. Fingers dug harshly into her hip, stilling her gyrations. She chewed on her bottom lip, watching him through heavy lids. Hovering over him, she looked ethereal, omnipotent. Like one look from her could cure ailments. And he's sure that they could. He almost feels unworthy of this. To get to lay hands on such an angel, on such a gift to humanity. But he does. Because she is his, and he is hers. From the moment their eyes met across the field five-hundred years prior, they were bonded. Something invisible, something tethered tight to their cores. He knows what it is, knows what it's called. But a part of him might be scared to name it. But he does anyway.

"I love you." His hips roll and buck, pressing his hardness against her.

A gasp escaped her lips like it wasn't meant to be heard. Her nails dig into the skin of his chest. A welcome sting. A pain so sultry and satisfying that he worries coming undone right then and there. "Je t'aime." She whispered, leaning down to press her lips to his. This time, there is no drool. No rushed lust hidden behind the action. This one is pure and gentle, slow and soft. As if they have all the time in the world. And they do, as long as that sun stays hidden behind the mountains, behind the tree-line. His fingers slip beneath the hem of her underwear, pulling them down as she lifted her legs enough to kick them off. His soon join them and they are left bare and exposed to one another.

As she sunk down onto him, there's a shared groan, their eyes shutting as she stilled, letting herself adjust. Her nails dug into his shoulders as she steadied herself before gently rolling her hips. His own fingers dug into the skin of her hips, nail beds leaving crescent shapes indented. Her lips peppered kisses along his jaw, teeth nibbling at the sensitive spots before her tongue darted out, soothing the bites. "I used to eat men like this." She muttered through a moan, her hips jerking as his fingers reached down to circle her clit. "Let them think they could have a piece of me. Make them beg for it. They were pathetic."

Grabbing her waist, he flipped over, pressing her back into the grass as he hovered over her. She giggled, her hands quick to tangle into his hair. As her head fell back, he leaned down to press wet kisses to where her pulse once was. A soft whine dripped from her lips as she felt herself building closer and closer to the edge. Her fingers tightened in his hair, tugging and holding him against the crook of her neck. His thrusts began to grow sloppy, sped up, as he neared his own release. Her hips lifted to meet his, rolling against him in her own form of control. A groan vibrated from his throat as his forehead pressed to her shoulder. His breath came out in heavy pants, shuddering slightly every few thrusts. "Feel like you were made for me, dove." He mumbled against her skin.

She moaned, her head falling back against the grass as he pumped in and out of her. "Remmick," she huffed, eyebrows pinched and her mouth agape.

"Aalis," he dug his fingers into her waist, holding her as the two neared their highs. Soft curses spilled from their lips with his final thrusts, their breath mingling in the cool night air. The two fell still in the aftermath of their pleasure, letting it course through their veins and fill every pore. His body collapsed onto hers, her arms wrapping around him in an embrace. She pressed soft kisses to the side of his face, smiling gently as he responded with his own kisses to her collarbone. "Might keep you forever."

With a soft giggle, she let her fingers slide through his hair again, nails scraping along his scalp. His own fingers gripped her waist, drawing small shapes along the skin. "I think we could arrange something of the sort."

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selinakyle373 · 1 month ago

Text

i followed you in and i was with you there

part I, part II, final part

─ remmick x f!oc

─ synopsis: after a decade of him slinking himself up to her porch like a dog with a bird in its mouth, she finds herself tempted to throw in the towel. it would be so easy, to give in. to relinquish control to the other being far more powerful than her. but then their little game of cat and mouse would end too soon. and he can’t have that.

─ warnings: religious talk, smoking

─ w/c: 2.3k

fear thou not; for i am with thee: be not dismayed; for i am thy god: i will strengthen thee; yea, i will help thee; yea, i will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness.

isaiah 41:10

HER NOSE BURNED, a familiar scent lingering in her darkened doorstep. The rotted wood groaned, a warning to her at what awaited on the other side. Taking a step forward, she pulled her shawl closer to her body as a chill ran up her spine. Her fingers trembled, tightening their grip on the thin fabric. Her cotton dress shifted in the night breeze that blew in from her open windows. The lace curtains drifted back and forth with the warm air. Just outside, she could hear that the crickets and frogs all fell silent. Whatever stood past her doorstep did not bode well for her or the earth around her.

Living so far out, visitors were a rare occurrence. Most ended up being poor beggars, low down on their luck and looking for a hot meal and a safe spot to rest their heads for an hour or two. Some were more malicious in nature, preying on a lone woman. Her eyes darted out towards the deer rifle that was leant up against the wall next to the front door. "Excuse me? Is anyone home?" A thick Southern drawl called out from beyond the front porch. The voice was a shallow, pitiful excuse for the one she had once known.

Pursing her lips, her steady hand reached for the doorknob and yanked the door open. The dark night seeped past her feet, brushing against her skin like snakes in the tall grass. A figure shrouded by shadow stood just beyond her porch step. A figure she knew too well. "Ah," the voice spoke once again, its innocent lilt fully forgotten, "there she is." Thick with hunger and need. Her eyes narrowed in a vain form of attempted sight. Two pinpricks in the darkness watched her, pierced through her. Taking a step out onto the porch, she crossed her arms over her chest. "What, ain't no welcome wagon waitin' for me?" She could practically smell the smirk that danced on his lips. If she dared to, she could drink it, keep it all to herself. All she had to do was say the word. Actually two words. The beautiful, poetic words that he had longed to hear drip from her throat. Come in.

"Wondered how long it would be before your visage haunted my step." She finally spoke, her voice gruff with decades of nicotine and smoke coating her throat. Her eyes scanned the surroundings, hunting for another predator lying in wait. Another one patiently waiting for her to make the wrong move, say the wrong words in the wrong order. But there was nothing. Only him, her, and the insects that hung around like a bad cough. Taking another step out, the porch groaned in protest. Or perhaps warning. Halt, go back, it squealed to her. Though she ignored its claims, had made her decision ten years back. Nothing the porch or the grass or the sky could do about it now.

Fingers dug into her bra, pulling out a cigarette pack and her lighter. Pressing one of the sticks to her lips, she lit the end and took a deep drag before stuffing the items back where they once were. Though she couldn't see it, she could feel his cool gaze on her movements, on the exposed skin of her neck and collarbone. "Far too long, by my count." His honeyed words were soft in her ears, warm and gentle as if spoken directly against them. Her hand pushed a piece of hair behind her ear as she took another step forward. The further she grew from her doorstep, the clearer his form became.

A dirty white button-up, dirty brown slacks held up by suspenders, and worn shoes that looked ready for a church revival had they been cleaner. His hands were stuffed in the pockets of his slacks as his eyes never strayed from her form. He watched her every breath, just as captivated with her now as he was when their paths first crossed. "C'mon, baby. Don't be like this." He took his own step closer to the bottom step of her porch, one hand pulled free from his pocket to run his fingers along the wooden post. Her eyes watched his movements like a skittish deer. One wrong move and she could dart for her door, never grant him entry past the first step until the day she died. What a pity that would be. What a tragedy it would be.

Taking a deep drag from her cigarette, she slowly let the smoke drip from her lips like drool from a hungry lion's chops. It was intoxicating. She was intoxicating. Her scent, her aura, her breath. Everything drew him in, begged him to step past the porch and claim her as his own. Let me take you from all of this, he once proposed - damn near begged. I like my home just the way it is, she'd told him, never once stepping off that porch and never once inviting him in. She'd always been smart like that. Though she never said it aloud, he knew that she knew what he was. "Must be real hungry to come slinkin' back to my porch. Or real lonely. Guess those go hand-in-hand these days."

He swallowed in a vain attempt to escape from the dryness in the back of his throat. The air became thick, tense and heated. Even the insects now fled from the two, unsure of their place around the world. She took another step forward, now just hovering over that top step. One more step and he could reach out and grab her. Would he, she wondered. Maybe that's what she secretly wanted. For him to make that final call. For him to end this game of cat and mouse. But where would be the fun in that? The anticipation was more rewarding than the prize. His grip on the wooden post tightened as her scent now wafted in full force. A mix of jasmine, copper, and smoke, he swallowed back the saliva that quickly filled his mouth. "Maybe I just missed my favorite girl is all. That a crime, Esther?" His voice now thick and wet with a newfound desire. Everything in his being practically begged her to step from her porch. To step into his arms so he could finally hold her and devour her whole.

Her entire form stiffened as her name slipped from his lips. A deep ache settled between her legs at the sound, the sensuality of it all. Pressing the cigarette back to her lips, she took a long and deep drag. A failed attempt to shake her mind from the impure thoughts that dared to creep into her mind. Her face warmed and she prayed to the Lord that he couldn't see it through the pale moonlight. "'Round these parts, yeah, it is. Punishable by death." She tried to hide the way her voice quivered, the way her heartbeat quickened, the way her fingers now fidgeted with the shawl hung loosely over her bare shoulders.

He chuckled lowly, fingers running along the wooden post, gentle and soft. Inviting, in a way. And, with that, she stepped down onto the first step. Two more and she'd be off the porch and on the soil with him. This is the closest the two have ever been. There's an excitement buzzing in the air around him. Taking a deep breath, he breathed her essence in. Everything he wanted, he found in her. Everything he needed, he found in her. Two steps away. Two words away. Leaning his side against the wooden post, he pressed his forehead against the cool wood. "Then I'll die a happy man as long as my last sight is your face." Now he was laying it on thick. Even she could tell.

She snorted, throwing her head back in laughter. His grip on the wooden post tightened as her bare neck was on full display. This close, he could see the pulse of her carotid artery. It called to him like a siren song. It whispered his name, drawing him in, begging him to sink his teeth into such an open area. But that would ruin all of the fun he was having. If it were that easy, this would've been over long before it'd begun. But she was fun. More fun than any other that he'd had. She was special and only he could appreciate her to her fullest. If only she could see that. Then all would be right within the world. The fates would smile once again and let him know that he was on the right path. That's all he needed. Well, that and for her to come down these two steps.

"I wasn't born yesterday, Remmick." A coil of warmth curled inside of the pit of his stomach - a feeling he'd almost forgotten. The way his name dripped from her lips like drool from a lion's chops. He watched her as she pressed the cigarette back to her lips, taking a deep drag before stepping down one more step, just hovering over the last step. So close, he could smell her blood, could hear her steady heartbeat. His fingers twitched in his pocket, itching to reach out to her.

"I know, baby." He practically growled, eyes watching her like a fox watches a rabbit. Smoke dribbled from her cigarette, dissipating into the thick night air around them. A warm breeze pushed past them, shifting the thin fabric of her dress. Her eyes watched him back, taking in every twitch, every flicker, every glint. Every breath he took, she watched carefully. He lifts his chin slightly, eyes running along her shadowed face.

After a fleeting moment, his eyes dragged down her neck and collarbone, trailing down her shoulder to her extended arm, cigarette dangling from her fingers. With whip-like movements, his hand grasped her wrist, yanking her down off the step and into his arms. A gasp escaped her lips - a sound he wouldn't mind coaxing from her again and again for the rest of their lives. His arms wrapped tight around her, holding her in a vice-like grip. Her cigarette fell to the dirt, snuffed out. Her hands curled into the fabric of his button-up, clinging to him. His figure is imposing, looming over her. Fingers danced along her waist, toying with the cotton of her light blue dress. Trails of fire warmed her skin despite his cool temperature, forever cold and uninviting. It was a welcome feeling compared to her constant state of overheating.

Their eyes watched each other, their breath mingling together, heavy with an unseen tension. It's odd, almost surreal, to be this close to him. To see every feature of his face, every line and crease, every facial hair. "Well," she spoke, her voice soft and gentle, "here we are." One of her hands began to loosen its grip on his shirt, trailing up his chest, up his neck, and resting against his jaw. His eyes slowly shut, a soft groan escaping his lips as he took a deep inhale of her very essence. Leaning closer to her, his face pressed to the crook of her neck.

A part of her had quickly accepted this fate. The moment his hand wrapped around her wrist, her fate was sealed. The moment the two had crossed paths at a tent revival, her fate had been sealed. Her own eyes shut, awaiting the pierce of his fangs into her throat. But the seconds ticked by, slowly turning into minutes. The pressure, the pain, never came. He simply rested there, breathing her in. His arms around her waist tightened, pressing their bodies impossibly close. Her hand on his jaw slipped through his hair, damp with sweat. "Remi," she muttered under her breath, fingers curling into his hair, nails digging across his scalp. Another groan, this time reverberating through her throat.

Warmth spread throughout her entire body as he pressed a searing, wet kiss to her neck, right above the thrum of her pulse. In that moment, she was prepared to give herself over to him. Years of waiting, of patience, of this game. All of it finally coming together in this heated crescendo. A whine escaped her own lips, dissipating into the night like her cigarette smoke.

Remmick ripped himself from her arms, shoving her back as he stumbled away from her. The back of her foot caught against the bottom step, sending her tumbling down onto the steps. Her wide eyes stared out at him, now fully encompassed by the darkness. Thick drool dribbled down his chin as he stared her, wide glowing eyes watching her. His chest heaved through his labored breaths. The silence of the night was beginning to unsettle her, a warning to her that she was playing a dangerous game with an even more dangerous animal. Pursing her lips, she settled her hands against the wooden steps, clinging to them just as she'd clung to his chest.

Without another word, he turned and departed, disappearing into the woods at the edge of her property. Her eyes watched him flee, a conflicting sense of relief and rejection settled into her bones. A shaky breath escaped her lips as she pushed herself up from the steps, slowly making her way back onto her porch. As she neared the open front door, her head turned to cast one more glance out towards the night before retreating back into her home, shutting the door and locking it. All candlelights were extinguished and she resigned herself to her bed, a warm pit in her stomach, her fingers twitching against her hips. The apex between her legs begged for her to indulge, but she refused. She had Sunday service in the morning and she would not indulge in any more sin than she already had. With clenched thighs, she soon fell off into a fitful sleep.

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selinakyle373 · 1 month ago

Text

i got a wife like honeycomb

remmick x reader (18+ mdni)

You're all alone in your brother-in-law's farm in Texas. Your fiancé recently passed, mauled by some horrible beast. A man shows up asking for shelter from the rain and you can't just turn him away...

author's note: haigh all here's your cowboy remmick fic. grma for the love on the paddy fic and hope yous enjoy! warnings: grief, animal death (remmick eating them), horror elements, a bit of graphic vampire violence, oral sex (fem receiving), spit/drool kink, vampire drool as aphrodisiac, f/m sex

You wake in the night to the sound of coyotes. The sound is distant, but loud enough to make you shiver in bed. You’ve been alone on this farm for a week now.

You’ve been staying with your brother-in-law, a kind courtesy after your fiancé passed. He’s a Texas Ranger like your man was, and he left last Thursday. You don’t mind being alone too much. There’s only two horses and one cow, nothing too much for you to handle on your own.

It’s the nighttime that really gets you.

You used to pride yourself on being a brave girl. Never afraid of a spider or a mouse. The Texas Rangers said your fiancé was mauled by something big with sharp teeth. A bobcat, most likely. But it mighta been bigger. That’s all it could have been with the way he was left. Or rather what was left of him. You remember they sent the kid with the kind face who held his hat and looked at his shoes as he stammered out the gruesome fate of your poor sweet love.

Now it’s Thursday again, and as the big grandfather clock in the house ticks closer to Friday morning, you hide underneath the blankets of your bed.

I’ll be back on Tuesday around noon and the shotgun is just-

The coyotes stop howling and the still night air feels loud as church bells in your small room. A horse outside neighs faintly.

And the knock on the door is deafening.

At first, you almost think you imagine it. Not at this hour. Not this far away from any towns or cities. The little part of your soul left back in Houston thinks it could be a neighbour, but there are no neighbours here. Nobody here to borrow sugar or ask for a favor–

Your train of thought veers off the tracks when you hear another knock. You slowly rise and descend the stairs, pulling on the boots strewn on the floor and the coat hanging off the railing. You’re in your nightgown, but you’ll peek first before you open the door. The floorboards creak beneath your boots as you look out of the window and see a man in a black hat. He almost seems to not breathe, standing so still you shiver in your boots.

He reaches to knock again and you stand up straight, trying to remember where your brother-in-law had stashed that shotgun.

“I-I heard you,” you say without opening the door. You deepen your voice, trying to sound manly.

“Evenin’, now,” a smooth, cold voice responds. “Is your mama home, by chance?”

Oh, Lord. He thinks you’re a boy.

You open the door cautiously. He takes off his hat.

“Ma’am,” he greets you. “Did I just talk to you like a little boy?” You nod, embarrassed. It seems he is too, shifting from foot to foot.

“It’s awful late, mister.”

“I’m so sorry to bother you, but my… my poor horse broke his leg in them woods out there… ‘n I had to shoot him. Now I’m on foot ‘n… well, you were the first place I could find.”

He’s got a funny accent. He’s certainly not Texan. He looks bad, all sweaty and plenty dirty. His clothes look ragged and dirtier than he is.

“You’re not… some kind of outlaw, are you?” you ask.

You realise it’s a stupid question as the words leave your lips.

Your pretty, pouting lips, Remmick thinks, starving. He couldn’t have hoped for a better outcome. Even when he thought it’d be a young boy and his mother, he thought he’d hit a jackpot. But this? One little lady all alone on a ranch? It was perfect.

His cold heart beats slow in his cavernous chest, a percussive lament for a lack of fresh blood. The outlaw and horse he ate satisfied him for only a moment, and he’s fiending for more hot flesh to rip into. His current concern is time, and the sun loaded in God’s pistol ready to rise and serve as the anticlimactic ending of a poorly told story.

He chuckles, doing his best to seem charming and not like the desperate animal he is.

“No, miss. Just an unlucky cowboy.”

You sound maddeningly familiar, but he can’t quite place your accent either, but he hasn’t had too much experience in the States. His nights are occupied by running and killing what he can, when he can.

“Do you have a gun?” you ask him, your scared eyes flitting to his sides.

He holds up his hands innocently.

“I do not.”

You think it over for a moment. You really shouldn’t let a stranger in. But it’s an hour ride on horseback to the nearest town and you can’t give up your brother-in-law’s horses. It’d be more wrong of you not to give this man shelter.

Remmick watches your face change as you think. You’re a sweet morsel, and he’s dying to sink his fangs into you. He can hear your heartbeat and smell the cold sweat on your skin. When you look up at him he watches a thought form in your face. You realise something, and it shifts your brow ever so slightly. Remmick feels another want deeper in his chest. The steady death march of his heart has sped up to a rolling drum.

He doesn’t just want to eat you.

The shotgun is under the bed upstairs.

“What’s your name?”

“Remmick, miss.”

You give him yours, which he repeats in a voice that makes you shift in place. You really should make this man sleep in the stable.

But that’s not what you say.

“Well… why don’t you come in and get out of the cold, Remmick?”

Come in.

He feels a weight lifted off of him and he grins.

“Thank you, miss.”

You open the door for him and he steps through the threshold, his eyes almost rolling back in his head from the smell of your home. There’s a man who usually lives here, he can smell that lingering staleness. It smells like fear and loneliness, but your blood is hot and he needs it. Bad.

You lead him to your kitchen where he sits, legs spread wide, the way your fiancé used to sit when he was waiting to grab you and tug you into his lap. You suddenly feel that crushing loneliness again, accompanied by a vast and ugly feeling of want. You haven’t wanted a man since that creature took yours.

It’s a foolish thought. You’re all alone and you’ve known this man for all of– you count the grandfather ticks in your mind– five minutes.

“Do you want something to eat? Or… some tea, maybe?”

“That’d be very nice,” he says with a toothy grin.

His grin is wide and his teeth are scary white, like staring down the snout of a coyote. You know where the shotgun is. Your brother-in-law didn’t bother to show you how to shoot it but that won’t stop you from firing it.

You brew Remmick some tea and place the mug in front of him. He drinks it down, maybe too fast, he can see concern on your face.

“Jeez, wasn’t that hot?”

“I’m freezin’,” he lies.

You feel cold yourself, and exposed. You button the coat around your waist.

“Oh, and you must’ve gotten rained on,” you say as you remember it had been pouring earlier. “Let me getcha some clean clothes to wear… I… I think those ones you oughta just throw out. Except that hat.”

“That’s so kind of you, miss. Thank you.”

Dressed in your brother-in-law’s clothes, washed up, and hat on the table, Remmick sits there like he belongs. Legs once again wide and elbow on his thigh, leisurely leaning to the side as he watches you. You could hardly sleep and decided– for some reason you truly can’t understand yourself– to make cornbread.

“Are these your… husband’s clothes?”

You should lie, but you’re too focused on stirring to be that smart.

“My brother-in-law’s, actually. I’m a widow,” you admit absently. “Well, not a widow. We never married.”

You’ve said those words a thousand times before. You don’t get choked up anymore. It’s like stating a fact you’ve always known, like where you were born or your height.

“I see. He’s not here, then?”

“Not tonight. He’ll be back tomorrow,” you lie.

“Was he a soldier?” Remmick asks, looking around the house.

It’s not organized, everything has a woman’s touch. He feels like it’s not yours, something about you is too freshly frazzled to be so warm. You seem sweet, though. Suspicious, but he could sweet talk anything that had ears to listen.

“He was a Texas Ranger for a while. My fiancé was, too. He died on duty.”

“Brave man.”

“Well, it wasn’t an outlaw that got him. It was some kind of… animal.”

Remmick tenses up, but doesn’t let you see.

“Like a bobcat?”

“They think, but… they said he has these… bites, but only on his neck, and no animal in Texas has got that kind of teeth.”

“Strange,” he says, eyes looking into his tea.

───────── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ─────────

Your fiancé clutched his broken arm, scrambling back on the stony ground, trying to escape the monster before him.

“No, no, I’m beggin’ you-”

“Well it ain’t workin’, ranger.”

Remmick was starving, in his full form. Fangs bared, claws sharp and long. His hands felt heavy as he swung at the ranger. There was something funny about a grown man crying. Hunger and exhaustion had made this monster more cruel than he cared to be. There was no unity with this meal, only a fix of blood before he had to hunker down in this cave and continue on foot the next night.

“I’ve been eatin’... vampire bats and fuckin’ salamanders for a month now, and you look pretty good.”

“Please, please, my girl’s waitin’ for me-”

“Oh, I’m sure she is, loverboy. Maybe once I drink all your blood and leave you for the vultures, I’ll go and find that girl, huh?”

“No, no-”

“Yeah. I’mma go find her, fuck her good ‘n right.”

“-you goddamned son of a bitch-”

“Yeah. I’ll go ‘n fuck your girl so good, she won’t even remember you.”

The ranger howled as Remmick bit into his neck. Memories flooded his system, a sweet thing with her skirts pushed up telling him hurry, hurry, before your brother gets back. The soft feeling of two thighs pressing against the side of his head and the pretty litany of moans falling on his ears like they came from heaven. Yes, right there, oh, don’t stop, yes! A tight grip on his cock and sliding, in, out, in, out, and breathy whines that made his eyes roll back.

He pulled away from the ranger, twitching and choking. Remmick sighed, sitting back on his haunches as blood and drool dripped down his chin.

“That’s a helluva girl you got,” he thought out loud.

He sat for a moment and realised the ranger would be waking up any moment now, rejuvenated, with a little part of Remmick in him. He didn’t have time to teach a fledgling how to act, or to deal with a traveling partner. He searched for a large rock and sighed.

So much for fellowship and love.

───────── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ─────────

You.

You are that girl with the trembling thighs and the tight cunt he’s had so many dreams about. Absorbing the memories of everyone he turns can be a blessing or a curse, and he really didn’t mean to turn your man. He was just so damn hungry.

He’s so damn hungry, he’s feeling like he could give up on chivalry and kill you right now. You’d make a pretty little partner. He saw a cabin in the woods you could live in, hunt at night and board things up during the day.

You put the cornbread on the stove to cool, and you’ll eat it in the morning, which is coming soon. You set up Remmick in your brother-in-law’s room. Simple. Stern. He’s more of a soldier than your man was, never silly or playful.

“G’night, Remmick.”

“Goodnight, miss,” he purrs in a voice that makes you feel scandalized.

You quickly ascend the stairs and kneel, crawling under the bed to pull out the shotgun. You don’t even know if it’s loaded, but you sleep with it anyhow.

───────── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ─────────

You wake up hot and sweaty, squirming in your nightgown. You dreamt about your fiancé, his strong hands and kind eyes. You sit up and sigh, shaking your head.

You manage to accomplish your morning tasks on the farm. Feed the chickens, get the eggs. Feed the horses, feed the cow. Earlier than you’d like, the sun completely disappears behind gloomy gray clouds and it begins raining. You dash from the stable to the house and still get soaked, shivering as you seek refuge under your porch. You gasp as you almost trip over a dead raccoon. You shriek and Remmick comes out to find you.

The stormcloud cover keeps him from burning but it is giving him a nasty headache. He kneels down and pretends to be disgusted by the thing he killed. The evening before he left some food out on the porch and lured the thing in, lurching out to grab it. Leaving meant needing your permission to re-enter the house. And that was not an option.

“Wh-what kinda creature does that?”

“Coyote, probably.”

“Th-they kill like that?”

“Time to time,” he lies.

You can’t help it as you begin to cry. Remmick takes you in his arms. He’s strong and he smells nice, like the woods and a warm fire. You’re so wet and cold, and he doesn’t do much to warm you. It really is freezing, you think.

“I’ll get rid of it, honey,” he coos softly, holding your face.

Honey. That struck you. It plucked a taut cord in you and made you blink at him stupidly.

“Oh, no. Don’t touch that thing… what if you get sick?”

“Reckon I’ll be fine. You leave it out here, you don’t know what kinda things you’ll get up on this porch.”

He does his best not to show you a smug grin.

“Well… okay. Just… put it in the woods.”

You offer him a thick jacket to drape over his head in the rain.

“And then come back in, you’re gonna catch cold out there!” you call out to him.

You almost make it too easy.

───────── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ─────────

That grandfather clock ticks away and you realise you’ll have to amend your lie. Your brother-in-law is not returning today. You don’t exactly want Remmick to leave. He’s charming and funny. He sang a little song today while he read a book, and you found yourself tapping your foot as you embroidered in a hoop. He calls you honey again three times, and you’re getting real used to the attention.

You like having a man in the house. It reminds you of when you first started to live with your fiancé and his brother, however taboo that was. Neither man cared, and your brother-in-law didn’t mind leaving to go on a ride around the area while you and your man made love.

Remmick can feel the ranger’s memories, triggered by little things here and there. The way you stick your tongue out in focus has him biting back a groan at kitten licks on the head of his cock. You lean over the kitchen table to grab a spoon? He remembers bending you over it and driving into you, and the wild way you begged for more, more, faster, yes, that! You say his name but all he can hear is the sound of your voice whispering in his ear about sooner you put a ring on this finger, sooner you can put a baby in me. He can’t even make babies, but he’s fiending for your cunt so bad he’s starting to get stupid.

“Remmick?”

“Yes?”

“I… I’m guessing his train got delayed. So, he’ll probably be here tomorrow.”

It’s a clumsy lie.

“I can get out of your hair any time you want, honey.”

“No, no. I… I was going to invite you to stay another night, you’ll just have to leave in the morning.”

“I’d like that very much. I just can’t get enough of your cookin’,” he flirts.

It’s charming and it has you blushing.

“Thank you.”

He’s on a deadline now, and a creature that can only thrive at night lives and breathes a deadline.

The rain calms to a light sprinkle when the sun makes the sky glow orange, and Remmick has– with complaints of a headache– retired to lay down for a while. You go upstairs and decide that you should move the shotgun. It scares you to have it so close to your bed, and you stash it just above your cupboards. It’s a little bit of a reach, but maybe if you feel really unsafe, Remmick can get it down for you.

───────── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ─────────

You continue like this for three days until the sun sets on Monday evening. You know your brother-in-law returns tomorrow, and you are so frightened. Whatever creature is lurking in those woods has been leaving dead animals like lambs on an altar every morning. You know it’s not a coyote doing it because this morning, it was a damn coyote. A ravaged little creature that you felt pity for. You said a short prayer, which made Remmick twitchy.

This man was a strange one. He slept until late in the day, and any time the rain calmed down, he had an awful headache. You knew of old folks whose bones ache when it rained, but never someone who was ailing without a downpour. You wonder if he usually smokes or quit chewing tobacco, as he’s mostly twitchy and excitable, but calculated all the same. He fiddles with his hands and he claims to enjoy your cooking, but he seems to be choking down gags every time he eats. Maybe he’s an opium smoker or he’s usually on the sauce– your brother-in-law is a militant teetotaler, which saved you from becoming a drunken mess after your man’s massacre.

Monday evening is cold and dark. The ground is soaked with mud and yet Remmick decides he wants to take the air.

You oblige him, and he dons those black clothes he met you in to go hunting.

He’s stalking a deer for a while when he hears something distantly. The voice of a man grumbling to himself. The ranger’s memories flash again. Two boys fighting over a pop gun, two teenagers fighting over a girl. No fair, I saw her first, met with she ain’t a damn penny, stupid! Then the serious promise of I’ll keep an eye on her, brother, you know I can handle her.

He grins.

Your brother-in-law is home early.

───────── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ─────────

Your head shoots up when you hear a man’s voice outside. Remmick has returned.

“What’d you put those awful clothes on for?”

“Figured I wouldn’t get those clean ones dirty.”

It was almost clever, but exceedingly strange, as you knew him to be.

You share the dinner table and when you stand to clear it, Remmick reaches for your hand.

He says your name. You pause and try to pull your hand back.

“It’s a shame you never got to be a wife, honey. You’d be damn good at it.”

The grandfather clock ticks as you stare him down, your mind empty. He sees the corner of your mouth twitch and he can remember just push my dress up, c’mon, nobody’ll know.

“You need a man to take care of you, sweet thing,” he offers softly, ever so slightly tugging you to him. You stand between those wide-spread legs as he looks up at you, cupping your cheek in a rough hand. It’s half-reverent, half-predatory as he traces your face with his knuckle.

You want to deny it. But you’re so scared, so incapable, so alone. You give him a quick and shameful nod, unable to meet his eyes.

“Want me to take care of you, honey?”

You see through the corner of your eye that he’s drooling. Not a little the absentminded dribble of getting hot and bothered but the serious drool of a dog waiting to be fed.

You should probably be disgusted. And if you were a little more attentive, you would notice his glowing red eyes, too. But if anything, it fans the fire in your belly.

“Lemme take care of you, baby,” he pleads, gazing up at you. “Fuck, I’m crazy for you. I can smell you… Christ, it’s drivin’ me wild, the smell of you.”

“What smell?”

“Old books and chamomile tea…”

He winces, his nails digging into your wrist. He quickly looks up at you, sitting back on his haunches.

“I can smell that pussy, mo ghrá,” he purrs.

You take a sharp breath at his words.

“Wh-what’s that mean?” He inhales deeply, shakily exhaling as his eyes close. A smile spreads across his face.

“You want me too, honey?”

You’re quiet for a moment.

“Yes,” you answer softly.

“What do you want?”

You swallow, shifting from foot to foot nervously.

“You… your hands.”

You spot his hips rocking in place, desperate for your touch.

“What about my hands?”

“You’re so strong, Remmick. Last night I was thinking about… how the… the veins on your arms pop out,” you manage, your breathing laboured.

He successfully hides his grin, clasping his hands.

“Please, baby, doesn’t it hurt? God, it fuckin’ hurts,” he snarls.

You nod, close to tears. You feel feral and untamed, and you need him to rip your clothes off and take care of you.

“I just want to help you, mo ghrá, please,” he whimpers.

“Just fuck me, please!” you blurt, slapping your hand over your mouth.

He’s on you in an instant, pushing the chair back behind him. He noses at your neck, inhaling the smell of you. He can hear your heart pounding as he backs you against the kitchen table, your backside bumping into it.

“Remmick,” you start carefully.

“Yeah, baby?” he says, sickly sweet as he grins at you.

“Be gentle now.”

“Course, honey.”

He lifts you to sit on the table, kissing you deeply. It’s sloppy and hot, and you can feel the drool dripping down your neck.

“Lemme eat you, baby. I’ll lick you so good- oh, fuck,” he hisses when your hand palms him over his trousers.

He chuckles, his breathing heavy.

“I’ll lick you so good you forget your own name,” he promises.

He meets your eyes and you nod at him.

“You have to say it,” he breathes against your lips.

“Please,” you whisper.

He takes off his suspenders and rolls up his sleeves, eyes stuck on you. You quickly shove your layers off with his help until you’re only left in your shift, half-bare to him. The cream coloured fabric is sheer and he can see your nipples hardening underneath. He drops to his knees, rucking up the skirt and wrenching apart your thighs. He groans loud when he spots the soaked fabric of your bloomers.

He kisses the side of your knee, gazing up at you from between your legs.

“Can I?”

“Quit teasing,” you beg him.

He leans forward and slips your bloomers down your legs. He brings the fabric to his face, inhaling your sweet scent and bucking his hips unconsciously. He tosses them behind him and rucks your dress up, moaning at the glisten when your wetness catches the light.

He dives forward, licking a stripe up your slit and lapping at your clit.

You gasp, a hand threading in his bronze hair.

“Fuck me,” he grunts.

He pushes his tongue inside of you, making you squirm. He holds you down with his strong hands, veins in his arms bulging. You have to plant another hand beside yourself to stop from fainting backwards.

“So fuckin’ sweet,” he breathes, pulling back. your wetness makes his mouth shine, and one strand of drool drips from his lips. You’re soaked, and your movement makes a sickly squelching sound. He works one finger in and slowly adds another.

“Oh, Remmick,” you whine.

He curls his fingers up like he’s trying to get you closer, but if you were any closer to his face you’d be a mask. Your fiancé never did anything like this, you didn’t even know you could feel this way. Everything is so slick and hot, his drool and your wetness combining as he drinks it all down greedily.

He hooks under your thighs to pull you to the edge of the table and continues. He wraps his lips around your clit, sucking hard. You shout, covering your mouth and laying flat on the table. He rocks his hips to seek some touch, only feeling the light brush of his own britches. Your hips buck into his mouth and he lets you as he lavs at your clit endlessly.

“Remmick, w-wait-”

“Nearly there, mo chroí.”

He traces the letters of his name with his tongue, your legs hooked over his shoulders.

The taste of you is supplemented by flashes of you in different positions, on your knees, in his lap, behind a pew. Dirty girl. He crooks his fingers, licking flat on your clit slowly, pressing in.

You cry out, grabbing his hair and yanking as your back arches. You gush into his waiting mouth, which he drinks down gratefully.

“Thank you, thank you, fuck, don’t stop, k-keep bucking like that,” he mutters encouragements, kissing at your clit every few seconds to keep you jolting.

Finally he winces and squirms, cock twitching in his trousers. He stands on wobbly legs, looking down at you. You exhale and sit up. He kisses you softly.

“Let’s go to the bedroom,” you puff out against his lips.

He scoops you up and carries you up the stairs to the bedroom, setting you down. He stands in front of you and you undo the buttons on his shirt, parting the fabric. You smooth your hands from his toned stomach to his muscular chest.

He breathes softly, his eyes closing. You feel his pectorals, biting your lip at the plushness of them and how they’re cool to the touch. You reach down and unbuttons his britches, unzipping them and trying to push them down. He pushes your shift up your body and tosses it to the side. You’re bare to him, and he’s nearly there.

He shoves you back onto the bed, snarling as he climbs over you. He kicks off his britches.

“Mo shíorghrá,” he pants, nosing at your neck. His teeth scrape at your skin.

“What is that?”

“Hm?”

“What does that mean?”

He hesitates.

“It’s Irish for ‘eternal love’,” he explains quietly, his breath on your cheek.

“Forever?”

“Only if you let me make it forever,” he utters, pressing a kiss to your cheekbone.

“Can we do this forever?” you sigh, draping your arms around his neck.

“Of course we can, mo ghrá,” he says, sickly sweet, hooking your legs over his hips as he grinds against you.

Your hand darts down to grip him at the base and guide him in.

“You opened the door for me and now you let me in so nicely,” he teases, pushing into you slowly.

A bell should be ringing in your head, but all you can think of is the divine stretch of him sliding into your cunt slowly.

“Feels good, baby?”

You nod wildly, your nails digging into his chest as you brace yourself. He gasps when he feels you envelop him, a hand fisting the bed sheet next to your head.

“F-fuck,” he breathes shakily.

“It’s so good, angel,” you mewl, your nails digging into his back. “Oh, Remmick… oh, honey,” you whine, twisting when he bottoms out, panting.

“Oh, Jesus,” he wheezes.

He gazes at you, half-lidded and drunk on the feeling. He’s so hungry, and he can’t help when his fangs slide out of his mouth.

He leans down to the scarred spot at the top of your breast. The pearly white points in his mouth pierce your skin.

You cry out.

“D-did you bite me?”

The feeling of pain lasts for a moment, and suddenly all you feel is warmth in your chest. Blood beads at the wounds and he latches on, sucking the blood from the wound and swallowing noisily as he does. He continues to move his hips, fucking in and out of you as you whimper.

“Remmick, th-that hurts…”

He moans against your skin when you tighten around him.

“Fuck… d-don’t do that,” he puffs against your skin, your blood all around his mouth.

“Do what? This?” you giggle, flexing your abdominals to make his eye twitch.

You’re fucking giggling, and he’s about to make you his forever.

You smirk, turning him over when he’s lost in it. He holds your hips and lavs at your wound until it closes.

“Fuck me,” he breathes.

You plant your hands on his chest and raise yourself up with his help.

“So good, honey, so good,” you chant, eyes closed.

“Yes, yes, fuck… damn it to hell, girl, g-go faster…”

He helps you, pulling you down quicker and quicker on his cock until you’re bouncing on it, lip between your teeth.

“Baby,” he manages, his voice shaking. He twitches inside of you as he hits the spot that has your vision spotting.

You’re breathless, you can’t even think. There’s just the in-out, up-down drag of his cock filling you up like you’ve never known before. You see fangs in his mouth and you aren’t even scared.

“Cum with me, c’mon, please,” he mutters, his face in the crook of your neck.

You both stiffen up and break. He growls, biting at your neck as your back arches. You feel alive and dead all at once, like every inch of your body is being kissed and bitten. He drinks more of your blood, drool and sweat and tears all trail down your body. You go limp and Remmick falls back. You moan as you rest on his chest. He whimpers softly and cradles you.

You drift off briefly and awaken feeling loose and rejuvenated. You reach to touch your neck and Remmick takes your hand. You see claws on his fingers, and notice that your nails come to sharp points too.

“Aren’t you glad you let me in?” he jokes in a black honey voice.

You hear it with your ears but you can hear him in your mind, too. He's all over you, inside of you, right in your chest. Your heart is hardly beating, in exact time with his.

“Mhm,” you murmur, curling up. You feel the warm, wet sensation of blood pooled around your body, but you don't care.

“Aren’t you glad I killed your stupid fiancé and his dumb fuck brother, too?”

"Yeah."

“You’re gonna be my little wife now, baby. All fuckin’ mine.”

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