sunbleachedfl13s

[sunbleachedfl13s]

FUCK YEAHHHHHHHHH BABY

ᴀ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴ

ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ x ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ!ꜰᴇᴍ!ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀᴏᴜꜱ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: You run the farm alone now. The crops still grow. The animals still listen. And Josephine still drags the bodies down where no one will ever find them. Folks in town say the farm is cursed. But you’ve always wanted more—an audience, maybe. Someone to look at you like you were something worth loving. And tonight, a man’s car breaks down on the edge of your property, and you know it’s what you’ve been waiting for.

ᴡᴄ: 21.4k

ᴀ/ɴ: this fic is heavily inspired by pearl, which everyone should watch at least once in their life. it's unironically such an amazing movie and i love it sm. anyways, this was a SHAMEFUL one but as usual i adored writing it. had to pull back hard on my linebreaking due to block limits so if my formatting seems way diff that's why. i've been working on this for MONTHS so please love it or i'll sob. all i can say is strap in for the read ride of your life, both figuratively and literally.

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: 18+ MDNI (!!!!!), unapologetically dark fic, reader is fully the villain, reader is also very unstable, exposition dump, cleverly done timeskip, very short mention of an attempted assault (the reader kills the fucker), religious mentions, obsession, emotional manipulation, verbal abuse, toxic relationship, stockholm syndrome, threats of violence, graphic violence, murder, body disposal, accomplices, non-sexual drugging, sadism, masochism, begging, silverplay, dubcon, the power dynamic is fucked (literally), dom!reader, sub!remmick, pathetic!remmick, pet!remmick, feral!remmick, COLLARED LEASHED AND MUZZLED BABY, unintentional brat taming, praise/degradation kink, blood, bloodplay, vampirism, drool, spit kink, dacryphilia, cunnilingus, overstimulation, monsterfucking, p in v, pussydrunk, rutting, breeding kink, they're not afraid to switch, extremely unreliable narrator, excessive use of dividers, format butchering to bypass tumblr's block limit

The sun rose gold this morning, spilling across the fields like honey. You were already up, already working, already smiling.

You always smiled.

The hens clucked softly in the coop as you lifted the latch and greeted them with your usual chirp. They clucked back, feathers rustling as they hopped down from their roosts, and you gathered the eggs with practiced ease, cradling each one in your palm like it was made of spun glass. The pigs oinked next. You scratched the largest behind the ears, whispered that she was beautiful, and she leaned into you with a low sigh, as if she understood.

The mule got a kiss between the eyes. The cows got songs while you milked them, soft and sweet. Even the barn cats wound around your ankles, purring like little motors as you moved through your morning.

You were kind to everything that deserved it.

You wiped the sweat from your brow and squinted toward the horizon. The sky was starting to bake. Late summer meant everything stank a little more than usual, especially out by the edge of the swamp. Still, you didn’t mind the heat. You never had. You liked how it clung to you. How it made the hem of your dress stick to your thighs and curl damply around your calves. Made you feel alive.

You didn’t wear shoes. Hadn’t in years.

Your parents used to fuss over that.

They used to fuss over a lot of things.

You don’t miss them.

They left you the farm when they died, and that was the only generous thing they ever did. Even then, it wasn’t intentional. You could still hear your mama’s voice echoing through the walls sometimes—don’t embarrass us, girl, keep that mouth shut—but it always faded after a while. You only heard it when you were bored, mostly.

And you weren’t bored now.

Not with so much work to be done.

Not with Josephine waiting.

By mid-afternoon, the sun was a white eye hanging over your head, blinking slow and mean. The trees near the swamp shimmered in the haze as you made your way down the winding path, your fingers brushing the wildflowers like old friends. Crickets buzzed. Cicadas whined. Something distant cracked, like old wood splitting in two.

Josephine was there before you called her.

She rose from the muck like a shadow come to life—thirty feet from snout to tail, with jaws wide enough to snap a door clean off its hinges. Her scales caught the light like polished stone, and her yellow eyes blinked lazily as she drifted closer.

“Hi, pretty girl,” you called, crouching at the edge of the water.

She huffed through her nostrils. That was her way of saying hello.

You loved her. More than most people. Josephine had never asked you to be quiet. Had never told you to sit with your legs closed. Had never tried to put a hand up your dress or call you a whore behind your back like the boys in town used to.

Josephine only asked to be fed.

And you were good at feeding her.

You spotted it before you stepped into the shallows—a pale, water-bloated arm, half-covered in mud and dragging a trail of flies behind it. The hand was curled like it had something left to say. You grinned.

“Oh,” you said brightly. “You left your snack out.”

You stooped, grabbed the wrist, and flung the whole thing like a softball. Josephine moved with a speed that always startled you, even after all these years. Her jaws snapped around the arm midair���CRUNCH—and you clapped, delighted.

“Good girl!” you squealed.

Josephine sank back beneath the surface, tail dragging behind like a thick rope, and you sat at the bank a moment longer, kicking your feet in the mud. The hem of your dress was soaked and stained brown, but you didn’t mind. You liked the feeling.

You leaned back on your elbows and closed your eyes, letting the sun roast your face.

That one had been a banker, you thought. Loud, red-faced, soft around the middle. Called you girl in that disrespectful tone. Tried to push you into the corn with his belt already undone. Didn’t make it more than four steps before the axe caught him in the neck.

White men were always your favorite.

So easy.

So sure you’d let them do whatever they wanted.

They never saw it coming.

You hummed to yourself, a little tune your mama used to hum when she thought no one could hear her, and traced patterns into the mud beside you with one lazy finger. You imagined Josephine still chewing beneath the surface, teeth rending bone, her heart content for now.

You were content, too.

The farm was quiet. The animals were fed. The sun was high. The bones were buried deep. You had more meat hung in the cellar than you’d need for the month. Maybe longer. And Josephine never went hungry. Not anymore.

But still.

Still.

It felt like something was missing.

Not anything practical—no, you’d taken care of that. You had grain. You had milk. You had a pretty new dress for church, even if you hadn’t stepped inside that building since your mama’s funeral.

You just wanted—

You didn’t know.

It could get lonely on the farm, sometimes.

Not all the time. Not really. You had plenty of company, after all—the hens always had something to say, the cows were sweet as could be, and Josephine had the best listening ears in the whole world, even if her answers came in huffs and gurgles.

And you were great conversation, too.

Sharp. Funny. Endlessly clever.

You smiled at the thought. “Thank you,” you murmured, nodding to no one and to yourself all at once. “That’s very kind.”

The compliment warmed your chest like a fresh cup of coffee. You deserved it.

You lay back a little farther on the bank, mud squishing under your shoulder blades, and stared up through the trees. A dragonfly buzzed past your ear, wings catching light in flashes of green and copper. Somewhere far off, a bird cried, high and sweet.

You sighed.

Not unhappy. Just… tired, maybe.

The sun had made everything drowsy. The world felt soft around the edges, like a photograph that had been left too long in the window.

Your stomach growled. Loudly.

You blinked.

“Oh,” you said, rubbing your belly. “I forgot to eat.”

It happened more than you liked to admit. You’d get caught up in chores, in talking, in thinking, and suddenly the day would be half-gone without a crumb in your mouth. But that was alright. You had plenty in the kitchen. You always made sure of that.

You pushed yourself upright, brushing bits of grass and dirt from your arms. The bank was still damp, and the hem of your dress clung to your calves, streaked with muck. You’d track it into the house. You always did.

Didn’t matter. You’d mop later.

You headed back up the path, slower now, your bare feet slapping softly against the packed earth. The breeze tugged at your dress, gentle and forgiving. Something skittered through the underbrush just ahead—a rabbit, maybe. Or a squirrel. You didn’t flinch.

You were thinking about dinner.

About buttery mashed potatoes and gravy. A pork chop seared crisp on the outside, soft in the middle. Maybe greens, too. With just the right splash of vinegar to make them perfect.

Your mouth watered.

You liked to cook.

To take pieces of things and make something whole again. Something warm. Something that filled the air with smell and made your chest feel steady and full.

It felt better than destruction.

Sometimes.

The house creaked as you stepped inside, cool and dim after the weight of the sun. You swept through the living room, humming to yourself, dragging your fingers along the wood-paneled walls like you were greeting old friends.

The kitchen welcomed you like it always did.

And you smiled as you got to work.

Night had fallen. Deep, still, and wide.

You lay in bed with your arms folded over your chest, lips pursed in an unflattering frown as you stared at the ceiling fan lazily pushing warm air in circles. The damn thing squeaked. Always had. You’d meant to fix it back in spring, but then came the planting, then the harvest, then the killing—and well, you couldn’t be expected to remember everything.

You huffed.

“Insomnia,” the doctor said. Like that helped. Like some pretty little word could make it less annoying.

You’d taken his pills exactly twice. Didn’t like the way they made your thoughts run together like yolk on the floor. Didn’t like the stillness, either. If something bad came—and it always did—you needed your full mind. Your full self.

Still, it didn’t make it any easier when the nights dragged long and wide, every tick of the wall clock another tooth in your skin. You curled your knees toward your chest. Shifted. Unfolded. Shifted again.

Then came the sound. Low and sputtering. Faint at first, like a wounded thing crawling toward your porch.

Your brows lifted.

You threw the covers back with theatrical flair, pushed yourself to your feet, and crossed the room in three easy steps.

You kept the lamp on. You always kept the lamp on. It made it easier.

You peeked through the lace curtain, careful not to press your face too close. There, at the edge of the property, a car had rolled to a half-dead stop. Engine hissing. Lights dimming. And out of the driver’s side, a man stepped into the humid dark.

You tilted your head.

Even from a distance, even through the heavy blur of night, you could see he was white. Dressed too nice for a road like yours—like he belonged in one of those new department store ads in town with slicked-back hair and tailored trousers. His shoes were shiny. His coat too clean.

And furious.

He kicked the wheel once, shouted something you couldn’t quite make out, then turned—and saw the light in your bedroom window.

You smiled. And just as always, you slipped away from the glass.

Light drew them in. Like moths to a flame.

You padded quietly down the stairs, steps careful and practiced. You didn’t rush. No, you never rushed.

By the time you reached the mirror in the hall, you could hear the footsteps. Soft crunching of gravel, the porch creaking under weight that wasn’t yours.

Then, the knock. Gentle. Too gentle for a man so freshly angry.

You licked your lips and tucked a loose curl behind your ear. Your dress was thin cotton, not exactly flattering, but it framed your waist well enough. A dab of rose balm to your lips. You leaned in toward the mirror, tapping your cheek lightly with two fingers.

“Lovely,” you murmured. “Just lovely.”

The doorknob was cool in your hand. You turned it slowly. Opened it wide.

And there he was.

Light-skinned, but not pallid—warm-toned, even in the dark. Brown hair slicked back neat, not a strand out of place. His suit was a shade of blue just a whisper off from navy—expensive looking, though it didn’t quite fit his frame right. The jacket sagged a little at the shoulders, a size too big maybe, but his posture made up for it. He stood like a soldier. Or a preacher. Like a man used to being listened to.

Except tonight, he looked nervous.

"Evenin’, miss," he said, voice warm and rolling. Soft-spoken, too. "I sure do hate to bother ya, and I’m awful sorry for knockin’ so late, but my car went and gave up on me just a little ways back. I was wonderin’—would it be alright if I parked here for the night? Just sleep in it till I can get someone out come mornin’?"

His voice was honey. Not cloying. Just sweet enough to make you lean in.

You blinked slowly, drinking him in.

The faintest stubble dusted his chin. A gold chain sat modestly around his neck, almost hidden by the collar of his dress shirt. His canines were sharp. Not like a monster’s. Just sharp enough to notice. His eyes were dark blue, but there was something red behind them—something faint. Barely there. Like fire hidden under the coals.

And handsome. God, he was handsome. The kind of handsome you could’ve written sonnets about, if you’d ever been one for poetry.

You wondered how long it would take to carve the terror into his pretty face. If he’d cry when the knife found its mark, or if he’d try to hide it—swallow his sobs like a man with something worth dying for. If he’d still speak to you sweetly while he bled out, voice warm and shaking, trying to charm you even as the color drained from his cheeks.

You wondered what his breath would sound like, ragged and shallow, when it started to fail him. If it would hitch in that soft chest of his, little by little, until there was nothing left but wet rattling.

You thought about how his pupils might bloom wide as the pain caught up to him. How that slicked-back hair would cling damp to his temples when he sweated through his fear.

You wondered if he’d beg.

“Miss?”

You blinked again, caught staring.

His smile had softened with confusion, eyes squinting as he tilted his head politely.

You smiled right back.

“Out in that heat?” you asked with a lilt. “What kind of host would I be if I let you sleep in your car?”

He raised his hands, sheepish. "Now, I ain’t tryin’ to impose—"

“But you already knocked,” you said sweetly. “So I’d say the imposition’s already happened, wouldn’t you?”

That flustered him.

You liked that.

He glanced down at his shoes, sheepish, brushing a hand over his wrist. “I… suppose that’s fair. Still. Wouldn’t feel right acceptin’ too much kindness. Not from a good woman like yerself.”

Your smile widened.

“Kindness is for guests, sir,” you said. “And I only ever show it to people who come through my door.”

He hesitated.

But you didn’t.

You stepped aside.

“Come in,” you said, low and warm. “I’ve got an extra room made up. You’ll be comfortable.”

And he stepped in. So easily.

And you made sure to lock the door behind him.

The sound of the latch sliding into place was a familiar one. A good one.

You turned around with your hands clasped sweetly behind your back. "Are you hungry?"

He blinked. Took a second longer than he probably meant to. His eyes flicked toward the kitchen, then back to you. “Oh, no, ma’am. I wouldn’t want t’—”

“I made too much supper,” you interrupted, stepping around him lightly, your bare feet pattering on the wooden floor like you’d forgotten all about him already. “Three-course mistake. I do that sometimes. Don’t know what gets into me. But it’s lucky you stopped by! Really, you’ll be saving me from leftovers.”

“I don’t wanna put ya out, now,” he said as he followed a few hesitant steps behind. “Y’already been too kind.”

Your head cocked just a little. The smile didn’t leave your face.

And right on cue—his stomach growled.

It was soft, but loud enough to make him grimace and drop his gaze, almost sheepish. You didn’t laugh. You just turned on your heel, delighted.

“Go on and sit,” you said, already reaching for the stovetop. “I don’t let anyone go hungry in my home.”

The table was small—meant for two, even though it had rarely been set for more than one. The seats were padded with worn floral cushions, the kind your mama once swore made a guest stay longer. You liked that idea.

He stood awkwardly near it, still not quite sitting.

“Y’live out here alone?” he asked, trying to sound casual. “Big place like this?”

You hummed as you pulled out a plate and filled it generously, trying your best to give the warmest servings. “Sure do. My mama and daddy left it to me.”

He finally sat, stiff-backed. “They don’t help ya run it?”

“They passed,” you said cheerfully, spooning an extra heap of beans onto the plate. “Not too long ago.”

His brow creased just slightly. “I’m sorry t’hear that.”

“I’m not!” You said it like it was nothing. And to you, it was. You smiled a little to yourself. “They weren’t the kind of people who liked to share. Especially not space. Or dreams.”

He didn’t answer that.

You turned toward him—plate in hand—setting it in front of him like a prize. “I love having people over,” you said, clasping your hands together. “It gets awfully quiet on this farm with just me and the chickens and the cows and the sky. I talk to myself so much I start giving myself compliments.”

You laughed a little and leaned in, voice low and gleeful. “And I always say thank you.”

He offered a weak chuckle of his own. “Yer… real spirited, miss.”

“Isn’t that just the nicest thing to say,” you beamed, walking back to the drawer for silverware.

He rubbed at the back of his neck. “What do ya grow out here?”

“Oh, the usual,” you called. “Corn, sweet potatoes, berries, peppers, whatever wants to grow.”

“Ya take care of all that yourself?”

“Mhm.” You pulled the drawer open and clattered around until you found a clean set of polished silver.

The moment you walked back and set them down beside his plate, he jerked slightly.

His fingers curled away. His jaw tightened.

“Ah—” he winced, shifting in his seat. “I don’t s’pose ya have… steel? Or… aluminum, maybe?”

You paused. Looked down at the utensils. Then back up at him. The smile didn’t slip, but your eyes narrowed just a touch.

You turned away again without asking any questions.

“Picky eater?” you teased as you rifled through the odds-and-ends drawer under the flour bins. “You allergic to silver?”

“Somethin’ like that,” he muttered.

You found an old aluminum set and wiped it clean with a hand towel before setting it gently beside his plate.

“There,” you said. “Don’t say I never did nothin’ for you.”

He smiled again, but you noticed he didn’t meet your eyes this time. Still, he picked up the fork.

And ate.

He was careful about it. Polite, but with little hesitation. He chewed thoughtfully. Deliberately. Like he wanted to make sure he got every taste before swallowing. You watched his jaw shift, the little twitch of his throat as he swallowed. The slight tremble in his hand where he held the fork.

You leaned your elbows on the table, chin in your palms, watching.

He noticed. He tried not to. But you saw the glance. The way his spine straightened, the way he looked everywhere but at you.

“So,” you said brightly, “what’s your name, stranger?”

He chewed slower. Took his time before answering.

“Remmick,” he said finally.

You mouthed it to yourself. Softly. Like a little treat.

“What kind of name is that?”

“Family name,” he added, like he was used to the question. “And yers?”

You leaned in just a little closer. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me where you’re headed.”

He hesitated. Fork paused halfway to his mouth.

“North Carolina,” he said, slow. “Got people up there. Was hopin’ to visit a few.”

“You married?”

He looked up sharply. “No, ma’am.”

“Ever been?”

“No, ma’am.”

You grinned. “That’s a shame. You seem real sweet.”

He shifted again.

You could practically smell the nerves now.

You liked that. Liked the way he was trying to be so composed, so gentlemanly, so proper. You could see the effort in every movement. And you could see it fraying at the edges already.

So easy to pick apart. So easy to slip a knife into.

You clapped your hands together once. “I knew tonight was gonna be special,” you said brightly, watching him squirm under your gaze. “Josephine said so.”

Remmick blinked. “Who?”

You pointed out the window toward the woods and the swamp beyond.

“My gator,” you said, smiling wide. “She don’t say much. But she’s always right.”

You laughed at his face.

And Remmick—Remmick managed a tense chuckle, lips twitching. But his eyes never quite left yours. Like he was waiting for something. Like he was trying to decide if he should be afraid.

And maybe he was.

You saw it. Just a flicker in his eyes when you rose from your chair and reached toward his plate. A blink-long flinch, quick and tight, gone as fast as it came—but not fast enough.

You took the plate gently, like you hadn’t noticed.

He cleared his throat and forced a smile, sheepish. “Thank ya kindly,” he said, nodding toward the cleaned-off plate in your hands. “That was… real good. Better than good, actually.”

“Why, thank you,” you said, your own smile rising soft and sweet. “Means a lot, comin’ from a stranger.”

You turned to the sink, rinsed the plate with the same care you did everything, and set it in the basin with a little hum. The house creaked around you, like it always did when the wind moved through. But the windows were still. The world outside had fallen quiet.

When you turned back to face him, Remmick was standing awkwardly now, thumb hooked on the strap of his suspenders, other hand tucked into the pocket of those neat blue slacks that didn’t quite match the dusty world around him.

“Let me show you to your room,” you said brightly, already moving toward the hallway.

He followed, slower this time, his steps measured.

You opened the door near the end of the corridor and flipped on the light.

It was perfect.

The linens were fresh, crisp and white with just a hint of lavender from the sachets you kept in the wardrobe. The floor was swept clean, the dresser dusted. The mattress was new. Or, at least, new enough. You’d turned it twice and flipped it once. Couldn’t have the stains showing through.

The air inside smelled faintly of bleach and pine. Clean. Comforting.

Nothing of the man who’d bled out there just a few weeks ago.

Remmick stood in the doorway for a beat too long, eyes taking in every edge. Not suspicious, exactly. Just… cautious. Like he couldn’t tell if it was too polished.

Then he stepped inside.

His eyes landed on the doorknob.

“Where’s the lock?” he asked, brow furrowed as he pointed toward the little brass handle and the empty round hole where the latch should’ve been.

You tilted your head and smiled. “Broke,” you said, voice light. “Years ago.”

A pause. Just long enough.

But he nodded, like he believed it. Or like he wanted to.

“Well,” he said, sitting gently down on the edge of the bed. “This is more’n generous, miss. I… I appreciate it, truly.”

His hands rested on his knees. The posture of a man not used to being taken care of.

You stood just inside the doorway, one hand on the frame, watching him settle in like you’d already begun carving out the memory. Or carving him open. What was the difference, really?

“Anything else you need?” you asked.

He looked up a little too quick. “No, ma’am. I’m— I’m alright. Ya’ve already done too much for me.”

You nodded slowly, lingering.

Then you let your voice soften again. “Well… if anything comes up, I’ll be right down the hall.”

He didn’t answer right away, just nodded and offered you another one of those hesitant, grateful smiles. The kind that looked like it didn’t get worn often.

“Goodnight, Remmick,” you said, voice curling sweet around the name.

“Goodnight, miss.”

You slipped from the room and pulled the door gently shut behind you.

You woke to the sound of metal grinding metal. And not gently.

It was still dark out—barely a stitch of light crawling past the horizon—but some dumb son of a bitch was out there raising hell like it was noon. You sat up in bed, heart hammering in your chest not from fear, but from irritation. The kind that sank deep behind your ribs and lit up like a match.

You knew who it was before you even pulled the curtain back.

There he was. Remmick. Fiddling under the hood of his car, brow pinched, jaw tight, making more noise than a dying horse.

Your lip twitched. He had the gall to sneak out? To wrench around in your yard like you hadn’t just fed him, sheltered him, welcomed him into your home like the good woman you were?

You were on your feet before the thought could settle.

Downstairs, bare feet quick and light against the old pine boards, you reached under the loose floorboard behind the coat rack. The click of the latch released with a familiar little song in your bones. Out came a wrench. Heavy, clean. Well-oiled. Meant for more than fixing. You held it for a moment, just feeling the weight.

Then, with a breath, you checked yourself in the mirror near the door. Smoothed your hair. Tugged your nightgown tighter at the collar. Pressed your lips together and pulled them into something pleasant. Not too wide. Not too stiff.

“You are lookin’ lovely,” you murmured. And then you thanked yourself for the compliment.

You always were polite.

The wrench was tucked behind your back by the time you opened the front door with a little too much force. Let it swing wide and hit the side of the house with a crack.

“Mornin’!” you called, raising one hand in a wave. “Aren’t you just the busiest bee this side of the county.”

He jumped. Actually jumped. That did something warm and golden to your insides.

“Oh! Mornin’, miss,” he called back, voice rising nervously. “Ain’t mean to wake ya. Just figured I’d get a jump on the car ‘fore it got too hot out.”

For just a second. Just long enough. You saw it—panic. That tight jolt behind the eyes. The flash of guilt, of being caught. But it vanished quick, replaced with that practiced easygoing smile you were beginning to suspect he wore like armor.

You stepped down the porch stairs one by one, each heel clicking like a metronome. The wrench stayed tucked behind you, swinging with the rhythm of your walk.

“Oh, that’s so considerate,” you said sweetly. “But you really shoulda let me know. I’d’ve made you some coffee. Or somethin’ to eat.”

He smiled again—too tight—and shrugged. “Didn’t wanna be a bother. Figured I’d get it goin’ and be outta yer hair ‘fore ya even noticed.”

You stopped a few feet from him. Tilted your head.

“Were you plannin’ to leave without sayin’ goodbye?” you asked lightly, voice still honeyed but with an unintentional tilt to it.

His smile faltered. “No, ma’am.”

Too quick.

You tilted your head. “Hmm.”

For a second—just a second—you pictured it. The arc of the wrench. The sick sound it’d make when it met bone. The way his body would slump forward against the car, eyes wide and confused, blood warm on the bumper.

You’d done it before. A dozen times.

Men like him always thought they could come and go. Thought kindness was something they were owed. And when they didn’t get what they wanted—when they got scared—they ran.

You didn’t like runners.

But not this time.

You blinked, and the vision passed. Instead, you smiled wider and stepped close enough to catch a whiff of whatever he’d used to wash—something woody, a little metallic. Something just shy of real clean.

“No need to rush,” you said sweetly. “Ain’t every day I get such fine company out here.”

Then you reached out and looped your arm through his. Smooth as butter.

He stiffened. You felt it. But he didn’t pull away. Didn’t dare.

“Come on,” you chirped. “I’ll give you the grand tour. Least I can do after all your troubles.”

“I really don’t wanna trouble ya more’n I already have—”

“Oh, hush,” you said with a light squeeze to his arm. “I insist.”

He looked down at where your hand sat so neat against his wrist. His mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again. But he said nothing.

You started walking, guiding him gently past the house, through the tall grass that had gone gold at the tips from the summer sun. The breeze was picking up now. The sky was glowing pink.

Remmick kept pace, though you could feel the tension radiating off him. The animals watched you from their pens as you passed. The cows shifted in their stalls. The chickens rustled on their roosts. You weren’t stopping for them. They knew better than to make noise when you were working. They knew who fed them.

But that didn't make for much of a tour, did it?

He kept stealing glances at you. You could feel it. That unsure curiosity. The way he watched the side of your face like he was afraid to look full on.

You didn’t mind.

His shoes scuffed along the dry path as you pulled him past the crop fields and beyond the thickets that edged the far back of your property. You could already smell the swamp—mossy, ripe, alive. Like it breathed.

He slowed as the trees thinned, eyes narrowing toward the glint of green water ahead. The dock stretched out in old, uneven planks, all grayed with time and slick with morning dew.

You tugged him to the edge.

“I wanna show you somethin’,” you said, voice bright.

He hesitated, boots stalling just before the first board. “What’s out there?”

You turned back and smiled. “My girl.”

He blinked. “What?”

You stepped up first, the dock creaking beneath your feet. Remmick followed, slower than before. Eyes darting. Shoulders stiff.

When you reached the end, you cupped your hands to your mouth and whistled. Loud. Sharp. Like you’d done since you were a child.

The swamp rippled. The trees hushed. And then—movement.

Water churning. Reeds splitting.

Remmick stumbled back a step, already starting to speak—“What the hell—” when Josephine rose from the shallows like something summoned. Massive, dark, ancient. Her long jaw split open in a low hiss of greeting, amber eyes blinking in that lazy, knowing way.

“God almighty!” He yelped, stumbling so hard he nearly toppled off the dock.

You caught his arm just in time.

“Careful now,” you said sweetly. “Don’t wanna lose you just yet.”

His heart thudded like a drum under your palm. You kept your grip tight as he teetered, then yanked him back with a cheerful laugh.

He stared at you, pale and breathless.

“She don’t bite,” you lied with a grin.

He glanced toward Josephine, who’d half-submerged again, only her eyes and snout visible above the waterline. She let out a low rumble, almost like a purr.

“I—I’m sorry,” he stammered, still breathless. “What is that?”

“That’s Josephine,” you said proudly, kneeling at the dock’s edge to run your fingers through the water. “Been mine since I was little. Raised her myself. I know I mentioned her.”

“Ya—ya raised a gator?”

“She’s family,” you said. “Ain’t that right, girl?”

Josephine blinked once. Slowly.

Remmick still looked like he was trying to decide whether to bolt or vomit.

You stood again and turned toward him, offering your hand as if the two of them were being properly introduced.

“Josephine, this is Remmick.”

Then, with a wicked little twist to your wrist, you gave his hand a shake. A purposeful one. A mean one.

He lost his footing again—just a bit—but it was enough to send him swaying, toes curling for balance as the drop behind him yawned wide and dark.

Your grip steadied him at the last second.

The way his eyes went wide, lips parting in a breathless, helpless little gasp—it made a heat bloom low in your belly.

You couldn’t help yourself.

You giggled.

He blinked at you, dazed. Shaken.

You held his pretty little face between your palms. Warm, smooth skin. Clean-shaven. A sharpness to the jaw you admired. His mouth, parted in something like confusion. Or maybe pleading. You couldn’t quite tell.

His eyes—those dark, stormy blue ones—had that red gleam again. Subtle. Fleeting.

He didn’t say a word. Couldn’t, maybe.

And you knew, with a strange and perfect certainty, that you were going to keep him.

He was it.

The audience. The company. The man who’d sit across the table from you, day after day, and pretend not to be afraid even when you knew better. Even when you saw it in his eyes.

You wanted that. You wanted him.

“I think you’re gonna stay a while,” you whispered, thumbs brushing his cheekbones. “Don’t you?”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t move. Not even a nod.

His breath came quick, nostrils flaring, hands clenched at his sides.

Oh, it made you dizzy.

You pulled back slightly, just enough to tilt your head and admire the view. Still close enough to feel his heartbeat through his shirt.

So much had happened already.

You thought about the night before. How he’d stood there on your porch, looking like a lamb lost in the woods. How you’d almost slammed the door on his neck and fed him to Josephine right then and there.

You thought about the kitchen, the way his eyes darted to the utensils, how he winced at the silver. How easy it would’ve been to follow that flinch with a knife under the ribs. Slice clean. Deep.

You thought about the way he’d slept—so still. So silent. You’d stood at the edge of his room for a long time. Watching. Breathing with him. Just one pillow pressed over his face and he wouldn’t have made a sound.

And this morning? The car? You could’ve crushed his throat while he was bent under the hood. Let him gurgle into the oil pan.

And now. Now he was here.

Your fingers itched.

But instead of hurting him—

You smiled. Because he was still trembling, and he didn’t even know why.

Yet.

“You’ve got the prettiest eyes...” you murmured, running your fingers through one side of his hair.

He swallowed.

You didn’t give him time to answer.

“Let’s get you somethin’ sweet,” you said suddenly, spinning away with a skip in your step. “I bake too, you know. You want peach or apple?”

His breath caught. “Uh—whichever’s fine, I—I’m not picky.”

You turned back to look at him over your shoulder, bathed in morning haze, and winked.

“Oh, Remmick.”

You almost felt sorry for him.

Almost.

You were going to ruin him.

You took his car apart that same night.

He’d begged you not to. Hands trembling, voice low but desperate. He didn’t scream—Remmick didn’t do much screaming, not even then. But you still remembered the sound his voice made when it cracked. The way he said your name like it meant something.

You’d just smiled. Crouched down in your dress and pinned-up hair and unbuttoned collar, fingers slick with engine grease, wrench clutched tight in your fist.

And piece by piece, you’d taken apart his only way out.

He stood there the whole time, fists clenched, jaw set. At one point he tried to stop you—reached out, just barely, like he might grab your wrist—but the glare you gave him made his hand drop. And then it was done. A gutted carcass of a car left to rot at the edge of your fields, tires rolled into the barn, battery sunk at the bottom of the swamp.

The next morning, he asked if you’d help him call a tow.

And you told him he wasn’t leaving.

He stopped asking after that.

The first body he saw you drag was two nights later. A man with too many rings on his fingers and not enough brains in his head, who’d thought he could “have a taste” before paying for eggs. You stabbed him in the neck with the edge of a broken shovel.

Remmick had walked in as you were sawing off the feet. You looked up, breathless and smiling, drenched in red, and asked him to bring you the tarp.

He didn’t move at first. Just stared.

And then turned and walked out.

You found him on the porch ten minutes later, staring out at the cornfields like they might lift up and take him away.

But they didn’t.

So the next time, when the meat truck driver with the twitchy mustache came looking for more than pork, you let him watch from the doorway. You made sure he saw the man’s eyes roll back. The way his body twitched. The way you licked your fingers clean.

You asked if he wanted a bite.

He said nothing.

But a few hours later, when you left the heart on the barn table, you returned to find they’d been eaten.

He never mentioned it. Neither did you.

Eventually, you replaced the brass knobs with silver ones. Polished until they shone like moonlight. You didn’t bother pretending it was decorative. You wanted him to feel it. To remember. If he ever got the bright idea to leave again, you wanted the first thing he touched to bite back.

He tried sneaking out twice more after that. Once through a window on the top floor, and once during a storm when he thought you were asleep.

Both times you caught him.

The second time, he flinched like he thought you might actually hurt him.

You didn’t.

You just stood in the doorway, hair soaked, nightgown clinging to your skin, and whispered, “Aren’t you tired yet?”

And that time, for once, he answered honestly.

“Yeah.”

After that, things changed.

Not all at once. Not overnight.

But slowly.

At first, he refused to touch you. Wouldn’t meet your eyes. Would sleep curled up on the far edge of the bed with his back turned and his arms tight around himself, like maybe if he stayed small enough, he’d disappear.

You didn’t push.

You just waited.

He folded eventually. They always did.

The first time he kissed you back, it was barely more than a flicker. A slow lean in, a tilt of his chin, a clumsy meeting of lips.

You’d felt him tremble.

You’d loved it.

He told you once, maybe a month in, that he still hated you.

You smiled and kissed his jaw.

“Don’t matter,” you said. “You’re here.”

And that was the truth of it.

He was here.

He fed now. Always after you were done dismembering, always with a grimace like he was swallowing bile instead of blood. But he fed. And he held you after. Hands warm and calloused on your back, mouth soft against your neck. Like he couldn’t bear to be alone in those moments. Like the only thing worse than touching you was not.

You cooked every night. He sat at the table, sometimes talking, sometimes just listening. You’d watch his hands curl around the chipped ceramic mugs like he was still trying to remember what they were for.

And in bed—well.

He stopped sleeping with his back to you. Started pulling you in instead. Kisses before sleep, lazy and familiar. Limbs tangled in the sheets. Sometimes he’d trace your scars in the dark. Sometimes he’d ask about them. You’d always tell the truth. That you gave as good as you got. That the world didn’t give kindness easy to girls who looked like you.

He understood that. Maybe more than he wanted to admit.

There were fights. Of course there were.

He’d snap. You’d scream. He’d accuse. You’d threaten. Sometimes it ended with him storming off to the barn, fangs out, chest heaving. Other times it ended with you crying on the kitchen floor while he wiped whispered your name like an apology.

But he always came back.

And you never asked for more than that.

Now it was fall.

The corn had gone brittle and gold. The apples were heavy on the trees. The air snapped cold at night, and Remmick wore one of your father’s old coats, sleeves too big buttons half-missing.

You still killed.

And he still fed.

And sometimes, when the silence between you got too thick, you’d rest your head on his chest and he’d murmur things you didn’t understand in some tongue you couldn’t name.

You never asked what it meant.

Didn’t need to.

He was yours now.

And you were so good at keeping things.

You made pancakes that morning. Thick and golden, stacked high with butter sliding slow down the sides, pooling where syrup had already soaked through. Eggs sizzling in bacon grease. Coffee dark enough to chew. The kitchen smelled like warmth, like spice, like something that should’ve belonged to a family and not just the two of you.

You hummed while you cooked, flitting from stove to counter in your house slippers and a nightgown far too thin for autumn, not that you cared. You liked the way Remmick’s eyes always tried not to follow you, like he was doing you a favor by pretending not to want.

“The chickens are still laying good,” you said cheerfully, plating everything up. “Might be the best season they’ve had in years. That big red one—you know the one—she’s been peckin’ at the fence again. I swear she’s gonna fight a fox one day and win.” You giggled to yourself, setting his plate in front of him. He didn’t meet your eyes.

“And Josephine’s doin’ so good. Belly full and happy, just like she oughta be. Did you see the way she rolled over yesterday? Like a puppy dog.” You laughed again, loud and delighted, sipping your own coffee while Remmick finally cut into the stack of pancakes like they might bleed if he took the knife to them too hard.

“She’s got that look about her, you know,” you said. “Satisfied. Like she knows she’s loved.”

Remmick winced.

You saw it, even if he tried to hide it behind a mug. You leaned in across the table, smiling slow. “She is loved, of course. I always take care of what’s mine.”

He didn’t respond. Just nodded, jaw working behind a thin smile. Took another sip of coffee. Said, “We oughta check those fences ‘round the southern field, too. Some of them posts were leanin’ last week.”

You blinked. That wasn’t the answer you wanted.

You tilted your head, syrupy sweetness still dripping from your voice. “Did you hear me, sugar?”

He nodded again, a little tighter this time. “I did.”

“Then why’re you talkin’ about fences?”

“I just—figured we had work to do is all. Y’been sayin’ the corn needed turnin’ and the pigs—”

“Why are you changin’ the subject?” you asked, flatly this time. No sing-song. No hum.

His mouth opened. Then closed. You stared.

“Was just… wasn’t meanin’ nothin’ by it,” he said finally. “Ain’t think ya wanted me commentin’ on Josephine like that.”

“Well I do want you commentin’,” you said. “I like to know what you’re thinkin’. It ain’t fair to shut me up in my own kitchen, Remmick.”

“I wasn’t—” he tried, but you cut him off with a smile sharp enough to bleed on.

“I tell you everythin’, don’t I? My thoughts, my dreams, the way I see the world. You know all about me. So it only seems fair you give a little too.”

He looked back down at his plate.

You stood, slow, and circled the table. “Or maybe,” you said, quieter now, closer, “you just don’t like the way I talk. That it?”

“That’s not it,” he said quickly, looking up—finally.

You put a hand on his shoulder. “You think I talk too much?”

“No, I—”

“Think I’m too much?”

“No, darlin’, I don’t—please—”

Your fingers tightened. “You think I’m crazy?”

His silence said enough.

You tsked, sweet again. “You wouldn’t still be here if I was.”

He didn’t say anything.

You leaned in. Nose to his temple. Lips just behind his ear. “Would you?”

He exhaled shakily, fork clinking against the plate.

You knew that sound. You loved that sound. Because no matter what he said, no matter what words left that pretty mouth of his, his body always told the truth. He hadn’t run. Not really. Not in weeks. Not since the night you caught him watching you strip down to wash the blood from your skin and he hadn’t looked away even once.

You pulled back, patted his shoulder like it was all a game, and moved back to your seat.

“I just don’t like feelin’ like a bore,” you said lightly, sipping your coffee again. “Or worse. Like an embarrassment.”

“Yer not,” he murmured.

You smiled, but didn’t thank him. You didn’t need his pity.

You watched him eat in silence for a while. He never looked up. Never wiped the syrup off his chin. Never once reached across the table for your hand like he sometimes did in the quiet hours of night.

You hated that.

You cleared your throat. “Josephine is happy, you know,” you said again, voice brighter now. “I know she is. She’s a good girl.”

Remmick just nodded, mouthing an agreeance.

You narrowed your eyes. “You really don’t think so?”

“I said she’s a good girl.”

“You didn’t mean it.”

He looked at you again, and something mean flickered behind his expression. Something annoyed. But still, he gave you a thin smile, syrup-slicked and hollow. “She’s real lucky,” he said.

“Yeah,” you replied, voice steely. “She is.”

And you let the tension hang there. Let the air get tight. Let the silence cling.

And then—abruptly—you stood. Chair scraping against the floorboards, his plate in hand, walking toward the sink like your body was pulling you away before your mouth could say something stupid. Something dangerous.

You rinsed the syrup off the ceramic in one motion, hands steady, water hot, steam climbing. The sound of the faucet filled the space behind you where Remmick sat, stiff and unmoving.

You stared down into the drain like it could quiet your mind.

He was trying to upset you on purpose. That much was clear now. He wanted a fight. Wanted the cold shoulder. The punishment. Maybe he thought if he pushed hard enough, made himself unbearable enough, you'd let him go. That you'd get bored. Give him an out.

You smiled, tight and sour.

Cute of him to think he could manipulate you.

You braced the plate against the edge of the sink. Just a little pressure. Just a test. Wouldn’t take much. A tap, really. Crack the porcelain, snap a piece off, drag it clean across that throat of his. Watch the life pour out of him in ribbons. Let Josephine have her fill and then some.

Your hands began to tremble. With excitement. With want.

You drew a breath. Let it settle.

Then you turned, eyes wide and sunny. “Since you’re so concerned about chores,” you chirped, drying your hands on a towel, “I think you can handle ‘em yourself today.”

His head lifted. “What?”

“You heard me,” you said, breezy and bright. “You wanna keep fussin’ about the south field and the leanin’ posts and all the other nonsense? Be my guest.” You walked back to the table, hands on your hips, gaze flickering down his body just for the fun of it. “I think you’ll look real nice swingin’ that axe.”

He started to argue. You could see it—the beginning of a protest rising in his throat. But something stopped him. Maybe it was the way your fingers tapped the table edge. Maybe it was the way you didn’t blink. Maybe it was the thought that you weren’t asking.

He sighed. Long. Heavy. “Fine.”

You beamed. Then followed him out the front door.

The clouds hung low like an omen. Gray and slick, heavy with promise, just shy of rain. Wind pushed through the fields in slow rolls, rustling the corn, sending the trees creaking and moaning. The animals were restless.

And you were gleaming.

You watched from the porch as Remmick hoisted the feed sacks into the wheelbarrow, his muscles shifting beneath the sleeves of his shirt. It had once been his Sunday best—sky blue, pressed and tailored—but now it hung looser across his frame, stained at the collar and fraying at the wrists.

You’d done that to him.

You’d made him work.

You’d made him stay.

“You look so handsome when you lift heavy things,” you called out, voice sing-song, arms crossed as you leaned on the porch rail.

He ignored you.

You grinned wider. “You know I’d climb you like a tree if you’d just say the word.”

He stopped at the gate, stiffened, then kept walking.

You giggled.

The wheelbarrow wobbled down the gravel path toward the pig pens. You trailed behind him like a shadow, arms swinging, breath light.

“You could at least thank me,” you said sweetly.

“For what?” he asked, without turning.

“For lettin’ you earn your keep.”

He muttered something under his breath, probably a curse.

You leaned your head to the side. “Say that louder, sugar.”

He set the feed down hard, enough to make the pigs squeal.

“I said—” he began, turning to you.

But whatever heat he meant to throw fizzled quick under your stare. Because you weren’t angry. You weren’t pouting.

You looked delighted.

You looked hungry.

And something about that scared him more than your rage ever had.

“Keep talkin’ to me like that,” you said, stepping closer, “and I might not let you come to bed tonight.”

“I didn’t—” he ran a hand through his hair. “I ain’t tryin’ to be disrespectful, alright?”

You reached out, brushed dirt from his shoulder. “I know.”

He flinched.

You laughed.

The rest of the day passed like a fever.

You didn’t lift a finger. Didn’t offer to help with the crops or the troughs or the compost. You just watched. Sat with your legs swinging from the porch or tucked beneath you on the fence rails, humming and calling out compliments like a proud wife.

“Look at you,” you purred when he rolled up his sleeves to clean the chicken coop. “Sweatin’ for me.”

He scowled.

You leaned in. “Don’t act like you don’t like it.”

His ears turned pink.

You nearly moaned with satisfaction. “Oh,” you sighed, hand to your chest. “You blush so pretty. I could eat you alive.”

He stood up too quickly, knocking his head on the coop’s frame. You howled with laughter.

He groaned, rubbing his scalp. “Christ, woman—”

You sauntered closer. Still laughing. Still beaming. Still thinking about the way his neck had flexed earlier while he hauled that feed. Still thinking about how tightly that belt clung to his hips.

“You alright, sugar?” you asked, voice dipped in faux-concern.

He grumbled something about being fine.

You just laughed again and kissed his cheek, ignoring the way he stiffened when you got too close. “Atta boy,” you whispered.

You turned your face to the clouds, the wind rushing through your nightgown, lifting it just enough for him to see the curve of your thigh.

And you saw it. The way his eyes flinched and darted away. The way his chest rose sharper. The way he hated this. Hated what you were doing to him. Hated that he couldn’t stop it.

You grinned to yourself, already fantasizing about that blush of his creeping lower, lower, until it spilled down his stomach and between his legs.

You could definitely get used to this.

“Don’t stop now,” you called sweetly, slipping back up to the porch and stretching across the swing like a satisfied cat. “Still plenty of daylight left.”

Remmick wiped his brow, biting down whatever curse sat on his tongue.

And went back to work.

That night, the house was quiet.

You lay in bed, arms tucked under your head, staring up at the ceiling as the soft splashes of water drifted from the bathroom down the hall. Remmick was in there, washing the day from his skin, muscles you’d watched flex all afternoon gliding beneath soapy hands.

You’d considered joining him.

More than a few times.

Considered waltzing in without a word, without permission, maybe still wearing your dusty day-dress—or nothing at all—and pressing yourself up behind him, palms flat against that broad back. Sliding your hands down his slick sides, hearing his breath catch in that way it always did when you got too close too fast.

You’d imagined biting his shoulder just to watch him flinch. Imagined how the soap would go sliding down the drain pink-tinged from his skin.

But you’d let him have his little win tonight. You’d taken the bath first. Given him the illusion of privacy he clung to so desperately.

You weren’t cruel, after all.

Well. Not always.

The nightgown you’d chosen was white, soft as river mist, and sheer enough to make an honest man sin. The thin fabric clung to your breasts, your stomach, the dip of your hips—and went nearly transparent where it fell between your thighs.

Remmick hated it.

Or, rather, he tried to pretend he did.

He always pretended not to look. Always tried to keep his eyes polite and his hands to himself. But somehow those hands always ended up wandering. A palm skating over your ribs. Fingers brushing your throat. A thumb pressing softly to your lips as though he could tug the words right out of you.

Tonight, you intended to make him work for it.

You sprawled across the bed, legs crossed, the nightgown bunched high on your hips. Waiting.

When he finally came out of the bathroom, steam rolling past him into the hallway, he froze.

He stood there in nothing but a towel, hair still wet, water dripping down the hard line of his chest. He looked half a wild thing—eyes wide and uncertain, mouth parted as if he’d forgotten how to speak.

Your lips curled into a slow, wicked smile.

“Somethin’ wrong, sugar?” you asked, voice like honey.

He blinked hard, as though trying to reset his brain. “N-no. Just… just gettin’ dressed.”

“Mm-hm.” You trailed your fingertips down your own stomach, slow and deliberate. “Don’t let me stop ya.”

He forced himself to move, crossing to the dresser, trying so hard to keep his eyes on the drawer pulls instead of the stretch of your thighs. You watched his throat work as he swallowed, watched the muscles in his arms twitch when you shifted on the mattress, making the gown slip another inch higher.

He pulled on a pair of loose cotton pants. No shirt. Not yet.

He tried to climb into bed.

You stopped him with your foot.

Pressed it lightly against his bare chest, right over his heart, so he couldn’t swing his legs onto the mattress.

He stilled, glancing down at your foot, then back up at your face. “Darlin’…”

“You grumbled all day,” you started, cocking your head to the side. “Got on my nerves somethin’ fierce.”

He flushed. “I… I ain’t mean nothin’ by it—”

You smiled, far too sharply.

“So you can sleep on the floor tonight.”

“I ain’t sleepin’ on no damn—”

You dug your heel in deep, enough to make him wince. “Come again?”

He kept his mouth shut.

“You wanna sleep beside me, sugar, you’re gonna have to earn it back.”

“Darlin’…” he breathed. “Please…”

“Earn it.”

He lowered himself to his knees, hands sliding up your calf, pressing reverent kisses to your ankle.

“Start there,” you murmured, voice gone breathy. “Make it up to me.”

He did.

He kissed his way up your shin, warm lips brushing your skin so softly you wanted to scream. He paused at your knee, pressing his forehead to it, breath shaking. Then he moved higher, mouth finding the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, sucking gently enough to leave a shiver behind.

He skipped over the slick heat between your legs entirely.

Coward.

You decided not to scold him. Not yet. Let him think he could get away with it.

He climbed higher, pressing soft kisses to your stomach, your ribs. His mouth lingered at the curve of your breast, hovering for a long moment before he finally took a nipple between his lips, sucking slow and careful. His fangs scraped lightly against the peak, just enough to make your breath catch.

You let out a low sound, fingers sinking into his hair.

He flicked his tongue over the sensitive bud, then drew back to kiss your other breast, open-mouthed and damp, leaving little trails of saliva cooling on your skin.

“Remmick…” you breathed, tugging him higher.

He obeyed, rising over you, chest brushing yours as he caught your lips.

You let him kiss you first. Let him keep it sweet. Chaste.

But then you seized it.

You tilted your head, lips parting wide, tongue diving past his as your teeth scraped his lower lip. The kiss turned messy and consuming, your moans vibrating into his mouth as you devoured him, letting the drool he’d been fighting so hard to swallow spill out, slicking your chin, your chest, his mouth shiny and wet.

You pulled back with a soft pop of suction, lightly tapping his cheek with your fingertips.

“Forgot somethin’, sugar.”

He blinked at you, panting, lips slick and parted. “Wh-what…?”

Like he didn’t know.

You raised your brows expectantly.

A flush crept up his throat as he ducked his head, shuffling back down your body.

Then his tongue pressed flat against your folds in one long, devastating stroke, licking from your entrance all the way to your clit, your thighs falling wider.

You let your head lull back, smiling knowingly.

Now he was earning it.

Remmick’s tongue pressed in again, this time slower, deliberate. He licked you in long, languid strokes, as though savoring each new slick taste, letting your wetness coat his tongue before pulling back just enough to breathe.

You felt his breath stutter against your cunt, hot and shaky, a tiny tremor in the wet heat of his mouth.

“Mmm… s-sweet… s’so… sweet…” he mumbled, half to himself, eyes fluttering closed as he flicked his tongue over your clit in soft, teasing circles.

A laugh bubbled out of you, high and breathless.

“Listen to you,” you gasped, voice shivering as he laved another stroke through your folds. “God, look at you. All that big man act, and here you are… drooling for my pussy.”

He let out a muffled, broken sound, as if your words cracked him deeper open. His lips sealed around your clit and sucked gently, sending lightning shooting up your spine.

“Oh fuck— Remmick—”

He groaned into you, the vibration rippling through your cunt. And something shifted then—some thin line of control snapping tight and then giving way.

Suddenly he wasn’t slow anymore.

He dove in with reckless hunger, tongue plunging into your entrance, twisting and writhing as if he were trying to bury himself inside you. His big hands gripped your thighs, squeezing bruises into the soft flesh as he pulled you open wider, forcing you to take every filthy lick.

Wet, wet sounds filled the room—obscene slurps and slick, messy laps. Your own moans rang out sharp, trembling, each one higher than the last as your hips bucked against his face.

“Fuck—fuck, Remmick—don’t stop—”

But he wasn’t listening anymore.

His fangs grazed you, just shy of biting, scraping along your swollen lips and making your breath catch in a ragged cry. He growled low in his throat, and you felt his tongue working frantically, plunging deep and withdrawing to flick over your clit with quick, feverish laps.

Drool spilled from his mouth, mingling with your slick until it coated his chin, dripping down the insides of your thighs.

“God damn,” you choked out, half laughing, half moaning as you fisted your hands in his hair. “You hear yourself? The noises you’re makin’? You sound pathetic.”

He lifted his head barely an inch, eyes wild, pupils blown crimson. His lips were glistening, shiny with your wetness, and a thread of drool hung from his lower lip as he panted.

“C-can’t help it… y’smell… s’sweet… s-so fuckin’ good—wanna live here—” His voice broke as he stuttered forward, burying his face between your legs again.

He moaned shamelessly, loud and aching, as his tongue fucked into you faster, deeper, almost frantic. Each thrust of it sent jolts of pleasure rocketing through your belly, your thighs quivering around his head.

Your own laughter turned ragged, punctuated by sharp, gasping cries.

“Ohhh, Remmick—shit—y’gonna come just from eatin’ me out, huh? That how easy you fall apart?”

He whimpered into your cunt, hips rolling uselessly against the bed as if he were trying to rut the air. The needy, broken sounds poured out of him, half-words and trembling moans, all muffled into the heat of your cunt.

“Please… need… m-make ya come—lemme—need t’—fuck, fuck—”

You threw your head back, eyes rolling, your laughter dissolving into a long, helpless moan as he sucked your clit between his lips, flicking it rapidly with the tip of his tongue until your whole body seized.

Your hands twisted in his hair, pulling him closer, grinding yourself against his mouth with reckless abandon.

“Shit—shit—Remmick—oh God—”

His fangs grazed you again, and that tiny brush of sharpness tipped you over the edge.

Pleasure crashed through you in a blinding wave, your hips jerking wildly as you cried out, your voice echoing around the room.

Remmick just held you there, moaning into you, tongue still lapping as if he’d never get enough, chasing every last drop you gave him.

And as you came down, trembling, breathless, a grin split your lips.

Remmick was still kneeling there, shoulders heaving, his face a disaster.

His mouth, chin, and neck glistened, dripping with slick and spit, globs of it slowly sliding down his throat. His lips were parted around shallow, panting breaths, eyes shimmering wet in the lamplight.

“D-darlin’…” His voice broke, hoarse and shaking as he licked at the mess still streaking his lips. “C-can I… please… get in bed now? My… my knees’re hurtin’ somethin’ awful…”

You tilted your head slowly to one side, pressing a finger to your chin in a big, exaggerated gesture of contemplation.

“Hmmm…” you said, dragging it out as you fluttered your lashes at him. “No.”

He blinked, stunned, a pitiful whimper catching in his throat. “Wh… why not…?”

“Took you long enough, ain’t it?” You swept your nightgown down over your thighs, smoothing the fabric, then shot him a look as sharp as broken glass. “I’m exhausted now. I could’ve run the entire farm twice while you were trying to figure out how to use your tongue.”

His face crumpled, an embarrassed flush crawling up his neck. “I—I was tryin’ so hard—”

“Try harder next time,” you said sweetly.

And with a sudden snap of your leg, you kicked him in the chest. Not viciously—but just enough force to knock him back so he landed flat on the floor with a little oof, arms splayed out like a ragdoll.

“Goodnight, sugar,” you chirped, already turning your back on him.

You were up before the sun, apron tied snug around your waist, hair pinned back in curls, humming to yourself as you cracked the eggs and watched the whites sizzle in the pan. “Sun ain’t even had her coffee yet,” you whispered to the stove, eyes bright. “Lazy thing.”

You swayed from side to side as you moved, bare feet brushing the floorboards, the hem of your dress dancing over your ankles. The smell of butter filled the air, thick and golden, pooling around fried potatoes and fresh sausage, two links for you and four for Remmick.

You liked watching him eat. Liked how quiet he got when his mouth was full. Liked how he always chewed so neatly, so polite. You glanced over at the second plate and sighed dreamily.

“What a night,” you said aloud, to no one in particular. “What a night.”

You weren’t sore—not exactly. But you could still feel the ghost of his mouth between your legs, the way he’d whimpered like a dog, like a man starved. “Poor thing,” you cooed to the skillet. “Workin’ so hard just to sleep beside me.”

You flipped the eggs. Behind you, the house creaked. You didn’t flinch. Just smiled, humming a little louder as you reached for the biscuits you’d baked an hour earlier. They were still warm in the basket, soft and flaky, slathered in melted butter and clover honey. You licked your finger clean as you set them out, plate after plate until the table looked like it belonged in a painting—except better, because it was yours.

Remmick was still upstairs. Still sleeping, probably. You wondered if he was dreaming.

And then, just as you laid the final fork down—a scream.

Loud. Wet. Ragged.

You beamed. Clapped your hands once, delighted. “Oh! There he is!” You wiped your palms on your apron and flounced toward the table, adjusting a napkin, fixing the syrup pitcher so the handle faced just right. Another scream—this one more guttural, panicked, echoing down the staircase. You could hear him stumbling against the walls.

He made it to the first landing with a thud. Then again at the bottom of the stairs, thumping into the hallway like he’d tripped over his own feet—or maybe just from the pure shock of it.

You leaned over the plates and breathed in deep. “Smells like love,” you sighed, and then turned just as—

“Darlin’—!”

Remmick burst through the kitchen doorway, rattling the frame so intensely you thought it’d crack. His chest was heaving, shirtless, still damp with sleep, pants barely pulled up right. His hands were shaking. His eyes were glassy and rimmed with red. And wrapped tight around his throat—smoking faintly with every frantic tug—was the collar. Thick. Tight. Silver.

His fingers trembled as he tried to yank at the buckle again, hissing when his skin touched the metal. You watched it burn him. Watched him keep going anyway.

He caught himself before he spoke, swallowing his curses, his breath, all of it down deep. Then he plastered on the sweetest expression he could muster and stepped forward, voice cracking with the effort to stay gentle. “D-darlin’,” he said, “what… what’s on m’neck?”

You tilted your head, blinking at him with wide-eyed fondness. Then giggled. “Oh, Remmick,” you whispered, sweeping forward and throwing your arms around him before he could back away. “Good mornin’, sugar!” You kissed his cheek, lips brushing sweat. He flinched. Hard. But you didn’t let go. You nuzzled into his neck, ignoring the acrid scent of silver against skin. “Ain’t you just the handsomest thing?”

He opened his mouth again, but you beat him to it. “I found it last night,” you explained, not even looking up. “Rummagin’ through the cellar after you fell asleep. Belonged to one of the old hounds my daddy used to keep. Can’t for the life of me remember his name. Wasn’t a very nice dog anyhow. Died real sudden. Think he got into the swamp.” You giggled at that. “But it was good silver. Can’t just let good silver go to waste.”

Remmick’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Did you…” he started, voice barely there, “…did you put it on me while I was sleepin’?”

You turned, eyes bright as dew. “I sure did,” you said, like it was the most romantic thing in the world.

He went quiet. You returned to your chair and sat, folding your napkin in your lap. “You wouldn’t’ve let me if you were awake,” you added with a little shrug. “So I gave you the berries. Just a few. The ones that make your head all foggy and slow. Little bit of that’ll knock out a bull!”

His face paled. Remmick stayed where he was, breathing hard, the faintest whimper leaking from between his teeth as he tried and failed again to pry at the collar. You could see the skin starting to welt, to bubble faintly at the edges, little angry red patches spiderwebbing across his throat. But he was too scared to yell. Too scared to scare you. He knew better.

You placed a hand on your hip and gestured to the table. “Now,” you said sweetly, “I made you breakfast. Sit.”

He didn’t move. So you stepped toward him again, slowly, and took his hand. “It’s alright,” you whispered, leading him gently. “Ain’t nothin’ to cry about, sugar. I think it suits you.”

He let you seat him. You slid his plate in front of him and kissed the top of his head. The collar hissed. You smiled. Then rested your elbows on the table, cupping your cheeks as you stared across at Remmick like he was the center of the whole world.

He hadn’t touched the food yet. Still trying to remember how to move with a burning collar around his throat. Still calculating how much pain each twitch of his head would cost him. But finally—finally—he lifted the aluminum fork with a trembling hand and sliced off the edge of a runny egg. He didn’t look up. Not once.

You leaned in closer, breath quickening as he tilted his head the tiniest bit, wincing when the silver sizzled against his neck. Oh, it sang for you. Right before he could slip the bite between his lips—

“STOP!”

He froze. His whole body jerked with it—shoulders stiff, fork halfway to his mouth, eyes going wide like a deer in headlights.

You gasped and slapped your palms on the table with a dramatic squeal, chair skidding back as you stood. “Don’t move a muscle,” you warned, grinning ear to ear. “Almost forgot your surprise!”

His mouth opened, but nothing came out. Frankly, you didn’t care what he would’ve said. You were already turning toward the cabinet. The tall one in the corner, one that neither of you really checked, which made it perfect. You opened it slow, savoring the creak of the hinges, fingers trailing along the bottom shelf like you were picking out fine china.

And then, from behind a bundle of dried herbs and spices—you pulled it out. Thick. Black. Shiny with oil. The leash.

Remmick didn’t make a sound, but when you turned around with it held high, his jaw dropped. Fully. Wide open, like he’d just seen a ghost. You cackled. “Oh, sugar,” you chirped, skipping back over to the table. “You should see your face!”

He blinked at you, stiff as a corpse. You laid the leash down on the table between the plates, smoothing the leather flat with one hand. It looked so good there. You couldn’t stop grinning. “I been meanin’ to fish this thing out for ages,” you said brightly, dangling it just a tad before putting it back down. “Didn’t even know if I still had it! My mama used to use it on that ugly dog. He hated it, poor thing. Choked himself half to death the first time she snapped it on.”

You beamed, as though recalling a fond memory. Remmick swallowed hard. Maybe it was spit. Maybe it was bile. Either way, it looked like it hurt.

“You excited?” you asked sweetly, batting your lashes at him.

His lips trembled. “Y… yeah,” he croaked, voice thin as paper.

You clapped, delighted. “Oh good! I was hopin’ you’d say that! We can take it for a lil’ test run after breakfast. Maybe do a walk ‘round the coop! Or down to the swamp, say hi to Josephine.” You leaned closer and dropped your voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “She’s gonna lose her mind.”

You dug into your food with a happy hum, cutting into your sausage and letting the juices soak the edge of your biscuit. Every bite melted on your tongue. You moaned, licking the honey from your fingers.

Remmick hadn’t moved. He just stared at his plate like it might bite him. You noticed. You didn’t mind. You gave him a look, head cocked, still chewing. “You’re eatin’ slow today.”

He blinked, startled. “I—I’m just tryin’ to savor it,” he offered, voice small. “It’s real good.”

You narrowed your eyes, fork mid-air. Then shrugged and giggled. “You’re so sweet to me, sugar. Always got such nice things to say when I cook.”

He smiled. Or something like it.

You jabbed a sausage link and made it dance on your fork, humming to yourself as you watched him cut another bite of egg. He moved like his limbs didn’t belong to him. Like every inch of him was fighting something inside. You loved it. It made your heart sing.

“Y’know…” you said thoughtfully, propping your chin on your hand. “I was thinkin’ last night. Right before I went to bed.”

He didn’t answer. Just kept chewing, slow and silent.

“I was thinkin’,” you went on, “that we oughta build a little shed out by the swamp. A real one. With a roof and a table and some hooks. Somethin’ sturdy.”

He looked up at that. Not all the way. Just a flicker of his gaze toward your face. You smiled back. “We could butcher ‘em out there. Hang ‘em up by the heels and drain ‘em before Josephine gets to ‘em.” You tapped your fork twice against your chin. “Bet you’d like that. Give you somethin’ to do with all that muscle. Show me how strong you are...”

Remmick’s mouth was a grim line. His fork had stopped moving. But he didn’t say no. Didn’t say anything at all.

You decided to let him be quiet today. Let him have this last calm before the leash clicked into place. Before the whole day rolled out yellow and warm at your feet. So you just hummed. And you watched him eat. Each bite slower than the last. Slower than anyone had any business chewing.

You kept your smile. Kept your tone light and your hands folded in your lap. You even hummed a little tune to distract yourself. But inside? Your nerves buzzed like hornets in a jar. He was dragging it. Just to spite you. Just to stretch out the moments before the inevitable. Bite after agonizing bite, chewing each mouthful like it might be his last—like the eggs might dissolve into a final miracle if he just waited long enough.

You tapped your fingers against the table once. Twice. Took a sip of coffee you didn’t want. Licked your lips and told yourself it was fine. That you were being patient. Kind, even. You hadn’t lost your temper yet. Proud of yourself for that, really.

But when he reached those last few bites—those very last crumbs of sausage and flecks of yolk smeared against his fork—you stood. Calm. Still smiling. And held out your hand.

Remmick paused mid-bite. His whole body tensed. But he didn’t argue. Didn’t whine or flinch or try to buy himself another minute. He just dropped his gaze, brought the fork to his mouth, and swallowed the last bit of sausage.

You snatched the plate from his hands the second he did. Light, sure. But quick. Sharp enough to make his shoulders jolt. You didn’t even rinse it. Didn’t pretend to care. Just tossed it into the sink with a clatter and turned back to him, your grin returning in full force.

Then you dropped. Right onto his lap. The chair creaked beneath the weight of you both, but you didn’t give it a second thought. You wiggled happily, thighs spread wide, grinding slow over the hard line of him through his pants. You felt the way he stiffened. Heard the way he sucked in a breath through clenched teeth.

And oh, how it delighted you.

Your fingers found the leash next—where it still lay coiled neat on the table. And you clipped it on. The snap of the clasp echoed like a gunshot. A soft hiss came from the collar, that same old burn—but not nearly as loud this time. Like the silver was running out of fresh skin to char.

Remmick whimpered low in his throat, flinching under you, and you took your sweet time drinking him in. Blisters had risen now, red and mean, dotting the edges of the band like broken pearls. But what interested you more were the strange deep marks traveling out in tendrils—like veins. Darker than blood, winding up his throat and slipping just beneath the skin of his collarbone. Like the silver was trying to root in him.

You pressed your thumb just beneath the burn, watching the skin give way, soft and hot to the touch. He twitched. And your stomach fluttered.

He looked... God, he looked beautiful. Absolutely wrecked. Exhausted. Skin flushed, lips parted, eyes glassy with pain. Like something you’d starved for.

You wrapped the leash twice around your wrist, tugging it just tight enough to make him blink. And then you kissed him. Open-mouthed. Wet. Devouring.

He made a wounded sound when your tongue slipped past his lips—like he didn’t mean to let it happen, but couldn’t stop himself. Like the leash did more than just keep him close. It made him obedient.

Your free hand cupped his jaw, thumb dragging along the sticky corner of his mouth, smearing spit from your kiss across his cheek as you leaned in harder, grinding again. You felt him twitch beneath you—felt the conflict thrashing in his hips. Part of him wanted to run. Part of him didn’t.

The leather between your wrist and his neck tugged softly as you shifted, and you giggled when his tongue jolted in your mouth—like a shock had gone through him.

You pulled back just enough to see his face. “Didn’t think I’d see you so flustered again,” you whispered, brushing your nose against his. “Thought you’d left all that self-respect between my thighs, sugar.”

His eyes darted over your face, sweat trickling down his temple. “I—I ain’t…” he started, but the words tangled and died before they found their way free.

You ran a hand through his damp hair. Then tugged the leash again. A sharp snap of silver tension, and he gasped, hips bucking up involuntarily beneath you.

You grinned. Leaned close again. “Y’know what I think?” you murmured, dragging your lips along the side of his face. “I think you like bein’ kept.”

“N-no…”

You pressed a kiss to the curve of his jaw. “Sure you don’t.”

You rocked again in his lap, slow and deliberate, dragging yourself over the bulge in his pants, feeling it throb beneath the weight of you. His hands gripped the sides of the chair like he was begging himself not to touch you.

You giggled and pulled his face to yours, nipping lightly at his lower lip. “Such a good boy,” you cooed. “Such a pretty, pretty thing.”

His breath hitched again, and you felt his thighs tremble beneath you.

And then—there it was. You saw it in the slow, uncertain twitch of his fingers. The way they unfurled one by one from the wooden frame of the chair, creeping up, hesitant, toward the soft give of your thighs.

You waited—let them rise just enough to ghost along the edge of your hips. Then you stood. Abrupt. Purposeful. Yanked the leash as you went and forced him to stumble up with you, nearly toppling the chair backward in his scramble to keep his footing.

You giggled, all teeth and joy when you caught the way his hips jerked forward with the movement—when you saw the thick, unforgiving bulge at the front of his pants.

“Well, look at that,” you cooed, head tilting sweetly as your fingers moved down to brush against it. He hissed softly through his teeth, already trembling again.

“There’ll be plenty of time for that later,” you promised with a wink. “But right now? I wanna test this little thing out.”

You gave it another playful tug, not hard enough to hurt, but just enough to make the collar snap taut against his skin again—just enough to watch the muscle jump in his throat as the silver hissed and sizzled fresh against his blisters.

He whimpered, eyes fluttering. But he didn’t speak. You wondered if it hurt for him to.

You turned on your heel and started toward the back door, your steps bouncing with glee, purposefully walking faster than usual—just to see if he could keep up. The leash stayed tight between you. His bare feet padded across the kitchen floor behind you in uneven, scrambling little bursts.

You didn’t look back. Not when the screen door groaned open. Not when you stepped out onto the porch.

The sun was already high, baking the roof tiles, bleached white and brutal overhead. But the trees lining the path to the barn were generous with their shade today, long-limbed and swaying, dappled light painting the dirt trail below.

You turned just enough to flash Remmick a grin over your shoulder. “You better keep up,” you chirped. “Wouldn’t want your pretty skin boilin’ off, would we?”

He didn’t answer. Just gave a tight little nod and braced himself as you set off—speedwalking now, steps quick and light, kicking up little clouds of dust as you went.

The leash tugged and bounced between you with every footfall, and more than once, you felt the tension snap sharp—followed by the soft, unsteady scuffle of Remmick nearly tripping behind you.

He never fell.

But oh, how close he came.

Each stumble sounded like a prayer, a bite-back whimper, a half-muttered “fuck” caught on the wind. And still, he followed. Always followed.

You beamed as you reached the wide barn doors and pushed them open with a loud creak, the hinges singing like they hadn’t been oiled in years. You stepped into the cool dark and let the leash slacken in your hand, uncoiling it from your wrist so it dangled freely now, just barely held in your grip.

Remmick panted behind you, cheeks flushed, sweat glistening at his hairline, and you turned to him like a proud hostess. “Well,” you said brightly, “get to work, sugar.”

His brow furrowed. “Work…?”

You gestured at the far wall, where rusted tools lined the hooks—shovels, axes, hammers, nails in glass jars, coils of wire and thick rolls of canvas tarp. All coated in a thin shimmer of grime. A few had darker stains. One of them still had a little chunk of something clinging to the handle.

“You sayin’ work like we didn’t already talk about this?” you asked, voice rising into a high, mock-wounded whine.

His brows pinched together, eyes flicking uncertainly toward the tools again.

You frowned, winding the leash tight—far tighter than you had earlier that morning—around your forearm, tugging him forward with little jerks as you took slow, deliberate steps deeper into the barn. He stumbled after you, hands lifted like he meant to soothe you.

“Wait—darlin’, I—I didn’t mean—please, I wasn’t forgettin’ on purpose, I just—I got distracted is all—”

“You forgot about our project, Remmick,” you said with a pout so heavy it almost cracked your face in half. “The shed, remember? Down by the swamp? We talked about it just this morning. You said it was a fine idea.”

You knew he hadn’t said a word in agreement, but he certainly wasn’t going to try and fight you on it.

“I—I know, I know,” he said quickly, nodding. “I swear I did—I just—my mind’s not been right since I woke up with this—this—thing—’round my neck—”

You yanked the leash hard, and he choked on the last word, the collar going taut again.

The sound it made was less of a sizzle now and more of a whimper, like the silver had grown tired of burning and instead burrowed itself down deep, content to throb inside his skin.

You gave him a sharp look—one that shut him right up.

“Start gathering,” you said, so flatly you surprised yourself. “Lumber’s in the corner. Nails’re on the shelf. You’ll need the hammer, the shovel, and probably one of those little saws too. Unless you wanna build it with your teeth, sugar.”

He didn’t argue. Just nodded once. And moved toward the tools.

You flounced back against the nearest hay bale and perched yourself there, crossing your legs with a lazy hum. And watched.

Hefting the heavier tools made his arms strain, muscles twitching in his bare chest—and only then did you remember he still hadn’t put a shirt on. The sun slipped through the slats in the walls in thin, golden stripes, but Remmick kept shifting to avoid them, ducking just slightly out of reach each time they threatened to graze his skin.

Every time he bent down to pick something up, you caught yourself biting your lip.

He really was pretty.

Especially with that chain trailing from his neck.

And oh, those marks.

Crawling further now. Right below his jaw, down toward his chest, some even skimming his chin in those vein-like streaks. Blooming like angry vines.

You tugged the leash.

He flinched.

Another tug. He stumbled.

You laughed.

He looked back, eyes wide with something soft and wounded—but didn’t say a word. Just nodded once more, gripped one of the thick wooden planks in both hands, and hoisted it up onto his shoulder.

“Mm-mm… grab two more while you’re at it, sugar,” you called sweetly. “And don’t forget the hammer! Crooked walls would make me so upset…”

He obeyed.

And you tugged again—just to watch the way his hands trembled, the way he jerked forward, like he was yours to puppet.

Which, of course, he was.

And you couldn’t wait to make him prove it.

You waited hours for the sun to get its selfish little behind out the sky. Too bright, too bold, too hot. She always liked to steal attention. You told her so—out loud, a few times, while watching from the kitchen window, arms crossed over your chest and leash wound in your hand like a ribbon of patience. But she finally tucked herself away. Which meant it was time to get to work.

Remmick had been building like a man possessed. Quiet, focused, bare chest and back damp with sweat, mouth going slack with every heavy breath. And oh, hadn’t he been good. All those planks cut to size, the posts dug straight, the frame already nailed tight. The walls were nearly done now, with only one side open to the swamp for your little friend to come and go as she pleased.

You sat in the grass nearby, knees hugged to your chest, cheek resting lazily on one arm as you watched the leash swing and tug with every movement of his neck. He was sweating. He was filthy. He looked beautiful.

“Take a break,” you chirped suddenly.

He hesitated—just for a moment—then set the hammer down, brushing his palms against his pants. “Don’t gotta tell me twice,” he said, and that smile—oh, that smile—blossomed out slow and real, his first honest one all day. No twitch behind the eyes. No edge of panic in his voice.

You beamed. He took a seat beside you, still too far, but you let it slide. For now.

You reached into the basket you’d brought and started pouring lemonade into a glass. Then paused. Thought better of it. With a bright hum, you pushed the whole pitcher into his lap.

“There you go, sugar. You earned it.”

He didn’t even hesitate—just lifted the pitcher and drank straight from it, throat bobbing with every deep swallow, jaw flexing as he gulped it down like water in the desert. You watched. You stared. Your own mouth went dry.

“I love watchin’ you drink,” you said dreamily, scooting closer until your bare shoulder touched his. “Like watchin’ a big ol’ dog at a water bowl.”

He choked on the last gulp, coughing softly. You patted his back, grinning, then plucked a sandwich from the basket—turkey, thick and cold with a generous smear of butter and two slices of tomato—and unwrapped it slowly.

Remmick turned his head, brows lifting.

“Oh, no,” you said, wiggling your fingers. “This one’s on me.”

And with that, you plucked off a corner of the sandwich and held it up to his mouth.

He hesitated. But not long. He opened, lips parting slow—and you didn’t just feed him.

You slipped your fingers into his mouth, slow and deliberate, feeling the soft heat of his tongue as he closed around them. Then deeper. Just a bit. Letting your fingertips slide past his tongue and press lightly against the back of his throat.

He didn’t gag.

Didn’t flinch.

Just held your gaze.

Steady. Obedient. Unblinking.

Slowly, you began to pull back, your fingers grazing the sharp points of his fangs on the way out—light, teasing, just enough to feel them graze your tips. A long string of spit followed, stretching wet and shimmering from his lips to your knuckles.

You lifted your hand, tongue darting out to catch the drool with a pleased little hum.

“There’s my good boy,” you murmured, feeding him another piece. “Makin’ up for bein’ so sour yesterday, aren’t you? Bein’ sweet now. Bein’ real sweet.”

He chewed and swallowed, his eyes flicking sideways, all that confidence sapped in an instance.

“Yer takin’ care of me,” he said softly. “It’s… real kind of ya.”

“Kind,” you echoed, like the word was candy on your tongue. “You think I’m kind.”

Another piece. Another bite. His lips brushed your fingertips this time.

You smiled. Wider. Licked your teeth.

When the sandwich was nearly gone, you dropped the last piece into his palm and watched as he finished it, your eyes locked on his mouth, your hands twitching in your lap. You didn’t say anything. You just stared. Until he looked up. And then you pounced.

You pushed him backward, fingers splayed over his chest, and climbed on top of him in one fluid motion, your knees pressing into the grass on either side of his hips.

He made a soft, startled sound—but didn’t fight. Didn’t move. Just blinked up at you, pink creeping up his throat.

You folded your arms on his chest and rested your chin atop them, gazing down at him, rocking just slightly where you sat.

“Have I been mean to you?” you asked, voice pitched soft. “’Cause I’ve been thinkin’ about it… and I worry I’ve been mean.”

He went tense beneath you. A full-body kind of still.

“No,” he said too fast. Too sharp. Then softened it. “No, darlin’. Y— y’ain’t been mean.”

“Really?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Are you sure?”

His bottom lip trembled. He bit it. But he nodded.

You grinned. Bright as the evening stars.

Then leaned down and peppered his face in kisses. Soft ones. Wet ones. One on the nose, one on the cheek, one at the corner of his mouth. His lashes fluttered with each press.

“My sweet boy,” you whispered. “My sunshine. My angel pie. My beautiful lil’ farmhand. Lettin’ me feed you, lettin’ me sit on you like this. Letting me love you.”

He made a sound—barely audible—but it buzzed against your lips as you kissed his jaw.

You sat up, straddling him, hands resting lightly on his ribs. Then he stiffened, suddenly.

Huff.

You blinked. Turned your head.

A slow grin split your face.

There she was, Josephine!

Her big eyes and broad snout breaking the swamp’s glassy surface, nostrils flaring.

“Well, well, well,” you cooed, tilting your head. “You want in on our picnic, baby girl?”

Josephine huffed again.

Remmick—still pinned beneath you—stared at her with wide, horrified eyes.

You turned back to him and leaned down close, nose brushing his.

“She likes watchin’,” you whispered. “Likes seein’ you be good for me.”

He swallowed, hard.

You gasped like he’d confessed to a crime and slammed both palms flat against his chest. “You ain’t even pet her yet!”

The thud from your hands knocked the wind out of him—he let out a stunned little grunt, halfway between a hiccup and a groan, like someone’d punched him in the ribs. His eyes blinked wide.

“I—I didn’t—didn’t know I was supposed to…” he stammered, breath catching as your hands stayed firm on his sternum.

“Remmick,” you said, voice low and grave as you leaned in close. “That girl has loved you from the moment she laid eyes on you. She welcomed you into her home—my home—and you haven’t even given her a single pat on the head?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again. “I—I don’t… I mean, she’s a gator, darlin’—”

“Oh, hush.” You were already on your feet, brushing dirt off your thighs, your smile bright as ever. The leash gave a soft tug as you wrapped it tighter around your fist. Remmick’s body stiffened.

“C’mon,” you said, sing-song. “On your feet, sugar.”

He sat up slowly, like his bones ached. “Darlin’, I dunno if that’s such a good—”

You gave the leash another gentle yank. Not mean, not yet. But the message was clear. “Now, Remmick.”

He stood without another word.

You led him by the collar all the way to the edge of the dock, your pace just a little too fast to be casual. When you got there you flopped belly-first against the old, sun-warmed wood, your feet kicked up behind you. The water lapped quietly beneath the boards.

You patted the dock beside you. “Get down here.”

He hesitated—but not for long. Soon he was lying stomach-down beside you, arms tense at his sides, chest rising and falling with slow, measured breaths. Like he was trying very hard to keep calm.

You reached out toward the water like you’d done it a thousand times before, fingers splayed wide, wrist loose. And from the murk below, Josephine rose. Just her snout and those big sleepy eyes, surfacing slow and steady, her nostrils flaring once in greeting. Her wide head pressed against your palm, and you scratched under her chin, down her neck, nails dragging over the thick hide. She made that low, slow, rolling sound again—somewhere between a growl and a purr.

“There she is,” you cooed, rubbing her head with both hands now. “There’s my good girl. My beautiful, scaly angel. God, you missed me, didn’t you, baby? You missed mama. You missed your treats.”

Remmick lay frozen beside you, not breathing. Not blinking. You could feel the tension in him, like a little live wire strung tight at the edge of the dock.

You pulled your hands back slowly and smiled at him. “Your turn.”

He looked at you like you’d asked him to saw off a finger. “I—I don’t think I should—”

You rolled your eyes, and your tone took on that extra sugary sweet edge it always did right before something snapped. “Remmick. She knows if you’re scared. She feels it. She’s an empath, remember?”

His mouth opened. “I—since when is—gators ain’t empath—”

“She’ll bite your damn hand clean off if you hesitate,” you added with a nod. “But no pressure.”

He gulped. And, with a hand that shook like a leaf, he reached out.

Josephine let him touch her—but just barely. He managed to graze a few fingers along her head, and for a moment she stayed put. Then she huffed through her nose and sank back down into the water, gone in a blink.

You sighed, fond. “She don’t like nervous men.”

“I—I wasn’t tryin’ to be—” he tried.

“Shhh,” you sounded, digging through the basket behind you. “She still loves you.”

You pulled out a turkey sandwich and leaned forward, tossing it into the water. “There you go, sweet pea,” you called, watching it land with a plop. “Just a snack, alright? I’ll get you a full meal soon. Promise.”

Josephine’s head rose again briefly. Then disappeared, sandwich and all.

You turned back to Remmick, your face practically glowing. “Ain’t she just the sweetest?”

He gave the water a long, slow look. His voice, when it came, was high and hoarse: “Y-yeah. Real sweet.”

Remmick’s breath had evened out, but yours hadn’t. You were too wrapped up in how soft his hair felt against your fingers, how his body melted so easily into yours tonight—like he was made to lay right here, head on your chest, arms circled around your waist, every inch of him lax and humming from the day’s work.

You’d let him clean you earlier. Run that sweet, reverent mouth of his between your legs while the bathwater turned lukewarm. He’d made dinner after, too, so gentle when he set the plate down in your lap and fed you the bits he noticed you liked most. He’d been perfect. So good you’d even considered taking the collar off.

The thought had risen up, a quiet little whisper in your brain, as you looked down at him just now—curled up against you like a dog freshly dried and warmed by the fire. For a moment, you’d imagined slipping your fingers under the clasp, lifting the chain from his neck, kissing the spot beneath. You’d even smiled at the idea.

But then you laughed. Out loud.

The sound made him twitch a little, like he’d heard it from underwater. You stroked his hair to soothe him, the warmth of his breath on your skin making it so hard to believe he’d ever been anything but soft. Silly thought. You weren’t taking the collar off. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Maybe never.

Your eyes had just begun to flutter shut when it came—a sharp pop from beyond the trees. Like a firecracker. Then the low hiss of rubber gasping its last breath. You blinked, cocked your head. Another few seconds passed. And then, right there through the window: the silhouette of a young man coming up the drive. White. Frazzled. Bag slung over one shoulder and both arms waving as he called out toward the house.

“Oh!” you squealed, lips already curving with glee. “Remmick!”

You cradled his cheeks and kissed his mouth, giddy as you shoved his face further into your chest.

“Remmick, wake up—we’re gonna do this one together, you and me!”

He grunted softly, blinking up at you, mind still foggy from almost-sleep. You didn’t wait for him to catch up. You practically threw the blankets back and hopped out of bed, breathless with excitement as your feet hit the floor. He sat up slowly, still dazed, brows furrowed like he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard.

“Someone’s here?” he mumbled.

“Mhm! On foot. Tire popped, I bet. Looks all helpless.” You giggled, digging into the back of your wardrobe. “I was wonderin’ how long it’d be before another one of ‘em showed up uninvited.”

He stood stiffly, the creak of bed springs behind you betraying his hesitation. You fished around the top shelf until your fingers brushed cool leather.

“Here it is!” you said, spinning around with the muzzle in your hands like a prize you’d won at the fair.

The blood drained from Remmick’s face. You practically skipped back to him, grinning from ear to ear.

“No, no—wait, wait,” he said quickly, stepping back. “I can behave. I—”

But you didn’t give him a chance to finish. You mounted him right there, legs wrapping tight around his waist as he stumbled back onto the edge of the bed, catching himself with both arms behind him. You clutched the muzzle between your teeth just long enough to use both hands to grab his face.

“You’re not in trouble, silly,” you whispered sweetly. “I’m proud of you.”

He didn’t move. You reached behind his head and clipped the muzzle into place, firm but not too tight. His jaw flexed slightly under the leather straps, but he didn’t fight it. He just closed his eyes for a moment like he always did when he wanted to pretend he wasn’t here.

“You’re my best helper, you know that?” you chirped, patting his cheek once it was secured. “But I don’t want you gettin’ any ideas before I’ve had my fun. Or gettin’ too hungry. You remember what happened last time.”

He blinked. You beamed, smoothed your hands down his chest, then slid off his lap and stood tall.

“I’ll be quick,” you promised, brushing down your nightgown and walking to the mirror, tilting your head back and forth. “They always say you should look your best for company.”

He didn’t answer, of course. Not with the muzzle on.

You could feel his eyes on your back as you grabbed a light shawl and wrapped it around your shoulders, humming quietly while you fixed your hair with your fingers. You heard him shift on the bed, a quiet creak of wood beneath his feet, the sway of the leash still hanging from his collar. You turned and offered him your hand.

He took it.

You led him downstairs with a big smile, reaching the door just as the knock came—a hesitant, almost embarrassed little tap. You looked back at Remmick once more, just to drink him in.

There he stood, framed by the moonlight pouring through the window. Eyes dark and still and tired, lips hidden behind the black leather muzzle. Leashed. Collared. Silent. Perfect.

You turned the knob.

And opened the door with a smile.

The moment your eyes landed on his, you felt your blood start to sing. Long blonde hair, pale and tangled in front of his forehead like he’d been running his hands through it. Blue eyes, too soft and mellow for someone his age. No older than twenty, if that. His cheeks were flushed with exertion, and he’d clearly been moving fast, his white button-down stuck to his chest with sweat, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, shoes caked in dry mud.

He started speaking before he’d even fully reached the porch. “I’m real sorry to bother y’all—tire blew out back on the main road, and I ain’t got a spare or no way to patch it, so I figured—”

Then he looked up.

You watched his mouth falter mid-sentence, eyebrows pulling together in a way that made your jaw twitch.

His gaze fell on you first. Your nightgown. Your bare feet. The smile that hadn’t dimmed even once. He squinted. Tilted his head just slightly. Looking you up and down like you didn’t make sense, like you didn’t belong here. You could see the words forming behind his teeth. Wondering whose house this was. Wondering if you were the maid or the mistress. You knew that look. You’d spent your whole life learning it.

But you smiled wider. Steadier. Tilted your head right back.

And then his eyes shifted. To Remmick. And oh, how they stuck.

The young man blinked. Once. Twice. His shoulders went taut, and his jaw clenched hard enough to crack. He didn’t even try to hide it—the long stare, the bewildered skim of his gaze over the leather muzzle stretched tight over Remmick’s face, the silver collar buckled low on his neck, the black leash clutched loose in your hand. Remmick didn’t say a word. Just stood behind you, silent and stone still.

The man's face rippled with something—confusion, disgust, maybe even fear—but he buried it fast. Took one full step back and cleared his throat, looking anywhere but at either of you.

“Y’all wouldn’t happen to have a spare tire layin’ around, would ya?” he asked quickly, voice breaking just slightly at the edges. “Don’t mean to impose. I’ll be on my way soon as I can.”

Your smile didn’t budge. “Sure we do,” you said sweetly. “It’s a little ways out back, but we’ll show you where it is.”

He nodded fast, grateful. “Thank ya. I really appreciate it.”

But you didn’t move. Not yet.

Because your mind was still ticking, loud and red and quick, on the ways you could end him. You pictured him bent over and gagging on the floor, his hands flying to his neck, eyes wide and wet as blood slipped through his fingers and soaked his shirt. You saw his head cracked open on a tree stump, the edge of your axe buried deep between those golden locks. You imagined peeling him apart slow, piece by piece, just to see how long it would take before his throat gave out.

He’d scream pretty. You knew it.

And if you let Remmick off the leash? If you took off that muzzle and gave him just ten minutes?

There wouldn’t even be blood left to mop up.

You stood there and stared, jaw slack with quiet delight, until the silence stretched too long.

A hand brushed yours gently. Large. Cold.

You blinked.

Remmick, still behind you, tilted his head down, muzzle twitching slightly as he nudged your arm. His palm hovered near, careful not to touch too much. Just a reminder. You’d been still too long.

“Oh,” you said suddenly, breath hitching with a laugh.

The man blinked. Nervous now.

You squeezed Remmick’s hand once as a little thank-you, then turned your grin back on the stranger like nothing had happened at all.

“Well, come on then, sugar,” you said brightly. “Let’s get you fixed up.”

And without another glance back, you stepped off the porch into the night, leash taut in your hand.

You took your sweet time with the walk to the shed. The man walked a few paces ahead, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. Remmick trailed close behind—head down, footsteps silent, muzzle already dark with spit.

It felt like walking a pig to slaughter. The thought made you smile.

“You from around here?” you asked casually, raising your voice just enough for the man to hear.

He glanced over his shoulder and shook his head. “Nah. I’m from up near Tunica. Just passin’ through.”

“Tunica,” you echoed, lips puckering in mock thought. “Ain’t that where the river bends all funny?”

He nodded, smiling faintly. “That’s the one.”

You hummed like you cared, hand swaying gently at your side. “And what brings you out this way?”

The man rubbed the back of his neck, shoulders slumping a bit. “I was comin’ back from a work trip. Construction job got cut short. Figured I’d surprise my boy by gettin’ home early.”

You cocked your head, grin sharp behind your teeth. “Oh, that’s sweet. Little one?”

He smiled a little wider. “Yeah. Just turned seven.”

“Even more reason for you to get back on the road quick,” you said, voice light as air. “Can’t have him thinkin’ Daddy disappeared.”

He chuckled politely, missing your tone entirely.

“You got a wife?” you asked, sing-songing it this time.

He looked back again and nodded. “Sure do.”

“Good,” you said brightly. “Means your son’ll still have someone to watch over him.”

Remmick inhaled sharply behind you.

It wasn’t loud. Not to anyone else. But you heard it. Felt it, even—the tight recoil of breath through that muzzle, the slight yank of the leash in your hand from where he’d jerked forward. You didn’t slow down. Didn’t look back.

The man turned to you fully now, brow furrowing. “…What’s that supposed to mean?”

You barked out a laugh so loud it echoed off the trees.

“Oh honey, nothin’!” you said, voice too high. “Meant it’s good someone’s there watchin’ him while you’re gone, that’s all! My brain just runnin’ ahead a bit, that’s all. Don’t mind me!”

The man forced an uneasy grin.

You rounded the final bend and reached the shed, looking even sturdier than how Remmick and you had left it earlier that day.

You gestured with a lazy wave. “Tires’re in the back. Light’s back there too.”

He blinked. “You don’t got a switch up front?”

“Nope,” you lied. “It’s one of them pull-chains. Back right corner.”

He hesitated, just a beat too long. Then stepped inside, head low, hands outstretched to feel along the wall.

You waited until his back was turned. Then reached out and undid the first strap of Remmick’s muzzle.

Click.

The second strap came undone slower. Your fingers lingered.

Click.

The muzzle dropped loose, hanging heavy from the bottom strap until you slid it off entirely. And there he was.

Mouth slick and twitching. Fangs fully bared. Saliva dripped down his chin in thick globs, smacking softly against his chest. His breathing was ragged now—barely controlled. Eyes blown wide, flashing red at the pupils, neck pulsing like a wild animal held too long by the throat.

You lowered your voice to a murmur. “Wait.”

His claws were already showing—both hands curled and trembling, fingers warped to talons, nails long and glinting in the moonlight. His arms flexed like they were begging to be loosed.

“I said wait,” you whispered again. “Let him find the light first.”

Remmick swallowed hard. He nodded once.

Inside the shed, you heard the young man shuffling farther in. “Can’t see a damn thing in here,” he muttered. “Y’all sure it’s in the back?”

You didn’t answer. You just watched the muscles twitch in Remmick’s jaw, the way his tongue darted out to wet his fangs. His hands clenched, unclenched. That breathy whine he let out—barely audible, like pain. He was holding himself back, just for you. Only for you.

A soft click. Then a low buzz. The lightbulb flickered once, then caught—glowing dim yellow in the far corner. The man turned toward it.

And Remmick moved.

It was a blur, really. A shadow that passed before it could be registered in the mind. He was on the man before you could blink—one claw buried in his shoulder, the other raking down his chest with a wet, splitting sound that sent a shock through the air. The man staggered, howling, shoes skidding on the wood floor slick with the evening’s humidity and his own blood. But the scream barely made it past his lips before Remmick’s teeth found his throat. Not deep enough to end it. Just a warning. Just enough to make him scream again.

Remmick didn’t kill him outright. Not this time. He made sure to stretch it out.

You stepped further into the shed, the door groaning shut behind you as your shadow fell over the two bodies. Your arms were crossed loose beneath your chest, the smile on your face softening into something dreamy and mean. Tender, even. Like you were watching a man recite poetry rather than slowly dismembering a living thing.

You crouched next to them. “Good boy,” you whispered. “So good for me.”

He didn’t look up, but you could see the satisfied tremor run down his back, his jaw twitching against the metal cage of his own control. You knew you wouldn’t need the muzzle. Not anymore. Not when he knew how much you liked to watch.

You’d taught him so well.

The man was still alive, writhing now—his pale lashes fluttering, chest heaving in broken spasms as he tried to speak around the ruined meat of his throat. It came out a gurgle.

Remmick had his claws hooked through his ribs, peeling back his shirt and skin like a page. The cartilage popped wetly. Something deep inside gave a muffled snap.

You cocked your head, breath catching, and let out a delighted little sound.

“Oh, that was a good one,” you said. “Do it again.”

His lips peeled back in a snarl—blood dripping from his chin, his fangs a mess of crimson and sinew. His glassy eyes snapped to yours, searching your face for every little flicker of praise. You didn’t even have to ask again.

He slid his claws deeper, dragging them downward with a slow, deliberate tug that sent shudders through what was left of the man. He jerked once. Twice. His legs kicked and went still.

Another rib snapped. Another noise from you—soft, breathless, touched with something like laughter.

You moved closer. The floor was red beneath your feet. The metallic smell filled your head, and you couldn’t help but to stick your tongue out, just to see if the air tasted how it smelled. It didn’t, to your disappointment.

You leaned into the man’s face this time, watching his eyes struggle to focus on you through the blur of blood and salt and panic.

“I was right, you know,” you cooed, brushing his hair back from his face, careful not to get blood on your dress. “About your wife. Your son. They’ll be just fine.”

His lips moved, but nothing came out.

Behind you, Remmick let out a moan—feral and needy, full of blood and longing. He’d sunk his teeth into the man’s stomach now, peeling muscle away from bone, his tongue lapping over the exposed cavity like a man possessed.

You turned slightly to watch him, resting your chin on your palm.

“You’re showin’ off,” you teased, voice sweet. “Tryna impress me, sugar?”

He made a sound that might’ve been a laugh, muffled by a mouthful of lung. You could see the shake of his hands—those gorgeous claws twitching, begging for more. His chest rose and fell with frantic rhythm. Still hungry. Always hungry.

You could always tell when he hit that point—when the blood wasn’t enough, when the meat beneath his tongue stopped satisfying and the ache between his legs outgrew the one in his belly. He was panting now, eyes locked on yours like he was starved for something you hadn’t fed him yet. His mouth twitched around the torn-open cavity of the man’s stomach, strings of gore catching on his fangs. His chest heaved. His claws flexed like they didn’t know what else to grab. And then he whimpered. That soft little sound he always made when the hunger shifted south.

You smiled back. Slow, loose-limbed and syrup-sweet. “Aw, sugar,” you cooed, stepping over what was left of the man on the floor. “Poor thing got all worked up, didn’t he? All full on blood and nowhere to put it?” His lips parted under the mess, his tongue flicking out slow and clumsy. He tried to nod, but his head lolled a bit to the side, too overwhelmed already to keep still. You reached out and cupped his chin, tilting his mouth up toward you. His cheeks were glazed in spit and gore, his breath hot against your palm. His eyes had gone wet and wide—unblinking. Pitiful.

“Look at you,” you whispered. “Such a filthy little thing.” He whined again, louder this time, and the sound vibrated all the way up your arm. “Down.” He dropped like a sack of bones. Not even a second’s hesitation. Muzzle gone, collar tight, blood still drying in patches across his jaw—and he went down like it was the only thing he knew how to do.

“Good boy,” you crooned, pushing your nightgown up past your hips as you stepped over to straddle his lap. “You want me to make it better?” His hands gripped the backs of your thighs, claws twitching, trembling with restraint. You laughed softly and cupped his face again—gentler now. You leaned in close, close enough to feel the heat of him thrumming like a furnace between your legs. He was already hard, already leaking, rutting helplessly up into the air like he couldn’t stand not being inside something.

“Aw, sugar,” you breathed against his lips, voice full of mock-pity. “You didn’t think I was gonna let you fuck me after all that mess, did you?” He blinked fast. Swallowed hard. His claws curled tighter into your skin. “Look at yourself,” you said, dragging your thumb across his bottom lip. “You’re drippin’. You’re disgustin’. You killed him like a pig and now you think you get a reward?” He nodded, frantic. “Mm. Maybe. But you’re gonna work for it.” You leaned in and drooled into his open mouth.

He moaned like you’d fed him salvation. Your saliva dripped down his throat, thick and warm. He swallowed it like he meant it—like it was communion, like it was blood. His eyes rolled back a little, lashes fluttering. One of his hands slid from your thigh to your hip, clinging like a lifeline.

“There we go,” you purred. “There’s my good boy.”

You sank down to your knees in front of him, dragging your mouth over the curve of his throat, lapping at the gore still caked beneath his jaw. He whimpered. Bucked once. The leash in your hand tugged taut when he tried to move too fast.

“Ah-ah,” you warned, mouth brushing his ear. “Be patient.” He was already crying. Tears welled in the corners of his eyes, thick and trembling. He sniffled once, just the barest hint of it, but it made your cunt clench anyway. You reached between your legs and wrapped your fingers around the base of his cock, already leaking through the fabric of his pants, dark and wet where the cloth clung tight.

“I’ll let you have it,” you whispered. “But you gotta make me come first. Think you can do that, Remmick?” He nodded violently. “You sure?” You dragged your thumb up the length of him, just light enough to tease. “You’re not gonna get greedy like last time, are you?” He whimpered again, eyes red and glistening.

You smiled. Leaned in. Bit his neck hard enough to draw fresh blood. Then you shoved him down onto his back and mounted his face. The sounds he made weren’t human. You don’t think they ever had been. He tongued you like a starving thing, like your cunt was the last source of freshwater in the whole Delta. His nose bumped your clit again and again, sloppy and desperate, until your thighs were shaking and your fingers were wound in his hair hard enough to hurt.

And all the while he moaned, shamelessly so. You ground down harder, slick soaking his face, his cheeks, his collar. You swore you saw his eyes cross when you spat again, let it drip right down into the mess between his lips. He sucked it in like breath as his hips bucked uselessly into the air, trembling beneath you.

His mouth was a mess—slick and starving, tongue working like it was trying to dig something out of you, like he thought if he licked deep enough he’d find god. But it wasn’t his tongue that made your breath catch like that, wasn’t his moaning or the obscene noises spilling up from between your legs. It was the fangs. You’d felt them graze you before—barely, just teasing little pricks of pressure when he got sloppy or hungry or careless. But now he was deliberate. Letting them drag sharp and slow along the tender seam of you, edged enough to sting, not enough to break skin. Not yet. They slipped over your folds, parted you with reverent care. Cool against the heat of your cunt. Maddening.

And then—goddamn him—he grabbed your hips. Both hands. Clawed fingers curling tight around your waist, holding you there, anchoring you like he thought he was in charge. Like you needed help to fuck his face. You felt the dig of his claws, not breaking skin, but close. Too close.

Any other time, that’d earn him a slap hard enough to ring in his ears. You’d drag him by the leash and make him beg for forgiveness, make him cry while you jerked him off just enough to feel it, then left him dripping and untouched on the floor. But not now. Not when your whole body was locking up, thighs trembling, belly tight and aching, the pleasure pulsing low and vicious between your hips like something with teeth. Not when his mouth was this good.

Your orgasm hit like a thunderclap—sharp and brutal and fucking filthy. It tore through you like lightning, blooming behind your eyes, down your spine, in your belly, all molten and obscene. Your vision went white. Your thighs clenched tight around his head, grinding down hard enough to bruise, smearing slick across his face and into his mouth as you rode out every last trembling second.

You moaned loud and mean, head tossed back, throat bare and aching with the sound of it. His fangs pressed firmer, dragged once more across your clit—deliberate, slow, cruel—and your whole body seized, another gush of come soaking his chin. It was too much. Too good. Too fast. He didn’t stop. Wouldn’t stop. Not even when your hips bucked to the side or your breath hitched high and painful like your lungs forgot how to work. He licked you through it, mouth open and greedy, drool and spit and slick all smeared together in a wet, glistening mess.

You seized the leash and yanked it with every ounce of strength you had, jerking his head back so fast it made his whole body flinch.

“I knew you’d get selfish,” you snapped, voice low, hot, vibrating with fury and lust. “I knew it. Couldn’t just behave. Had to grab me like you fuckin’ own me. Like you ain’t mine.”

His eyes rolled back for half a second like the leash alone could make him come.

You had already started to lift your hips when he finally came to. “No—no, no, no,” Remmick choked out, voice hoarse and shredded.

You stared down at him with disdain curling in your gut and heat pooling thick between your legs. But you didn’t stop him. Not when he pushed you back to the floor with a desperation so raw it made your cunt ache. Not when he climbed on top of you like a man possessed, already fumbling with the buckle of his belt like he thought he’d die if he didn’t fuck you right this second.

“I’m sorry—I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean it, please—please—I’ll be good, I swear—” His belt clattered to the floor. Buttons popped. He shoved his pants down far enough to free himself, cock flushed and slick and trembling with need. He was panting now, a sob catching in his throat as he lined himself up and pushed in.

You didn’t stop him. You watched him. Watched his face crumple with pleasure and relief the moment his cock sank into you, the moment he was back where he belonged. His mouth fell open in a silent moan, shoulders shuddering as he bottomed out, your cunt sucking him in like it had been waiting just for this.

“I’m sorry,” he choked, burying his face into your neck, into your mouth, anywhere you’d let him go. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—please don’t take it away—I need it, I need ya—” His tongue pushed through your lips like he was trying to crawl inside you completely, hot and sloppy, tasting of blood and tears and spit. He rutted into you hard, fast, helpless, sobbing into your lips as his hips snapped against yours with a punishing rhythm.

You groaned into his mouth, not from the force of it—but from how ruined he was. He was crying—no, sobbing—again, tears falling with every thrust.

“Look at you,” you said between kisses, teeth grazing his lip as he thrust deeper. “On top but never in charge. You’ll always be mine.”

“I know, I know—I know—I’m yours—I belong to ya—don’t send me away—don’t take it back—” You dragged your fingernails down his chest hard enough to make him hiss, then gripped his hips and dug your heels into the backs of his thighs, pulling him in deeper, harder.

“You want forgiveness?” you whispered against his ear.

He nodded, trembling.

“Then fuck me like you mean it, sugar.”

And oh, how he tried. Tried to rut into you like he could dig his way into your womb, tried to kiss you like his soul depended on it. He sobbed your name like prayer, like apology, like the only thing left inside him worth saying.

And when he came—God, when he came—it was like something broke loose inside him. Like all that hunger, all that grief, all that cracked and clattering need had finally found the smallest hole to spill through. His whole body went taut, muscles locking like he’d been struck by lightning, and then he howled. Loud and guttural and torn straight from the pit of his belly, as his cock twitched hard inside you and spilled deep. Thick. Endless. You felt it flood your cunt with a heat that made your back arch, made your thighs quake, made you clutch at his hair just to feel something hold you steady.

Remmick sobbed as he kept grinding into you, every pulse of his cock another desperate little claim, another pathetic apology that soaked the inside of you with seed. You wrapped your legs tighter around him, locking him in place.

“You stay right here.”

He whimpered again, collapsing fully into you, face buried against your throat, arms trembling as he tried to stay up on all fours but couldn’t. Couldn’t even hold himself up after the way he came. His hips twitched every time you clenched around him, milking the last thick spurts of come from him.

He moaned into your neck. Tried to thrust again. Failed. His cock twitched, spent and going soft, and his breath hitched like he might cry again.

“I didn’t mean to be bad,” he whispered, barely audible. “I was scared y’wouldn’t let me… I just wanted—just wanted to stay inside, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”

You turned his face to look at you. “You did bad,” you said, smiling. “But you made up for it.”

You kissed him—deep, wet, slow.

He melted. Boneless in your arms, body trembling, chest still hitching with the weight of what he’d given you. You kissed him again, sweet and slow, and tasted the remnants of his fear and relief on your tongue. And when you pulled back—just far enough to see the shape of his face, flushed and glistening—he said it. Soft. Raw. Almost ashamed of how much he meant it.

“I love ya,” he paused, then raised his voice. “I love ya so much it hurts. I—God, I’d die for ya, I’d kill for ya, I’d crawl in the dirt and stay there if ya asked. I can’t—” He shook, breath catching again. “—can’t be without ya. Don’t want t’ be.”

You just smiled.

“I know, sugar,” you said sweetly.

And without ceremony—without breaking that smile—you reached down and slipped the muzzle back over his face.

Click.

You gave his cheek a little pat, then rolled your hips just once—for the sole purpose of hearing him moan again, deep and pathetic behind the muzzle. His cock gave a feeble twitch inside you, and you laughed, light as dew.

He helped you get up. Still trembling, still leaking, still raw—you stood. His hands obeyed yours when you pointed to the corpse, and together you dragged what was left of the man across the yard. His body left streaks in the dirt. Pinkish-red. Bits of viscera caught on rocks and roots. You didn’t bother covering it up.

The moonlight was sharp tonight, painting the trees silver and casting your shadows long behind you. He followed without complaint, his leash slack between you, muzzle in place. Silent and obedient.

Beneath the water, still as stone, was Josephine. Her long body rippled once beneath the surface.

You gave her a low whistle.

She came.

All muscle and patience, her jaw parting with the faintest creak as you laid the man at the edge of the swamp. His head lolled sideways, hair matted with blood, one eye still open.

You sighed, almost wistfully. Then crouched down beside him, lips puckered in a kiss that never touched flesh. “Bon appétit, baby girl.”

Josephine surged forward with a pleased sound—more purr than growl—and you watched, grinning, as her jaws snapped wide and slammed shut over the man’s torso. The crunch echoed deep, wet and final.

Remmick sat beside you, still panting through his muzzle. You didn’t speak. Just leaned your head against his shoulder and watched your girl feed—limbs torn clean, guts strung out like ribbons, skull crushed between rows of ancient teeth. It took less than a minute for her to finish, and when she slipped back beneath the dark water with a satisfied grunt, the surface stilled as if nothing had happened at all.

You stayed there a while longer. Let the stillness settle over you like silk. Let your fingers toy with the leather strap of his leash. Let your pulse slow and even, heartbeat thumping with a rhythm made only for you.

Because you’d won. He was yours now. All yours. And the world, stupid little thing that it was, would keep spinning, none the wiser to what you were building out here. What you'd tamed. What you'd fed.

You rose at last, and he followed, crawling dutifully at your side.

The swamp swallowed the rest.

And the night? It sang just for you.

[sunbleachedfl13s]

THE PEARL FIC IS FUCKING DONEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE I MANAGED TO GET 21.4K WORDS ON ONE POST IM SO PROUD OF MYSELF

i'm gonna push out the creep!remmick drabble first though in hopefully the next 2-3 days since i need to proofread the pearl fic

[sunbleachedfl13s]

holy shit country music is so slept on

[sunbleachedfl13s]

how it feels to know if you dont write the story of the stupid people in your head then no one will and they’ll die with you

[sunbleachedfl13s]

okay a buffalo 66 bonnie and clyde brett x reader fic is officially in the works yall

[sunbleachedfl13s]

@remmicksgf has influenced me should i start writing a brett from eden lake fic

[sunbleachedfl13s]

pov a deer living in the woods

I'm torn between hunger and fear

[sunbleachedfl13s]

idgaf what that girls name is and you not acknowledging her actions makes you just as bad

so im assuming you’re referring to the racism/old tweet sitch here

its so stupid that instead of beheading the literal fascists controlling the world we waste our energy on flaming some nobody for their past mistakes

yeah, hayden shouldn’t have tweeted those things. they were wrong. the thing is, SHE KNOWS THAT.

the concept of nuance and personal growth should not be incomprehensible. she’s obviously grown as a person since those tweets.

but whatever, everyone is entitled to hate people. you can shit on hayden all you want. but you can hate someone quietly. so, whatever the opposite of picking fights with her fans unprovoked is. start doing that.

[sunbleachedfl13s]

you’re aware the ethel is a bad person, yes?

aw hell no im not doing this

[sunbleachedfl13s]

august night - remmick x fem!reader (chapter I)

chapter I - chapter II - chapter III

summary: it's the middle of the night in august and your husband isn't home, most likely spending his night with one of his many mistresses. but that didn't bother you as tonight was one of the many nights your lover, remmick, comes and spend some 'quality time' with you.

word count: 5k

warnings: smut, female reader, religious undertones, vampire sex, infidelity, bloodkink, blood drinking, blood loss, spit kink, oral sex, squirting, praise kink, slight mention of the hive mind, slight fluff at the end, remmick is down bad fr

author's note: my first ever fic, i was bored and wanted to write somethin'. i envisioned his lover to be black while writing this, i'm open to criticism to improve on my work, thank you so much for reading! enjoy!

The buzzing choir of cicadas enraptured your thoughts peacefully as your forehead that glisten with sweat pressed against your clasped over worked hands. You always enjoyed hearing the insects sing their song, it brought calmness to your frenzied and sporadic thoughts, and somehow those thoughts worsened when you would recite your nightly prayer.

Your lips mouthed the words you knew since you were a child, though no sound escaped from your mouth. Bruised knees planted firmly onto the dark wooden floor boards that would creak and groan underneath the shuffling of your weight, your elbows placed on top of the soft bedding that you shared with your husband.

Your husband.

A strong Godfearing man - who so happened to be a preacher - he was an adequate protector and provider, always giving you want you needed. A home that shielded you from the dangers of man and beast that lurked within the countryside, barn animals to cultivate fresh provisions, and social standing within the tightknit community that the church provided. But the one thing your husband lacked was willpower.

He was a cheater.

Women was his weakness, he would be gone days at a time, entertaining whichever woman he decided to obsess over that week. At first it broke your heart, so much in fact that you'd became bedridden when you saw him fucking a woman after Sunday Service. Ironically the sermon that day was about protecting the sanctity of marriage. You wanted to leave him - truly you did - but the elders within your church convinced you not to.

'As man; we all suffer from sin. It is not the way, but forgive and pray for him, so that he may seek the right and righteous path.'

You cried after hearing their words, but you did as told.

You prayed.

Oh, God. Did you pray.

But nothing changed.

With a sigh you ended your nightly prayer with an airy 'amen' and rose up from the hard floor. Sweat clung to your body due to the heatwave that Mississippi had, it had been hot for days now, and it oddly seemed like the nights were hotter than the mornings. You made sure to take an extra long bath before bed, but with how much you're sweating you knew you'd have to take one again early in the morning.

Slinking yourself between the bedsheets, you rested your head onto the soft feathered filled pillow, your eyes staring straight into the water stained ceiling. You told your husband to fix the pipes that caused the stain, he assured you that he will.

That's been five weeks ago.

You didn't bother blowing out the candle that sat onto the mahogany end table, the flickering of the small fire casting shadows across the cream colored wallpaper, the shadows enhancing small cracks and tears within the thinly cheap plaster. Frenzied thoughts turned into worry as you tossed onto your side, staring out the grime covered window, the night was eerily black. No stars, no moon, nothing. The muffled cicadas chirping only made your heart ache more.

His side of the bed was empty, he should be here by now.

As if on cue, loud knocking reverberated through the small one story home, you couldn't help to adorn a toothy smile. Jumping from the bed like it was molten lava, you dashed towards your heavy front door, the floor creaked and squealed underneath your bare feet.

With nimble fingers you hastily unlocked the many locks that held your door shut, biting your lip as you squeezed your thighs together. You couldn't help it, this man was everything to you. He made you feel things no man ever could, not even your husband could achieve reaching you to nirvana like how this man could. With a turn of a knob you were face to face with your love.

Your one and only.

"Hello, pretty girl. ya' missed me?"

There he stood, tall and proud, his broad shoulders rolling as he mumbled those soft words to you. He wore something different tonight, a light baby blue button up shirt that wasn't buttoned to the top, showing a white wife-beater underneath the clean dress shirt. Black suspenders held up his thick dark wool trousers, and your eyes couldn't help to glance at his thick hand that hung lazily over the strap that connected to his banjo.

He always had that instrument on him, always strumming away on the metal strings, singing you songs that came from his homeland that was far, far away from Mississippi. The instrument was strapped tightly around his body, you hope he'd sing you a new tune tonight. Leaning forward, his dark eyes scanned your features, taking in your beauty just like the first night you'd invited him in.

But he didn't pass the threshold.

The golden chain that hung around his neck glisten underneath the warm ember light that enveloped your home, you loved twirling that chain with your fingertips after he made love to you, and you couldn't wait to do it again tonight.

"You gonna make me stand out here? Or do I gotta beg, like last time?" He smiled, the sight of his sharp canines made your heart skip a beat. You remembered a few nights ago Remmick upset you, greatly. He didn't mean to, but he did. You both had a rule when he would come visit.

Don't talk about your husband.

Remmick couldn't stand the man, often turning pictures of your husband around and out of his view when he would come over, but he never outwardly stated that he despised him.

But you knew.

One night as his ice cold hands raked over your body, touching you in places only he knew that'll make you squirm with delight, he whispered softly in your ear: "I wonder if that preacher knows his wife is sleeping with the devil?"

You pulled away quickly from his comment, reality and shame crashing into your core, it felt like you just been trampled by wild horses. Staring at him your face twisted in disgust, not at Remmick, not fully. But disgust at yourself. At the end of the day, you were a cheater too, and the worst kind.

You were fucking a vampire.

That night was cut short with you rushing him out of your home, stating that he should never speak about your husband in that way. Even though the love between you and your estranged spouse was wavering, the love was still there. And as badly as it hurt Remmick, he knew you'd always have some sort of soft spot for that preacher.

Pulling yourself together, you opened the door wider, making enough room for Remmick to enter. "N-No, come in."

And come in he did, the wooden floor groaned underneath his heavy steps as he waltz within the home casually, as if he lived here himself. He started his nightly routine: turning those pictures of your husband around, making them face the wall, if it was up to him he'd wait until that preacher came back from whoever he was with and drain all of the blood from his body, killing him in an agonizingly slow death. You shut the heavy wooden door, a loud thud echoed through the home as your fingers locked the door again, each click of locks turning made Remmick smile.

Nobody in their right mind would lock themselves in with a vampire, but you were his, and he was yours.

He'd never hurt you.

"You're late, I was worried about you." You whispered, walking towards the taller man, as your arms wrapped around his stocky shoulders. He was so cold, like a corpse, but that didn't bother you none. In fact you were fond of his icy touch, especially in this Mississippi heat. Resting your head onto his chest his hands worked over your body, squeezing each curve he possibly can until his hand rested on the back of your head. With a feather light touch, he began to stroke your hair as the both of you swayed side to side, content with finally being in each other's arms after a long day.

"I know sugar, I'm sorry. I had a few things to take care of..."

"A 'few things', Remmi are you--"

"It ain't nothin' like that, I was hungry. I know, I should've waited till I got here, but a man's gotta eat. And I don't wanna drain you dry, pretty girl." Remmick assured, he knew that your mind would wonder, that was one of your many quirks. He would never entertain the thought of forming this kind of relationship you both shared with someone else, Remmick had carried an indifference towards the living for centuries now, only using them for sustenance and knowledge.

Nothing else.

He wouldn't betray you, unlike that preacher.

Pulling away from his freezing embrace you glanced at his face. Scanning his beautiful features - you loved staring at him, you could do it for hours - maybe it was some sort of vampiric charm? You didn't know, but all you did know was the burning desire to taste him, and for him to taste you.

"Got room for dessert? Come 'ere." You sighed as your hands raced over his thick biceps, stopping for a beat to trace the abnormally blue veins that adorn his forearms, and then interlocking your finger with his. You guided him towards the bedroom, though he didn't need guidance, as he'd enter your bedchambers several times now.

His hungry eyes danced across your frame, you wore a dusty pink nightgown, his favorite one that you own. It was so thin that wearing it was useless, he could see each and every curve of your body. Not to mention your raised nipples poking the fabric, begging to be licked and suckled on. Once you both entered the bedroom, you placed Remmick onto his side of the bed, the one closest to the door. The one that's away from the window.

Even though you made sure to invest in thick blinds, you didn't want to risk it, you often use your body as a shield when rays of sunlight peeked through them. With a sigh he pulled the banjo off of his body, leaning the instrument against the nightstand. He waited for this moment all day, as drool began to form in his mouth.

He hated drooling in front of you, the worry of him freighting you always crossed his mind when he would drool, but you were never frightened.

In fact it turned you on. The thought of him drooling over you made the butterflies in your stomach intense, and the familiar ache in your loins grow stronger. Wiping his chin with the back of his hand, his dark eyes followed your movements. Your fingers opened the drawer of the nightstand, digging deep into it, pushing books and junk paper out of the way until you found what you've been looking for.

A sharp knife.

A switch blade to be precise, the kind that could slice through meat and possibly bone with enough force. Turning to face him again, you opened the palm of your hand that was covered in bruises and cuts. Your husband had questioned you about the sudden appearance of these flesh wounds, but you would tell him that you accidently cut yourself cooking or from doing chores around the house.

With a wince you slashed your hand open, crimson pearling from the wound as it slowly spilled out of the cut. Remmick held your hand within his as he looked up at you with reverence, as if you were an angel sent to absolve him of his sins. With quickness he placed his lips over the cut, his tongue lapping up the thick blood as if it was liquid gold. He tried his best not to sink his sharp teeth into your skin, he knew about your fear of being turned.

You weren't ready yet, and he understood.

So to circumvent this; you came up with the idea of him drinking you from an open wound, avoiding using his poisonous teeth in the process. He moaned against your palm as he sucked the gash on your hand, trying his best to get as much blood as he can. You tasted so sweet, and the memories that clung onto your blood tasted even sweeter.

Your memories and experiences swarmed his mind, pulling him deeper and deeper in ecstasy. He could see everything you've experienced, all the highs and lows, all the pain and happiness, all the heartbreak and love. He could feel everything, he could see everything.

The time that you skipped Sunday school as a teen to share your first kiss with a boy in a cornfield, that moment when you tasted alcohol for the first time, and that aching feeling of when you cried for days after you found your husband with another woman.

You ran your free hand through Remmick's thick and dark hair, your fingers separating each curl you could find as you watch him drink from you, your core growing wetter by the second.

"That's it, baby. Drink it all, drink all of it." You encouraged, which earned an eager nod from the man, his large hands squeezing yours tight. You winced at the pain of him holding your hand in a chilled vice grip, but you didn't pull away.

You'd never do that until he got his fill.

With a wet pop he pulled his lips from your hand, a string of saliva connected his bottom lip and your palm, his lips were stained red from your blood. His once dark eyes were now ruby red, the most beautiful shade of red you'd ever seen.

Remmick shot you a toothy smile, his fangs more prominent than ever and his eyes were glossy. It was as if he'd taken a hit of an intense drug, he couldn't help but to lull his head to the side, trying his best to catch his breath. You were breathy too. Watching him feed on you made you horny, so incredibly horny.

The cut on your hand was still bleeding, and with one final lick the man finally spoke: "Lemme patch you up, pretty girl."

Remmick reached into the drawer of the nightstand and pulled out a roll of bandages, with a lick of his lips he began to wrap the bandage around your hand tightly. The high of him feeding from your hand slowly washed away as the sting of the wound bit at your soft skin, you hissed when the bandage pressed against the wound.

"I know, sugar. I know. Thank you for this, baby. Thank you for feeding me."

You didn't reply, you didn't need to. He knew you'd gladly offer him your blood, but being the gentleman that he is, he had to verbalize his gratitude. You didn't need to do this - but you did.

He's forever in your debt.

Your eyes flicked between his chiseled pale face, his gentle hands that wrapped the bandage on your wound, and the growing bulge within his black pants. He was aching to be inside you, and you were aching for him to take you fully. Once he was done dressing your cut, you placed steady hands onto his strong shoulders, and without a second thought you planted a heated kiss onto his crimson lips.

He quickly kissed you back, his hands cupping your face as he pulled you closer towards his frame, making you straddle his lap in the process. The taste of iron filled your mouth as the kissed deepened, both of your tongues danced with each other as blood that stained his lips now stained yours. His sharp canines dragged against your lips, as he tried his best to savor the blood that clung to them.

He wanted to bite down - it took so much willpower to stop the urge to do so - his cold hands trailed down your cheeks towards your neck, he felt your pulse underneath his finger tips.

He couldn't wait for the day you finally let him sink his fangs into you, the day when the both of you could finally be together.

Forever.

But until that day comes, he settled on coming to you at night and fucking you before the sun would rise, and before your husband would come home. Leaning himself back onto the bed, your body pressed flush against his, caging him in. But he wouldn't dare leave you, not when you're so needy for him, not when he's so needy for you.

"Take these clothes off, Remmi." You whimpered out between fevered kisses, his cold lips cooling down your burning hot skin. Without a word, he did as he was told, leaning up again and shrugging the suspenders off of his shoulders.

His fingers skillfully unbuttoned his shirt, tossing the fabric to the side, your hands reached under his wife-beater that clung onto his lean body, feeling the cold yet well trained muscles under your fingertips. Remmick didn't like talking about his life before he'd turned, you always wondered what he did before. Was he carpenter? A farmer? A blacksmith? You wanted him to tell everything about his life, before turning and after.

With a chuckle he tossed the thin undershirt aside too, only wearing his pants now. You leaned in and kissed his neck, where his pulse would be. But there was nothing, you couldn't feel a heartbeat or the heat. He was dead, truly dead. But that didn't stop you from sucking on his neck, your lips grazing the gold chain that hung around his neck. You knew the mark you'd leave would rapidly heal, disappearing as if you hadn't kissed there at all.

Lightly, he moved you off of his lap, laying your body onto the soft plush of the bed. Causing you to whine from the sudden disappearance of his touch, Remmick shook his head playfully as he unzipped his pants, kicking his heavy boots off in the process. With swift movements he pulled his pants along with his boxers off of his lower half, freeing his dick from the tight confines of his pants.

You moaned in pleasure at the sight of him fully nude, your eyes gazing at his dark brown happy trail that lead towards his hard member. You then tucked your legs underneath yourself, your hands reached for him as you began to lightly stroke his thick shaft.

"Now it's my turn to taste you." You whispered, placing a light kiss on the flush tip of his cock, you filled your open and bloody mouth with him. The familiar and comforting taste of him sparked a carnal fire within you. Nimble fingers maneuvered up and down on the base of his cock, Remmick was thick, you could barely fit him in your mouth but that didn't stop you from trying. The twisting expression of pleasure that adorned his face sent shockwaves of fulfillment through your body.

Squeezing your thighs together to ease the ache of arousal between your legs, you pushed your mouth deeper onto his cock, tasting the precum that danced deliciously on your tongue. Remmick's toned body twitched above you from the sudden sensation, your tongue skillfully swirling the sensitive skin on the tip of his cock.

"Yes, yes...Just like that, baby." Remmick groaned, his calloused hand massaged your scalp as the other held onto your shoulder, his cold touch made your skin taunt with goosebumps. Looking down he made eye contact with you, his ruby eyes peering deep into yours as his bloodstained lips hung opened slack, you knew he was trying his best not to buck his hips into your mouth.

Long lashes blinking with each inch your bravely took into your mouth, gags reverberated from your lungs. The vibrations of them made Remmick choke out a strained moan, his hands ran through your hair, moving it out of the way as your soft tongue grazed the thick veins on his cock.

His cries of pleasure egged you to go deeper, pushing yourself pass your limits and with a gag, you pulled away from him. Catching your breath as tears streamed down your face, you continued pumping him as the slick sound of your hand working over his cock that was covered in your spit echoed through the scorching hot room. His calloused hand wiped away the tears that clung onto your warm cheeks.

"You did such a good job for me, darlin'. Don't hurt yourself, c'mere." Remmick praised, pulling you up by the arms as he planted a sloppy kiss onto your swollen lips, tasting himself on your tongue as he did so. Moaning into the kiss, you wrapped your arms around him, clinging onto the vampire as if he'd disappear at any moment. Slowly Remmick placed you onto your back on the soft bed, not breaking the passionate kiss as he hovered over you.

"My turn again." He chuckled as he laid on top of you, balancing his body weight to make sure that he didn't crush you, but even if he did - you wouldn't care. His lips kissed and sucked at your neck, focusing on the thick artery that pumped your blood through you, his tongue slowly licking the vein which earned a cry of approval from you.

A strong hand grabbed your breast through your nightgown, rolling the sensitive nipple between cold fingers. He lightly grazed his sharp teeth against the skin of your neck, teasing you as you shivered underneath the man. The scratching sensation of his teeth against your skin was quickly replaced with soft suckles.

"Baby, y-you can't leave any marks on me, he'll get upset with me." You breathlessly reminded Remmick, which earned you a disappointed sigh of defeat. Crawling down slowly, he left a trail of kisses on your clothed body, leaving behind bloodstain kisses on the gown. You know it'll be hard to wash out later, but that annoyance is for another time. Remmick paused his kisses and stopped at your dripping core.

"Why you ain't wearin' no panties?" He asked, a playful under tone laced within each word he spoke, hiking your nightgown up until your lower half was visible for him and you to see.

"I'm tired of you tearin' through them, I figured this'll be easier."

"Awe, but that's my favorite part."

"Hush up." You playfully chastised, a giggle fell from your lips as he shot you a bloody yet gorgeous smile. His rough hands held onto your thighs as he spread your legs, feeling his breath on your aching pussy made you shiver in anticipation, your hands ran though his dark brown hair, making his already messy hair even messier.

With a gentle lick Remmick ran his tongue slowly across your already soaking pussy, stopping to circle at your clit with his skilled tongue. Steadily he repeated his movements, taking in and savoring the sweet taste of your juices that replaced the delicious iron flavor of your blood. You were the sweetest girl he'd ever tasted in all his years of 'living' - and if you'd let him - he could eat your pussy until the sun came up, not caring about getting caught by your husband.

With a moan, you arched your back in pure bliss as Remmick sucked at your sensitive and swollen bud. His fingers slowly working their way inside you, he wanted to make sure you were ready for him; he wasn't the type of man to rush things like this.

"R-Remmi--Ah!" Your moans were muffled by your hand that covered your mouth, your teeth biting into your fingers as Remmick worked over your core. His mouth and tongue worked in tandem with each other which created a sensation that was slightly overbearing, but you enjoyed every last minute of it.

Remmick was a selfless lover.

Pulling away from your heat Remmick gently pushed two fingers inside of you, stopping at the middle of his fingers, just below the second joint of the thick digits. You squirmed underneath him, already feeling somewhat full by just his two fingers alone, and he hadn't even pushed them in all the way yet. Slowly, he moved his fingers in and out, the wet sound of your sex filled the bedroom which only aroused Remmick even more, but he knew to have patience.

Resting his head on your inner thigh, he looked up at you, and of course he was smiling like a fool. "Does that feel good?"

"Mhm, so good..." You moaned out a strained reply.

Remmick then pushed his fingers further until they were all the way in, his knuckles slightly grazing your swollen clit. Your legs were beginning to shake which only urge him to move his fingers faster, licking your clit between each thrust his fingers gave you. Sweaty hands were now gripping the bedsheets as your breathing quickened, the familiar feeling of a knot in your stomach began to bubble, you knew you were close.

With a heaving chest, you begged your Remmi to go faster, whimpering his nickname that you gave him through cries of pleasure. And with closed eyes and a racing heart you came.

Hard.

Your body shook as sweat clung onto your spent frame, your legs shaking as if you'd been running through thick swamp water. Remmick leaned back as he continued to rub your clit, earning a whine of pleasure from this action. Without fail that knot within your stomach quickly formed and quickly snapped, making you squirt all over the bedsheets and Remmick's heaving chest.

"Good job, pretty girl. Good job." Remmick praised, holding you steady as your body convulsed in pleasure mixed with overstimulation. Embarrassment soon then followed, never in your sheltered life have you squirted before, you didn't even know if you could do it. Crossing your legs to shield your pussy from Remmick's intense gaze - you blurted out an apology - hands covering your face as you did so.

"What're you apologizin' for?" Remmick asked, pulling your hands away from your face, licking his lips to savored the taste that danced on his tongue.

"I-I got carried away, I didn't mean to--I never--"

"Nonsense, sugar. It only means that I did somethin' right." He assured as he leaned down to kiss you on your lips, you could taste yourself as you sank deeper into the kiss, your hands holding onto Remmick's cold yet comforting body. This make-out session was more intense than the last, as you bit down on Remmick's swollen lips, this kiss felt as if it were a battle.

But both parties wouldn't mind losing.

"Fuck me, please..." You begged, your fingers playing with the golden necklace that hung across his neck. With an obedient nod he grabbed his cock at the base, lining himself towards your entrance. You looked down and watched as Remmick slowly entered you, his head resting in the crook of your neck as he did so. Shutting your eyes you grabbed onto Remmick, your nails digging into his pale skin.

He was stretching you out and the sting of pain and pleasure flooded your senses. Remmick moaned into your shoulder, his once southern drawl now melted into that of an Irish one, soft hymns from his homeland slipped pass his mouth as he rocked his hips back and forth, earning high-pitched grunts from you.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, locking him in, but he wouldn't dream of going anywhere. You were so wet, so soft, so warm. Your body felt like heaven, the pleasure he felt was undeniable - your pussy squeezed around him perfectly. It was as if you were made for him, or perhaps he was made for you.

Your nails scratched and dug into his back, leaving behind scars that'll quickly heal over as if nothing happened. Holding your face in his hand while the other one rubbed your thigh soothingly, easing the tense muscle as much as he can. Both of your eyes were locked onto each other, neither one of you dared to break eye contact as tears of pleasure fell from your hazy irises.

Drool crept down his chin and jaw, and without exchanging any words you open your mouth wide, just like last time. Holding your jaw firmly in his hand he let the trail of drool seep out of his mouth and into yours, earning a whimper of gratitude from you.

You loved the taste of his spit, it was like taking a sip of holy water, you couldn't resist begging him for a taste. Especially when he's fucking you so good like this. Wiping the tears that clung onto your face, Remmick whispered words in his native tongue that you couldn't understand. The language sounded so foreign to your untrained ear, but you knew each word he spoke was filled with adoration and love.

"F-Fuck, I'm almost there," Remmick mumbled switching back to English, although now he spoke in his thick Irish accent. He rested his cold forehead onto yours that was slick with sweat. You nodded in agreement as your words were now reduced to moans and grunts.

"Do you think you can came for me again, one more time?" He asked in between rapid thrust of his hips, his dick hitting the perfect spot within your core.

"Mhm!" You nodded, holding him flush against your body.

"Good..."

With a few more thrust of his hips Remmick sighed out a long 'fuck' as the feeling of come filled your pussy to the brim. Shaking you squeezed your legs in a vice grip, which earned a satisfied chuckle from Remmick. With heavy sighs, the high of reaching your orgasm subsided as your tired body went limp, releasing Remmick from your legs. With a kiss on the cheek and a light pat on your sore leg Remmick laid lazily next to you on the bed.

On his side of the bed.

The sound of cicadas buzzed through the midnight air as both of you stared into each others eyes, your hand reached for his, and he gladly held onto it which helped you anchor back into reality.

"I love you, Remmick." You whispered with a hushed voice, and with a squeeze of his hand he shot you a toothy bloody grin.

"I love you too."

[sunbleachedfl13s]

my bitch pose is naaaaasty

the stance is incredible

[sunbleachedfl13s]

me when the concept of owing you a black eye and two kisses

[sunbleachedfl13s]

[sunbleachedfl13s]

[sunbleachedfl13s]

How about a mix of angst, fluff, AND smut? Lol

(Could be either a drabble or a headcanon, whichever is better for you 😉)

Idea: Remmick hurting reader's feelings and trying to apologize/make it up to her.

Sooo I'm picturing him saying something stupid/out of pocket, which hits a nerve or an insecurity of reader. Maybe he didn't even mean it/do it on purpose, but either way, wrong words, wrong tone, very bad timing. He can immediately see that he fucked up big time by the look on reader's face.

Even after Remmick apologizes, tells reader he didn't mean any of that, and draws a couple of orgasms out of her, there's still something...off.

Days go by and, although reader tells him "it's fine", "I'm fine", "it's all good", he can sense something is off. Remmick notices reader being quieter than usual, stiff, awkward around him -as if reader's in her own head.

At night he swears he can hear reader's brain overthinking and her frantic pulse -probably from replaying his words/that scene over and over again, even though she lies still pretending to be asleep.

Worst part? Nothing Remmick does seems to work; he can feel reader slowly shutting him off and it drives him mad, desperate.

"Please, lass...just -just talk to me? Hmm?"

ꜱᴛᴀʏ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴍᴇ

ᴡᴄ: 7.7k

ᴀ/ɴ: this was another ask that i was at a loss on for a while, but then i listened to my first city pop song and watched the bear season 4 and the inspiration flew out of me. unfortunately for y'all, that inspiration came with debilitating angst, my first ever perspective switching, and my own experience in an unhealthy relationship. enjoy, but please do mind the warnings, especially if any of the topics hit too close to home!

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: established relationship with lots of baggage, perspective switching (OOH!), heavy angst no comfort, intense fighting, below-the-belt insults, panic attack, insecure!reader, asshole!remmick (it is NOT romanticized), vaguely modern au, the trials and tribulations of having an immortal vampire lover, an uncomfortably real depiction of a very toxic relationship, for the love of god communicate with your partners

You didn’t remember what you came in here for.

The kitchen was too quiet. No fridge hum. No drip from the sink. Just the clock ticking behind you and your own heartbeat trying to crawl out your throat.

Your hands braced against the counter. Eyes fixed on the cabinets like maybe they’d give you a clue.

What did you need? What were you doing? Something simple. Grabbing a glass. Or tea. Or—

He said it so flatly. Like it didn’t matter. Like it wasn’t going to stick to your ribs for the rest of your life.

You blinked once. Twice.

Still here.

Still breathing.

It hadn’t sounded like yelling. It wasn’t even loud. But your ears rang anyway.

Something about the way he said it. About the way he looked at you while it came out, slow and measured, like he wasn’t just saying it—he meant it. Fully. Intentionally. He chose those words, sifted through centuries of vocabulary and handed you the sharpest ones.

God, he’d always been good with language.

You pressed your palms harder to the countertop. Tried to ground yourself in something. The cool wood. The sting behind your eyes. The ugly throb in your chest.

You could’ve gone back in there. You could’ve asked what he meant. Made him say it again. Let him tear the scab wider and see if he flinched this time.

But you didn’t.

Because you knew what he meant. You knew it too well.

You’d seen it in other moments. In silence that went on too long. In that odd little distance that crept in when he thought you weren’t looking. Like he was remembering something, or someone, or some place—something that made him want to fold into himself. Not all the way. Not so you noticed. Just enough to keep you at arm’s length when it mattered.

And now you knew.

You’d always been at arm’s length.

You sucked in a slow breath, but it hit a lump in your throat and stayed there. Like everything else that night. Unfinished.

God, it was stupid. It started so stupid. You asked if he was coming with you to dinner. He said no. You asked why. He said he didn’t feel like it. You asked again because maybe there was more—maybe he was tired, maybe he was hungry, maybe he was spiraling and needed help crawling out of it—and he looked at you like he was seeing a puzzle he didn’t have the energy to solve and said:

“Why is it always somethin’ with ya?”

Just like that.

Not even mad. Just tired.

Why is it always somethin’ with ya.

Like you were an inconvenience. A gnat. A faucet dripping in the background of his endless life.

And maybe you were.

Maybe it was always something with you. You asked questions, you needed reassurances, you held him when he didn’t ask for it and talked when he wanted quiet and begged him to meet you in a place he didn’t know how to get to.

You were human. You were so human.

And maybe that was the problem.

You opened the cabinet too hard and winced at the bang. Your hands were shaking. You grabbed a glass and filled it with water just to give yourself something to do. Something to hold. You didn’t drink it.

The worst part wasn’t the sentence.

It was the look.

You’d seen that look before. On other people. People who stayed too long. People who outgrew you or got tired of carrying your mess. People who gave up.

You never thought you’d see it on his face.

He said forever like it was a promise. And maybe it was, for him. But for you—what did forever even mean? You couldn’t imagine next year without flinching. You woke up some mornings already sad for what hadn’t happened yet.

He talked about time like it was a tool. Like he could wield it. Stretch it. Move around in it. Heal inside it.

But you? Time bruised you.

A harsh word stuck for months. One look, one sigh, one silence too long—these things festered. You weren’t made to let go of things lightly. You were built to ache.

And he… wasn’t.

You clutched the edge of the sink, staring down at the drain like it might answer you.

You loved him. Of course you did. You loved the way he listened when he did listen, like you were the last voice left on earth. You loved the way he knew your moods before you did, the way he touched your hand like it was sacred. You loved the way he lit up when you got something right, like your joy was his food.

But you needed him to love you back in a way that felt like now.

Not like memory. Not like he was borrowing from some other century. Not like he was patching you in where someone else used to be.

You didn’t want to be a ghost in someone else’s castle.

You wanted to be home.

Behind you, the hallway creaked.

You knew it was him before he said anything.

You didn’t turn.

Not yet.

Because if you looked at him now, you’d cry. You’d sob. You’d ask why he said it and what it meant and whether he meant it and what he saw when he looked at you and if he really wanted to keep doing this—whatever this was—with someone who broke under a single sentence.

You didn’t want to ask those questions until you were ready to hear the answers.

Even if they broke you worse.

So you breathed. Shallow. Quiet.

And you waited.

You didn’t turn when he stepped into the kitchen.

That was the first sign.

You always turned. Even when you were angry. Even when you didn’t want to. You always gave him that—your face, your eyes, your breath at least. But this time, nothing. Not even a shift of weight or a flicker of movement. Just your back to him, hands on the counter, like you were bracing for something.

He stood in the doorway longer than he needed to.

Watched your shoulders rise and fall. Watched the way your fingers curled a little tighter against the wood. Watched the glass of water on the counter—untouched.

God.

He’d done it again, hadn’t he?

He crossed the threshold slow, each step deliberate, soundless but weighted. Ghostlike. A habit that hadn’t left him even after all these years of trying to be soft. Trying not to startle you. Trying not to become the thing people feared when they noticed what didn’t age.

He moved to the fridge. Didn’t open it. Just leaned against it, pretending to think. To idle. Let the silence stretch in case you wanted to fill it.

You didn’t.

He glanced at the floor, then at the back of your head.

Say something, he thought. Please.

Because it was worse when you didn’t.

It was always worse when you went quiet. When you folded into yourself and left him standing outside the walls. Not angry. Not shouting. Just… gone. Retreating in a way that made the air thinner.

He rubbed a hand over his jaw.

He shouldn’t have said it. He knew that now. He knew it the moment it left his mouth. Even as he said it, he heard the edge in his own voice and knew it’d land wrong. Knew it would hurt. But he let it fly anyway, like some reflex he hadn’t learned how to kill.

He didn’t even know where it came from. Wasn’t angry. Not truly. Just tired, maybe. Stretched thin in a way he couldn’t name. Thoughts too loud. Days too long. You asked a question—one too many—and something snapped in him that he didn’t know was still brittle.

And now here you were.

Still. Silent. Hurt.

He shifted again. Picked up a spoon off the counter just to put it back down. Another few seconds passed, thick as molasses.

Then finally, because you wouldn’t speak, because you wouldn’t even look at him, he cleared his throat.

“Wasn’t fair of me,” he said, voice low. “What I said.”

You didn’t move.

Didn’t even flinch.

His fingers twitched at his sides.

“I know you were just askin’. Weren’t tryin’ to start anything. I just…” He let the sentence dangle, fumbled for something better. “It came out wrong. S’pose I was feelin’… I don’t know. Off. Tired, maybe.”

Still nothing.

No mercy tonight.

He took a slow breath.

“It’s not always somethin’ with you. That’s not true. I know it’s not. You just care too much sometimes. That ain’t a crime.”

Your head dipped a little. He didn’t know if that meant anything.

He swallowed hard.

“I… I don’t always know what t’do with that,” he admitted, softer this time. “With bein’ cared for like that. It’s a lot. Not bad, just…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m not used to it.”

It wasn’t enough. He knew it wasn’t enough. But it was all he had right now.

He took a step closer. Careful. Gentle.

When he got close enough to see the side of your face—your lashes, wet but not falling—his stomach knotted.

“You ain’t a burden, alright?” he said, quieter now. “Not to me.”

The truth of it sat heavy in his mouth.

He meant it. God, he meant it. He just didn’t know how to say it in the right order. He didn’t know how to make you feel it the way he did—that particular ache that curled behind his ribs when you walked into the room, that hum in his chest that only quieted when you were near.

Sometimes you looked at him like he was the sun. And that terrified him.

Because he wasn’t the sun. He was shadow. He’d lived too long. Seen too much rot. Been made to kill, and learned to be good at it.

And you?

You were light.

Mortal. Warm. Complicated. Full of so much life it made his heart ache. He didn’t know how to hold you right. He didn’t know how not to bruise you when he reached for you with hands that had buried centuries.

He wanted to say that. Wanted to tell you it wasn’t you. That it was him. That it was always him. That he carried things he hadn’t shown you yet. That he was afraid of breaking something so soft.

But all that came out was—

“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelin’s.”

He paused.

Then: “But I know I did. And I’m sorry.”

That was it. That was the truth.

You didn’t need to hear about war or fire or the centuries that peeled the gentleness from him like paint in the sun. Not right now. Not when you were still hurting. Still waiting for him to be human for once.

So he stayed quiet after that. Let the apology settle. Let the room breathe.

And waited.

He hated waiting.

“It’s fine,” you said.

It wasn’t.

You knew it wasn’t.

You didn’t even know why the words left your mouth, except they were easier than the truth. Lighter. Like they could float above the weight in your chest.

You said it again, quieter this time.

“It’s fine.”

Another lie.

You weren’t even sure who you were trying to convince. Yourself? Him? The air?

You weren’t fine. And you didn’t understand why you were pretending to be. Especially not now, with his apology still echoing between your ribs, raw and awkward and tender in that half-formed way he always managed to apologize. Like he knew the words but not the shape of them. Like he’d studied sorrow in a language no longer spoken.

And the worst part—the part that made your throat tight—was that he believed you.

He believed you.

He nodded, just once, like that settled it. Like “it’s fine” meant anything when your hands had curled in on themselves, nails digging into your own palms. Like it wasn’t a patch hastily thrown over a hole he didn’t even want to look at.

You wished he’d argue. You wished he’d push.

But he didn’t.

He let it go because that’s what he did. That’s what he always did when you got like this—quiet, soft, making yourself into something easier to hold.

But you didn’t want to be easy tonight.

You didn’t want to be anything except understood.

And somehow, even with all his years, with all his ancient patience and centuries of watching humanity splinter and change and ache and grow, he still couldn’t see it.

Couldn’t see you.

Not really.

He’d heard your voice shake before. Seen your face break. Sat with you through grief, through anger, through the painful mess of simply existing beside someone else. But there was always this invisible line—this thread you couldn’t cross. Because if you pulled too hard, if you unraveled even a little too much, he wouldn’t know what to do with the pieces.

You told yourself that was fine.

Another lie.

That night, when he brushed his teeth with the new charcoal toothpaste you bought him, you sat on the edge of the bed, your hands in your lap, your face hollow. Watching the lamplight pool like oil in the corners of the room. Waiting to feel like you again.

He came out shirtless, towel slung over one shoulder, eyes soft and cautious the way they always were after a fight. As though proximity might spook you.

“I’ll take the right side,” he murmured. “Give you some room.”

You nodded. Said nothing.

He crawled in first. Careful. Quiet. Tried not to shake the mattress too much.

You followed eventually, turned toward the window like it might offer you something better than his shoulder. The sheets were cool. The silence colder.

Then came his arm. Slipping across your waist. Slow, hopeful. Like the feel of his skin might say what words couldn’t.

But your body tensed.

Not violently. Not cruelly. Just enough. Just enough to say, not now. Not yet.

He paused.

Then pulled back.

Didn’t speak. Didn’t sigh or plead or ask what was wrong. Just left the space between you as it was, a gulf carved by things neither of you could name without bleeding.

And still you said nothing.

You stared at the moonlight tracing patterns on the ceiling and plucked at the threads of your lies like they were split seams.

“It’s fine.”

You didn’t believe that.

You were tired. Tired of saying it. Tired of meaning it when you didn’t. Tired of cushioning things for a man who’d lived through plagues and revolutions but still couldn’t stomach the idea of someone being mad at him for too long.

You knew he loved you. That wasn’t the problem.

The problem was how that love showed up. In apologies that didn’t go deep enough. In distance he didn’t even realize he created. In the way he could look at you like the center of the universe but still miss the gravity pulling you apart.

He called you sensitive once. Differently than the countless other times before.

He hadn’t meant it cruelly. But it stuck. Not the word—his tone. That soft, patronizing edge. Like he thought it was sweet. Like he didn’t understand why things clung to you the way they did. Why your chest ached over small things. Why you needed to be heard and not just held.

But tonight wasn’t about that one comment. It wasn’t about the way he brushed you off or how he muttered something sharp under his breath when he thought you couldn’t hear.

It was about every moment like this—where you stayed silent because the alternative meant cracking open a dam you didn’t trust him to stand beneath.

You closed your eyes.

You felt the bed shift with his breathing. Felt the warmth of his body, only inches away. Felt the space between you like a wound you weren’t ready to stitch up.

And for once, you didn’t try to cross it.

You let the silence stretch.

Let the ache settle.

And he did.

Remmick lay still, spine curved toward you but not quite touching, eyes open in the dark. The ceiling above was lit in ribbons—pale light cut through slats in the blinds, painting the room in soft grays and golds. But it was your heartbeat that kept him tethered.

God, that sound. He could hear it like a clock. Not frantic, not panicked—but tight. Like you were trying to hold something back. Like there was a scream or a sob caught behind your ribs and your body was doing its best to cage it. And it was always like that after you said things you didn’t mean.

“It's fine.”

No, it wasn’t.

Of course he knew that.

He might not have always understood the sharp tilt of your emotions, the sudden quiet, the way your voice could dip just so—but he’d been alive long enough to know what a lie felt like in the dark. Your lies were soft and clumsy. Half-hearted even when well-meant.

And your thoughts—Christ. Sometimes he swore he could hear them too. Not the words, not exactly. But the swirl of them. That static hum when your mind turned inward and refused to let him in.

He hated that sound.

He exhaled, nose brushing the pillow. Eyes heavy.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

It wasn’t that he didn’t care. Of course he cared. You were… well. You were you. The one person who hadn’t run. The one who didn’t flinch at his teeth. The one curled up next to him every night like he wasn’t something broken stitched together by charm and poor impulse control.

But the thing was—

You’d get over it.

You always did.

He’d say something sharp, something thoughtless, and you’d pull away. Go quiet. Overthink it. He knew the pattern by now. But eventually, always, you softened. You let him hold you again. You tucked your head under his chin and kissed the hollow of his throat and said things like I’m tired of being mad.

So he didn’t press.

Didn’t ask what was wrong.

Didn’t poke the bear.

Because Remmick had survived this long by knowing when to shut his mouth. When to pretend he hadn’t noticed. When to let discomfort smooth itself out rather than dragging it into the light and giving it teeth.

He’d been with women who screamed when they were angry. Who threw glasses or locked themselves in bathrooms. But you—you always got small. And honestly, that was easier.

Less noise. Less mess.

Sure, sometimes you looked at him like he’d cracked something in you. Like he was a blade you hadn’t seen coming. But you still looked. Still loved him.

And really, wasn’t that what counted?

He stared at the ceiling, one hand draped over his chest. The other curled in the sheets where your body could’ve been if you hadn’t turned your back.

You were right there. Inches away. But he didn’t reach.

He used to. Early on. Before he’d started assuming time would fix things for him.

But the truth was, lately… it was easier to wait.

Easier not to deal with the part of you that made him feel like he was always a step behind. Like you wanted him to read your mind. Like he was supposed to feel what you felt with the same urgency—and when he didn’t, when he blinked at you confused or made some stupid half-joke to lighten the tension, your whole body would go stiff.

You were young. Comparatively, anyway. And you were human. That was the tricky part. You felt everything all at once and all the time. And sometimes he forgot how loud that must be for you—how sharp. He’d had lifetimes to dull his reactions, to tuck away the things that hurt. You hadn’t. You still bled when someone touched the bruise.

He rubbed at his temple and sighed again, softer this time.

He should’ve said more. He knew that. Something better than the half-assed apology. Something that sounded like he actually gave a damn about why your chest had gone quiet, why your laugh hadn’t returned since dinner.

But he didn’t.

Because deep down, he figured this would blow over. Like it always did.

You’d both sleep on it. Wake up a little bleary. A little sheepish. He’d make coffee—or try to, and probably mess it up—and you’d smile despite yourself, and whatever this was would fade into that unspoken pile of almost-fights and swallowed arguments.

So he didn’t reach for you.

Didn’t fix it.

Didn’t earn it.

He closed his eyes instead. Let the steady thump of your heart lull him toward sleep.

And somewhere in the space between guilt and laziness, between arrogance and fear, he let himself drift.

Believing he still had time.

The smell of food woke you before the light did.

Remmick had slipped out of bed quietly. You hadn’t stirred when he did—just felt the sudden shift in weight behind you, the loss of heat. No kiss to the shoulder, no whispered good morning. That used to bother you, once. Now it just felt… safe. He was careful around you this morning. You could feel it.

And you hated that.

You sat at the edge of the bed longer than you meant to, staring at the closet door like it had answers. Your skin felt too tight. Like your body had grown around last night’s silence and hadn’t stretched back yet.

Eventually, you forced yourself up.

The kitchen was warm. Golden with soft light, sun bleeding in through the windows. You blinked against it. The table was already set—two mugs, one of them steaming, your favorite syrup bottle half-cocked on its side like someone had rushed to make it look casual. The skillet hissed on the stove.

Remmick turned just as you stepped in. He smiled.

It wasn’t smug or sleazy, not exactly. Just… light. Pleased with himself. Familiar. Easy in the way you used to find endearing. But this morning, it felt like an insult.

“Y’finally up,” he said gently, that rasp in his voice still warm from sleep. “Thought I’d have to come coax you out.”

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t have the energy to lie with a smile again.

Instead, you moved past him toward the coffee. Your fingers brushed the ceramic of the mug he’d poured for you—it was still hot. He’d timed it well. Probably heard the floor creak upstairs and hustled to finish.

Your eyes flicked to the table. A folded napkin. Knife turned inward like he always did. He used to joke it was in case you ever lunged across the table at him in a fit of fury. Now, it just felt like proof that he’d noticed. That he remembered the night before and was trying too hard to make today look soft.

You didn’t touch the food.

He plated it anyway. Pancakes. Blueberries battered in. Just enough butter. No powdered sugar—because he knew you hated the mess.

Your stomach turned.

“Ya sleep alright?” he asked after a minute, voice careful. Measured.

You nodded.

You didn’t.

Your dreams had been fractured and noisy. You kept waking in that half-place where memory and reality blur—staring at the ceiling, feeling the ghost of his voice ring in your chest. That damn sentence from the night before, sharp and casual like a tossed stone: Why is it always somethin’ with ya?

Like it wasn’t cruel.

Like it wasn’t meant to cut.

You sat at the table with the mug pressed to your lips, pretending to drink.

Remmick didn’t push. He moved around the kitchen quiet as anything, barefoot and fluid, sleeves pushed to his elbows. He hummed under his breath—some old song you couldn’t name. It made your chest ache, how easily he moved back into comfort. Or maybe he’d never left it.

You caught yourself watching him.

Not lovingly. Not this time.

It was observation, almost cold. He was so careful with the pan, so gentle with how he layered your food, like it’d undo what he said. Like it could fill the space he’d hollowed out.

You used to think mornings were his most honest time. When the world was quiet and his voice was still thick with sleep and he’d lean into you without his usual coolness. He never asked for much in the mornings. He just existed near you. Made breakfast. Held your hand across the table sometimes, like it meant something.

But today wasn’t honest.

Today was performance.

He was being sweet. He was being careful. He was being good.

And you hated him for it.

Because it felt like a dare.

Like if you didn’t accept the peace offering, you were the unreasonable one.

Like he hadn’t said what he said.

Like the pancakes could make it better. Like you were supposed to forget the way his voice sounded when he’d said it—just tired enough to be cruel, just calm enough to mean it.

“Everything okay?” he asked finally, the edge of his voice barely touching worry.

You nodded again. “Good.”

Your throat caught on it.

He didn’t call you on it. He just gave a small smile and slid the plate closer to you, like the gesture might matter more than your answer.

And maybe that’s what made it worse.

Because he accepted the lie.

Like always.

Because he wanted things smoothed over. Because he wanted you to eat. Because he wanted the rhythm back. And you knew him well enough by now to know he wasn’t trying to manipulate you—not outright. But he was still asking for something. Still dangling the quiet, the tenderness, the see, I’m good to you in front of you like a balm.

But it wasn’t a balm.

It was a bruise.

And the pressure of his kindness only made it throb more.

So you sat. Stiff and aching. And didn’t take a bite. Let the food cool. Let your coffee go lukewarm.

Remmick watched you from the stove, eyes flicking between the plate and your face. You knew he wanted to say something. You knew he wouldn’t. Not unless you cracked first.

And wasn’t that the story of it all?

He never pressed. Never forced. Just waited. Until you gave in. Until you softened. Until it was your guilt that made the first move.

But not this time.

You wrapped both hands around your mug, and stared at your untouched plate like it was some kind of test.

Let the silence settle, heavy.

He kept his back to you as he scraped the last of the batter from the bowl, lips drawn in a tight, polite line. The spatula moved slow in his hand, more to fill the space than anything else. He didn’t need more pancakes. Hell, he didn’t even care if you ate the ones he’d made.

He’d gone through the motions. He’d woken soft. Moved soft. Didn’t touch you without permission. Didn’t press. Made the damn breakfast. Just like you liked it.

And still—nothing.

Not a smile. Not a bite.

Just you, sitting there like a statue with a coffee mug clutched between your hands like it might burn you if you breathed too hard. And him, standing by the stove, starting to feel like a fool.

The longer the quiet stretched, the more sour his mood turned.

He didn’t show it—not much. Kept his shoulders loose. Let the corners of his mouth stay upturned like this whole morning hadn’t been a balancing act on a wire he didn’t remember agreeing to walk. But underneath the surface, a thread tugged tighter. A kind of tiredness curled in his gut, sticky and slow.

Because this? This was always how it went.

He said one wrong thing. One slightly-too-honest sentence.

And then you’d go quiet for a day and a half. Maybe more. And he was left doing cartwheels trying to fix something you wouldn’t even name.

He didn’t mean to hurt you. That’s what made it worse. He’d said it out of frustration, not malice. He didn’t call you names. Didn’t scream. Didn’t cheat or disappear for days like the men from your past. He was here, wasn’t he?

Still here. Still trying.

And still, it wasn’t enough.

He exhaled slow through his nose and turned back toward the table.

You hadn’t moved.

Still gripping that mug like it might spill all your secrets if you let it go. Your gaze was far away, jaw tight. He could see the little twitch of muscle there. The storm you were trying to hide.

Remmick leaned one hand on the table, cocked his head.

Voice soft as velvet.

“Y’still mad at me, sweetheart?”

He meant it to land gentle. Meant it as peace.

But the second the words left his mouth, he saw it hit you sideways.

Your face didn’t twist all at once. It wasn’t an explosion. It was worse. Slower.

Like something broke open in you in stages.

First, your brow knit. Then your eyes welled—not with tears, but fury. Your mouth parted just slightly, like you were trying to find the shape of breath. And then, wordlessly, your hand moved.

Fast.

The plate went first.

It shattered against the wall with a sound like a gunshot. Blueberries splattered across the plaster like blood. The syrup left a dark smear as the ceramic cracked in a dozen places, one half spinning on the floor.

The mug followed.

Coffee sprayed like it had been pressurized, splashing across the counter and down the cupboards. The mug broke cleaner—two solid halves. One skittered across the tile and hit the pantry door with a dull thud.

You were already up by the time the second crash echoed.

He jerked back, not out of fear, but out of sheer disbelief.

“The hell was that for?” he snapped, finally dropping the mask.

But you didn’t stop.

You shoved your chair back so hard it tipped, scraping the floor with an awful screech. Your arms shook as you stormed past him, breathing ragged, mouth clenched shut like if you opened it, something terrible might come out.

He turned with you.

Hot now. Irritated and confused and insulted, all at once. He followed fast, the heat in his jaw rising.

“Are you fuckin’ serious right now?”

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t even look back.

Your shoulders were stiff, your hands curled into fists, your walk sharp with rage. He didn’t see the quiet woman from last night anymore. Didn’t see the wounded silence, the soft body curled against the far edge of the bed.

No—this was worse.

You were leaving the room like you were leaving him, and he couldn’t make sense of it.

Because it was one sentence. One tired, stupid sentence.

He’d apologized.

Sort of.

He’d made breakfast. He’d played the good man. What else did you want from him?

Still, he didn’t yell.

Didn’t grab you.

Didn’t say the dozen things that flared up in the back of his throat, every ugly little retort begging to be set loose.

Instead, he followed.

Not because he understood.

But because he couldn’t bear not being close.

And you hated that about him.

You hated so many things about him.

The way he followed you without a word. The way you could hear his bare feet on the hardwood floor like a shadow too thick to shake. The way he never let anything breathe—always hovering, always waiting to talk before you'd even figured out what you wanted to say.

You hated how patient he was until he wasn’t.

How he moved like mist through every door in your life, and how you always let him.

And God, you hated how that meant he always got to be the one who ended things. Who said the last word. Who closed the distance and made the silence go away.

Even now, he caught the door just before it slammed, his hand snapping around the edge and shoving it back open like it was his right. You spun around with your jaw clenched, chest heaving like you’d been running, but he didn’t flinch.

Didn’t pause.

Didn’t read the room.

Of course not.

Because then that stupid mouth opened.

“What the hell was that back there?” he snapped, voice too sweet for the words it carried. “Smashin’ plates now? Is that what we’re doin’? Jesus—”

You didn’t answer.

You crossed the room with tight steps, ready to put something—anything—between you and him. But his voice followed like a leash.

“Could’a talked to me like a grown woman instead of hurlin’ breakfast at the goddamn wall!”

He stepped into the doorway, arms spread like he was presenting evidence. Like you were the irrational one here. Like none of this was his fault.

“I’ve been nothin’ but good to ya this mornin’,” he went on, tone swinging between pity and anger. “Made yer coffee, made yer favorite, didn’t even press when ya sat there starin’ through me like I wasn’t right there. But sure. Let’s act like I kicked your dog.”

“Are you serious right now?” you snapped.

“Oh, finally. She speaks.”

Your face twisted, heat rising so fast it nearly choked you.

“You say one mean, uncalled for thing—”

“One thing,” he echoed mockingly, head tilted. “One truth, and suddenly I’m the villain? Y’lose your damn mind over me stating a fact—”

“You made me feel like a burden—”

“Ya are when it means I gotta tiptoe ‘round you every time your feelin’s get bruised!”

You reeled, stunned silent for just a beat. But then the rage surged again—hot and loud and righteous.

“Oh, fuck you, Remmick.”

He threw his hands in the air, stepping deeper into the room.

“I knew this was comin’. No matter what I say, it’s never good enough, is it?”

“Because you don’t mean it!” you shouted. “You never mean it when you say sorry, you just want me to get over it. You want things back to normal without doing a single thing to fix it!”

He scoffed. “Y‘want me to write you a sonnet, sweetheart? Want me on my knees with a fuckin’ Hallmark card and a basket of kittens?”

“I want you to care!” your voice cracked. “Actually care! Not pretend. Not play the good man in the morning and then roll your eyes when I’m still upset.”

“Oh, don’t act like I’m some manipulative bastard—”

“You are! You gaslight me every time we argue!”

He blinked at that, hard.

You could see the offense settle in his face, real and sharp.

“Y’throw that word around like it don’t mean a damn thing.”

“You make me feel crazy for having normal reactions to the mean shit that comes out of your mouth!”

He stalked forward again, hands twitching at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“I’m not mean to ya,” he snarled. “I don’t raise my voice, I don’t hit, I don’t lie—”

“You belittle me.”

Your voice dropped low.

Still hot. Still sharp.

But dangerous now. Controlled.

“You belittle me, and you call it being honest. You invalidate me, and you call it calm. You make me out to be the problem every time, and when I finally say something back—when I finally get angry—you act like I’m the one ruining everything.”

He stopped.

Really stopped.

And you saw that flicker of guilt. Of shame. But it passed quick, too quick.

He shook his head, scoffing again. “Yer makin’ this bigger than it is.”

And there it was.

The sentence that pushed you over the edge.

You didn’t walk away.

You stared him down.

Because how dare he.

How fucking dare he.

You didn’t even recognize your voice when it came out—sharp, shaking, something ripped raw from deep inside your chest.

“Bigger than it is? I gave up everything to be with you!”

He blinked.

You took a step forward. Then another. Like something possessed. Like if you didn’t move, the scream building in your chest would destroy you from the inside out.

“My family, my job, my life—I gave it all up to stay here with you in this weird little nowhere bubble you built because the world scares the shit out of you now! And you stand there like you’re the one being wronged?”

Remmick's jaw tensed. “No one asked ya to give all that up—”

“You didn’t stop me either! You never asked for anything, Remmick, you just stood there and waited for me to offer it. And you knew I would. You knew I was in love with you. And you used that.”

His mouth opened. Closed. His fingers twitched again, then flexed like he wanted to crack his knuckles but couldn’t justify it. You weren’t done.

“You want to act like you’re so above everything. So controlled. But you are the most selfish, manipulative bastard I have ever met.”

His face flickered.

But you didn’t stop.

You couldn’t.

“I wish I never met you.”

A pause fell.

Still, hot, wide.

“I wish I could put into words how much I hate you.”

You pressed on, even as your stomach twisted violently, even as something in you begged you to shut the hell up.

“You’re not a man, Remmick. You’re just… old.”

His throat bobbed.

“You don’t know how to love. You never did. You’ve just been alive so long you got good at pretending. You think memorizing someone’s favorite breakfast makes you a good partner?”

Remmick’s mouth opened, and this time, his voice was venom.

“Y’think pitying someone’s trauma gives ya the moral high ground?”

You flinched.

But neither of you stopped.

“Oh, there it is,” you snapped. “Go ahead, say what you really want to say.”

“I don’t know what the fuck y’want from me!” he barked. “One day ya cling to me like I’m your goddamn lifeline and the next yer cryin’ because I didn’t say the word sorry in the right tone—how am I supposed to keep up with that?”

“You’re supposed to try!” you shrieked. “You’re supposed to care enough to try! But you don’t. You don’t!”

He stormed forward, fast. Too fast.

You backed up without thinking, and suddenly his presence felt huge.

He wasn’t touching you. But it was close.

Close enough to make your body coil tight.

Close enough for your lungs to stop working properly.

“I’ve bent over backwards to keep ya happy!”

You laughed.

It came out wild and broken and ugly.

“You’ve kept me tolerable, Remmick. You’ve kept me quiet. There’s a difference.”

“Oh, please,” he snarled. “Ya haven’t shut up since the day I met ya.”

You stepped in close, nose to nose.

“You are the loneliest person I have ever met,” you hissed.

“And y’still ruined the only person who ever loved ya.”

He stared at you like you’d torn his ribs open.

But then—

Then he sneered.

Low and quiet. A sound made of something sharp and long-buried.

His voice, when it came next, was almost too soft. Too knowing.

“Y’know,” he said, “I see why all the men in your life left ya.”

You stopped breathing.

“I’ve thought about it,” he added, his voice a low threat. “Thought about walkin’ out that door and never comin’ back. Just like the rest of ‘em. Just like your daddy—”

SMACK.

You slapped him.

You didn’t think. You didn’t hesitate. You didn’t even register the movement until the sound cracked through the room like a gunshot and your hand throbbed from wrist to fingertips.

He stumbled back a step—not from the force, but from the shock of it. The shock you were feeling too.

Because you’d never hit anyone before.

Because he’d never said anything so vile before.

The red bloomed across his cheek, pale skin blooming crimson with the heat of your palm. And he just stood there. Breath caught. Face tilted slightly to the side. Eyes burning. Mouth half open like he might still say something, might double down, might spit something even worse into the air—

But he didn’t.

Because the thing that finally settled on his face wasn’t anger. It wasn’t pride.

It was regret.

Thick and full and sudden.

He took a breath.

And you ran.

You shoved past him with the weight of your whole body, shoulder catching his arm, chest twisting, breath ragged. Your fingers fumbled on the bathroom doorknob like they didn’t belong to you.

You didn’t even lock it properly—just slammed it and collapsed into the corner, legs folding beneath you like they’d given out.

The sob cracked out of you so loud and raw it hurt your throat. You curled into yourself, knees to chest, arms wrapped tight. The cold tile pressed against your hip. The baseboard dug into your spine.

But none of it compared to the ache splitting you down the center.

The way your chest heaved.

The way your breath wouldn’t come in properly.

The way your head spun like the air was too thin and the world was too loud and everything inside you was crashing.

You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t see through it.

Everything he’d said. Everything you had said.

You pressed your forehead to your knees and shook.

Then the silence.

Not total.

Not empty.

Because you heard him.

On the other side of the door.

Not knocking. Not banging. Not shouting like you’d half expected him to.

Just… sitting.

You heard the faint shift of weight. The whisper of fabric against wood. His back sliding down the door until he met the floor.

Then the sound of his head—soft, dull—coming to rest against the panel.

That was it.

No apology. No plea. Not even a whisper of your name.

Just his presence. Quiet and heavy on the other side.

And this time, the silence wasn’t cruel.

It was a mercy.

It was space.

It was the only thing between you and another explosion. And for once, he seemed to understand that.

So he stayed quiet.

And you stayed curled, face buried in your knees, letting your sobs soften into something more hollow.

There was nothing else to say. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Just the door between you.

And—for now—that was enough.

He’d drifted off somewhere close to the floor.

Didn’t remember laying down. Didn’t remember when the ache in his spine had gone dull. But he remembered the door. His head against it. The sound of you crying so hard it made his brain itch. He’d stayed there until your sobs gave out, until all he could hear was breathing, shallow and wrung out and exhausted. Then nothing.

And now…

Click.

His eyes snapped open at the whisper of the knob turning. The quietest creak of a door eased open slow as fog. He blinked into the dim light as the shape of you stepped out. Fragile. Tired. Still shaking slightly as your hand reached to close the door again with a barely-there push.

He moved before he could think. Got to his feet, joints groaning as he stepped aside, slow and careful. Gave you room. Didn't speak.

Didn’t dare.

You didn’t look at him. Just walked past and climbed into bed like the floor might collapse otherwise. You moved like your skin hurt. Like breathing was hard work. The blankets barely rustled as you pulled them up.

He watched you settle. Noticed how the light from the hallway caught on your cheeks—puffy and dark with salt. The red still clung to your eyes, swollen and bloodshot. You didn’t look at him, and he didn’t ask you to.

He stood there for a beat longer, hands at his sides. Debating.

If you told him to go, he would.

If you turned away or threw the covers off or gave even the slightest hint—

But you didn’t.

So, he moved. Cautiously. Pulled the door to a gentle close behind him and padded toward the bed like a man unsure if he was welcome in his own home.

The mattress dipped beneath his weight. He stayed to his side. Barely inched toward the center.

Paused.

Waited.

Waited again.

Still, you didn’t move.

So, he braved another few inches. Laid back against the pillow. Turned his face to yours in the dark even though he knew you wouldn't meet it.

Still nothing.

And so he waited. Again.

You felt the mattress give first.

The smallest shift. A slow sag that told you he was there again. Close.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

You lay facing the wall, curled in on yourself like your insides were made of glass and someone had just thrown a stone straight through them. Eyes dry but aching, lips pressed together like a seal. The silence was thick, but not unbearable. Not this time.

You felt him stop short. Like he was giving you a chance to flinch. To push him away.

But you didn’t.

Because even if it was all broken. Even if tonight had left claw marks through both of you. Even if you weren’t sure what the morning would bring—

You didn’t want to be alone right now.

So when the mattress dipped again, just slightly, and the warmth of him drew an inch closer, you let it happen.

Let him settle behind you without a word.

Let him wait.

And then—

His arm.

Tentative. Unsteady. Shaking with hesitation.

He draped it across your waist, barely even resting it there, as though expecting to be flinched from. Pushed off.

But you didn’t stiffen this time.

Didn’t tense or shrink or shove him away.

Instead, you let him hold you.

Let the warmth of him wrap around your exhausted body.

Let the quiet settle for the first time in hours.

And when he pressed a soft, remorseful kiss to the curve of your shoulder—so light it barely registered—you let him.

No forgiveness. Not yet.

But not rejection, either.

You didn’t move as sleep pulled at your bones.

Didn’t say a word.

Because there’d be time for that later.

Time for the fixing. Time for the fallout.

Time for apologies that actually meant something.

Time for all of it.

But not now.

Not tonight.

Tonight, you just breathed in the dark, with his arm around you and your heart bruised but still beating, and let yourself drift.

You’ll deal with this tomorrow.

[sunbleachedfl13s]

Sinners alternate ending:

Remmick gets what he wants & brings his people back but it turns out they hate his ass too

[sunbleachedfl13s]

it's the way Skins era Jack is asked to do an impression of his best sexy face in an interview and he decides to adlib how he pulls women by saying, "come to bed with us doll, please. Come on mate, it's been tough. It's been a right while, won't take long. It'll be short. Just close your eyes or summat...I don't know. Hold your nose" 😭