#hes a monsterfucker through and through

[direwombat]

my friends. i must confess. i left tags on a post that were "athenian sacrifice syb + minotaur jacob" and i. might just need to write that.

[pinkkittysaw]

not sure if anyone cares, but incase anyone wanted visuals for werewolf!clive in his full wolf form, i based him off of black wolves ^_^ with his eyes being more of an azure blue rather than yellow

anddddd since he’s a werewolf of my imagination his size is similar to that of the extinct epicyon haydeni (images below the cut)

[spikedfearn]

Mercy Made Flesh

one-shot

Remmick x fem!reader

summary: In the heat-choked hush of the Mississippi Delta, you answer a knock you swore would never come. Remmick—unaging, unholy, unforgettable—returns to collect what was promised. What follows is not romance, but ritual. A slow, sensual surrender to a hunger older than the Trinity itself.

wc: 13.1k

a/n: Listen. I didn’t mean to simp for Vampire Jack O’Connell—but here we are. I make no apologies for letting Remmick bite first and ask questions never. Thank you to my bestie Nat (@kayharrisons) for beta reading and hyping me up, without her this fic wouldn't exist, everyone say thank you Nat!

warnings: vampirism, southern gothic erotica, blood drinking as intimacy, canon-typical violence, explicit sexual content, oral sex (f!receiving), first time, bloodplay, biting, marking, monsterfucking (soft edition), religious imagery, devotion as obsession, gothic horror vibes, worship kink, consent affirmed, begging, dirty talk, gentle ruin, haunting eroticism, power imbalance, slow seduction, soul-binding, immortal x mortal, he wants to keep her forever, she lets him, fem!reader, second person pov, 1930s mississippi delta, house that breathes, you will be fed upon emotionally & literally

tags: @xhoneymoonx134

likes, comments, and reblogs appreciated! please enjoy

Mississippi Delta, 1938

The heat hadn’t broken in days.

Not even after sunset, when the sky turned the color of old bruises and the crickets started singing like they were being paid to. It was the kind of heat that soaked into the floorboards, that crept beneath your thin cotton slip and clung to your back like sweat-slicked hands. The air was syrupy, heavy with magnolia and something murkier—soil, maybe. River water. Something that made you itch beneath your skin.

Your cottage sat just outside the edge of town, past the schoolhouse where you spent your days sorting through ledgers and lesson plans that no one but you ever really seemed to care about. It was modest—two rooms and a porch, set back behind a crumbling white-picket fence and swallowed by trees that whispered in the dark. A little sanctuary tucked into the Delta, surrounded by cornfields, creeks, and ghosts.

The kind of place a person could disappear if they wanted to. The kind of place someone could find you…if they were patient enough.

You stood in front of the sink, rinsing out a chipped enamel cup, your hands moving automatically. The oil lamp on the kitchen table flickered with each breath of wind slipping through the cracks in the warped window frame. A cicada screamed in the distance, then another, and then the whole world was humming in chorus.

And beneath it—beneath the cicadas, and the wind, and the nightbirds—you felt something shift.

A quiet. Too quiet.

You turned your head. Listened harder.

Nothing.

Not even the frogs.

Your hand paused in the dishwater. Fingers trembling just a little. It wasn’t like you to be spooked by the dark. You’d grown up in it. Learned to make friends with shadows. Learned not to flinch when things moved just out of sight.

But this?

This was different.

It was as if the night was holding its breath.

And then—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Not loud. Not frantic. But final.

Your body went stiff. The cup slipped beneath the water and bumped the side of the basin with a hollow clink.

No one ever came this far out after sundown. No one but—

You shook your head, almost hard enough to rattle something loose.

No.

He was gone. That part of your life was buried.

You made sure of it.

Still, your bare feet moved toward the door like they weren’t yours. Soft against the creaky wood. Slow. You reached for the small revolver you kept in the drawer beside the door frame, thumbed the hammer back.

Your hand rested on the knob.

Another knock. This time, softer.

Almost...polite.

The porch light had been dead for weeks, so you couldn’t see who was waiting on the other side. But the air—something in the air—told you.

It was him.

You didn’t answer. Not right away.

You stood there with your palm flat against the rough wood, your forehead nearly touching it too—eyes shut, breath shallow. The air on the other side didn’t stir like it should’ve. No footfalls creaking the porch. No shuffle of boots on sun-bleached planks. Just stillness. Waiting.

And underneath your ribs, something began to ache. Something you hadn’t let yourself feel in years.

You didn’t know his name, not back then. You only knew his eyes—gold in the shadows. Red when caught in the light. Like a firelight in the dark. Like a blood red moon through stained-glass windows.

And his voice. Low. Dragging vowels like syrup. A Southern accent that didn’t come from any map you’d ever seen—older than towns, older than state lines. A voice that had told you, seven years ago, with impossible calm:

"You’ll know when it’s time."

You knew. Your hands trembled against your sides. But you didn’t back away. Some part of you knew how useless running would be.

The knob beneath your hand felt cold. Too cold for Mississippi in August.

You turned it.

The door opened slow, hinges whining like they were trying to warn you. You stepped back instinctively—just one step—and then he was there.

Remmick.

Still tall, still lean in that devastating way—like his body was carved from something hard and mean, but shaped to tempt. He wore a crisp white shirt rolled to the elbows, suspenders hanging loose from his hips, and trousers that looked far too clean for a man who walked through the dirt. His hair was messy in that intentional way, brown and swept back like he’d been running hands through it all night. Stubble lined his sharp jaw, catching the lamplight just so.

But it was his face that rooted you to the floor. That hollowed out your breath.

Still young. Still wrong.

Not a wrinkle, not a scar. Not a mark of time. He hadn’t aged a day.

And his eyes—oh, God, his eyes.

They caught the lamp behind you and lit up red, bright and glinting, like the embers of a dying fire. Not human. Not even pretending.

"Hello, dove."

His voice curled into your bones like cigarette smoke. You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

You hated how your body reacted.

Hated that you could still feel it—like something old and molten stirring between your thighs, a flicker of the same heat you’d felt that night in the alley, back when you were too desperate to care what kind of creature answered your prayer.

He looked you over once. Not with hunger. With certainty. Like he already knew how this would end. Like he already owned you.

"You remember, don’t you?" he asked.

"I came to collect."

And your voice—when it finally came—was little more than a whisper.

"You can’t be real."

That smile. That slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. Wolfish. Slow.

"You promised."

You wanted to shut the door. Slam it. Deadbolt it. But your hand didn’t move.

Remmick didn’t step forward, not yet. He stood just outside the threshold, framed by night and cypress trees and the distant flicker of heat lightning beyond the fields. The air around him pulsed with something old—older than the land, older than you, older than anything you could name.

He tilted his head the way animals do, watching you, letting the silence thicken like molasses between you.

"Still living out here all on your own," he murmured, gaze drifting over your shoulders, into the small, tidy kitchen behind you. "Hung your laundry on the line this morning. Blue dress, lace hem. Favorite one, ain’t it?"

Your stomach clenched. That dress hadn’t seen a neighbor’s eye all week.

"You've been watching me," you said, your voice low, unsure if it was accusation or realization.

"I’ve been waiting," he said. "Not the same thing."

You swallowed hard. Your breath caught in your throat like a thorn. The wind shifted, and you caught the faintest trace of something—dried tobacco, smoke, rain-soaked dirt, and beneath it, the iron-sweet tinge of blood.

Not fresh. Not violent. Just…present. Like it lived in him.

"I paid my debt," you whispered.

"No, you survived it," he said, stepping up onto the first board of the porch. The wood didn’t creak beneath his weight. "And that’s only half the bargain."

He still hadn’t crossed the threshold.

The stories came back to you, the ones whispered by old women with trembling hands and ash crosses pressed to their doorways—vampires couldn’t enter unless invited. But you hadn’t invited him, not this time.

"You don’t have permission," you said.

He smiled, eyes flashing red again.

"You gave it, seven years ago."

Your breath hitched.

"I was a girl," you said.

"You were desperate," he corrected. "And honest. Desperation makes people honest in ways they can’t be twice. You knew what you were offering me, even if you didn’t understand it. Your promise had teeth."

The wind pushed against your back, as if urging you forward.

Remmick stepped closer, just enough for the shadows to kiss the line of his throat, the hollow of his collarbone. His voice dropped, intimate now—dragging across your skin like a fingertip behind the ear.

"You asked for a miracle. I gave it to you. And now I’m here for what’s mine."

Your heart thudded violently in your chest.

"I didn’t think you’d come."

"That’s the thing about monsters, dove." He leaned down, lips almost grazing the curve of your jaw. "We always do."

And then—

He stepped back.

The wind stopped.

The night fell quiet again, like the world had paused just to watch what you’d do next.

"I’ll wait out here till you’re ready," he said, turning toward the swing on your porch and settling into it like he had all the time in the world. "But don’t make me knock twice. Wouldn’t be polite."

The swing groaned beneath him as it rocked gently, back and forth.

You stood there frozen in the doorway, one bare foot still inside the house, the other brushing the edge of the porch.

You’d made a promise.

And he was here to keep it.

The door stayed open. Just enough for the night to reach inside.

You didn’t move.

Your body stood still but your mind wandered—back to that night in the alley, to the smell of blood and piss and riverwater, your knees soaked in your brother’s lifeblood as you screamed for help that never came. Except it did. It came in the shape of a man who didn’t breathe, didn’t blink, didn’t make promises the way mortals did.

It came in the shape of him.

You thought time would wash it away. That the years would smooth the edges of his voice in your memory, dull the sharpness of his presence. But now, with him just outside your door, it all returned like a fever dream—hot, all-consuming, too real to outrun.

You turned away from the threshold, slowly, carefully, as if the floor might cave in under you. Your hands trembled as you reached for the oil lamp on the table, adjusting the flame lower until it flickered like a dying heartbeat.

The silence behind you dragged, deep and waiting. He didn’t speak again. Didn’t call for you.

He didn’t have to.

You moved through the house in slow circles. Touching things. Straightening them. Folding a dishcloth. Setting a book back on the shelf, even though you’d already read it twice. You tried to pretend you weren’t thinking about the man on your porch. But the heat of him pressed against the back of your mind like a hand.

You could feel him out there. Not just physically—but in you, somehow. Like the air had shifted around his shape, and the longer he lingered, the more your body remembered what it had felt like to stand in front of something not quite human and still want.

You passed the mirror in the hallway and paused.

Your reflection looked undone. Not in the way your hair had fallen from its pin, or the flush across your cheeks, but deeper—like something inside you had been cracked open. You touched your own throat, right where you imagined his mouth might go.

No bite.

Not yet.

But you swore you could feel phantom teeth.

You went back to the door, holding your breath, and looked at him through the screen.

He hadn’t moved. He sat on the swing, one leg stretched out, the other bent lazily beneath him, arms slung across the backrest like he’d always belonged there. A cigarette burned between two fingers, the tip flaring orange as he dragged from it. The scent of it hit you—rich, earthy, and somehow foreign, like something imported from a place no longer on the map.

He didn’t look at you right away.

Then, slowly, he did.

Red eyes caught yours.

He smiled, small and slow, like he was reading a page of you he’d already memorized.

"Thought you’d shut the door by now," he said.

"I should have," you answered.

"But you didn’t."

His voice curled into the quiet.

You stepped out onto the porch, barefoot, the boards warm beneath your soles. He didn’t move to greet you. He didn’t rise. He just watched you walk toward him like he’d been watching in dreams you never remembered having.

The swing groaned as you sat down beside him, a careful space between you.

His shoulder brushed yours.

You stared straight ahead, out into the night. A mist was beginning to rise off the distant fields. The moon hung low and orange like a wound in the sky.

Somewhere in the bayou, a whippoorwill called, long and mournful.

"How long have you been watching me?" you asked.

"Since before you knew to look."

"Why now?"

He turned toward you. His voice was velvet-wrapped iron.

"Because now…you’re ripe for the pickin’.”

You didn’t remember falling asleep.

One moment you were on the porch beside him, listening to the slow groan of the swing and the way the crickets held their breath when he exhaled, the next you were waking in your bed, the sheets tangled around your legs like they were trying to hold you down.

The house was too quiet.

No birdsong. No creak of the windmill out back. No rustle of the sycamores that scraped against your bedroom window on stormy nights.

Just stillness.

And scent.

It clung to the cotton of your nightdress. Tobacco smoke, sweat, rain. Him.

You sat up slowly, pressing your hand to your chest. Your heart thudded like it was trying to remember who it belonged to. The lamp beside your bed had burned down to a stub. A trickle of wax curled like a vein down the side of the glass.

Your mouth tasted like smoke and guilt. Your thighs ached in that low, humming way—though you couldn’t say why. Nothing had happened. Not really.

But something had changed.

You felt it under your skin, in the place where blood meets breath.

The floor was cool under your feet as you moved. You didn’t dress. Just pulled a robe over your slip and stepped into the hallway. The house felt heavier than usual, thick with the ghost of his presence. Every corner held a whisper. Every shadow a shape.

You opened the front door.

The porch was empty.

The swing still rocked gently, as if someone had only just stood up from it.

A folded piece of paper lay on the top step, weighted down by a smooth river stone.

You picked it up with trembling hands.

Come.

That was all it said. One word. But it rang through your bones like gospel. Like a vow.

You looked out across the field. A narrow dirt road stretched beyond the tree line, overgrown but clear. You’d never dared follow it. That road didn’t belong to you.

It belonged to him.

And now…so did you.

You didn’t bring anything with you.

Not a suitcase. Not a shawl. Not a Bible tucked under your arm for comfort.

Just yourself.

And the road.

The hem of your slip was already damp by the time you reached the edge of the field. Dew clung to your ankles like cold fingers, and the earth was soft beneath your feet—fresh from last night’s storm, the kind that never really breaks the heat, only deepens it. The moon had gone down, but the sky was beginning to bruise with that blue-black ink that comes before sunrise. Everything smelled like wet grass, magnolia, and the faint rot of old wood.

The path curved, narrowing as it passed through trees that leaned in too close. Their branches kissed above you like they were whispering secrets into each other’s leaves. Spanish moss hung like veils from the oaks, dripping silver in the fading dark. It made the world feel smaller. Quieter. As if you were walking into something sacred—or something doomed.

A crow cawed once in the distance. Sharp. Hollow. You didn’t flinch.

There was no sound of wheels. No car waiting. Just the road and the fog and the promise you'd made.

And then you saw it.

The house.

Tucked deep in the grove, half-swallowed by vines and time, it rose like a memory from the earth. A decaying plantation, left to rot in the wet belly of the Delta. Its bones were still beautiful—white columns streaked with black mildew, a grand porch that sagged like a mouth missing teeth, shuttered windows with iron latches rusted shut. Ivy grew up the sides like it was trying to strangle the place. Or maybe protect it.

You stood there at the edge of the clearing, breath caught in your throat.

He’d brought you here.

Or maybe he’d always been here. Waiting. Dreaming of the moment you’d return to him without even knowing it.

A shape moved behind one of the upstairs curtains. Quick. Barely there.

You didn’t run.

Your bare foot found the first step.

It groaned like it recognized you.

The door was already open.

Not wide—just enough for you to know it had been waiting.

And you stepped inside.

The air inside was colder.

Not the kind of cold that came from breeze or shade—but from stillness, from the absence of sun and time. A hush so thick it felt like you were walking underwater. Like the house had held its breath for decades and only now began to exhale.

Dust spiraled in the faint light seeping through fractured windows, casting soft halos through the dark. The wooden floor beneath your feet was warped and groaning, but clean. Not in any natural sense—there was no broom that had touched these boards. No polish or soap.

But it had been kept.

The air didn’t smell like rot or mildew. It smelled like cedar. Like old leather. And deeper beneath that, like him.

He hadn’t lit any lamps.

Just the fireplace, burning low, glowing embers pulsing orange-red at the back of a cavernous hearth. The flame danced shadows across the faded wallpaper, peeling in long strips like dead skin. A high-backed chair faced the fire, velvet blackened from age, its silhouette looming like something alive.

You swallowed, lips dry, and stepped further in.

Your voice didn’t carry. It didn’t even try.

Remmick was nowhere in sight.

But he was here.

You could feel him in the walls, in the way the house seemed to lean closer with every step you took.

You passed through the parlor, past a dusty grand piano with one ivory key cracked down the middle. Past oil portraits too old to make out, their eyes blurred with time. Past a single vase of dried wildflowers, colorless now, but carefully arranged.

You paused in the doorway to the drawing room, your hand resting lightly on the frame.

A whisper of air moved behind you.

Then—

A hand.

Not grabbing. Not harsh. Just the light press of fingers against the small of your back, palm flat and warm through the thin cotton of your slip.

You froze.

He was behind you.

So close you could feel his breath at your neck. Not warm, not cold—just present. Like wind through a crack in the door. Like the memory of a touch before it lands.

His voice was low, close to your ear.

"You came."

You didn’t answer.

"You always would have."

You wanted to say no. Wanted to deny it. But you stood there trembling under his hand, your heartbeat so loud you were sure he could hear it.

Maybe that was why he smiled.

He stepped around you slowly, letting his fingers graze the side of your waist as he moved. His eyes glinted red in the firelight, catching on you like a flame drawn to dry kindling.

He looked at you like he was already undressing you.

Not your clothes—your will.

And it was already unraveling.

You’d suspected he wasn’t born of this soil.

Not just because of the way he moved—like he didn’t quite belong to gravity—but because of the way he spoke. Like time hadn’t worn the edges off his words the way it had with everyone else. His voice curled around vowels like smoke curling through keyholes. Rich and low, but laced with something older. Something foreign. Something that made the hair at the nape of your neck rise when he spoke too softly, too close.

He didn’t speak like a man from the Delta.

He spoke like something older than it.

Older than the country. Maybe older than God.

Remmick stopped in front of you, lit only by firelight.

His eyes had dulled from red to something deeper—like old garnet held to a candle. His shirt was open at the collar now, suspenders hanging slack, the buttons on his sleeves rolled to his elbows. His forearms were dusted with faint scars that looked like they had stories. His skin was pale in the glow, but not lifeless. He looked like marble warmed by touch.

He studied you for a long time.

You weren’t sure if it was your face he was reading, or something beneath it. Something you couldn’t hide.

"You look just like your mother," he said finally.

Your breath caught.

"You knew her?"

A soft smirk curled at the corner of his mouth.

"I’ve known a lot of people, dove. I just never forget the ones with your blood."

You didn’t ask what he meant. Not yet.

There was something heavy in his tone—something laced with memory that stretched back far further than it should. You had guessed, years ago, in the sleepless weeks after that alleyway miracle, that he was not new to this world. That his youth was a trick of the skin. A lie worn like a mask.

You’d read every folklore book you could get your hands on. Every whisper of vampire lore scratched into the margins of ledgers, stuffed between church hymnals, scribbled on the backs of newspapers.

Some said they aged. Slowly. Elegantly.

Others said they didn’t age at all. That they existed outside time. Beyond it.

You didn’t know how old Remmick was.

But something in your bones told you the truth.

Five hundred. Six hundred, maybe more.

A man who remembered empires. A man who had watched cities rise and burn. Who had danced in plague-slick ballrooms and kissed queens before they were beheaded. A man who had lived so long that names no longer mattered. Only debts. And blood.

And you’d given him both.

He stepped closer now, slow and deliberate.

"Yer heart’s gallopin’ like it thinks I’m here to take it."

You flinched. Not because he was wrong. But because he was right.

"You said you didn’t want my blood," you whispered.

"I don’t." He tilted his head. "Not yet."

"Then what do you want?"

His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

"You."

He said it like it was a simple thing. Like the rain wanting the river. Like the grave wanting the body.

You swallowed hard.

"Why me?"

His gaze dragged down your frame, unhurried, like a man admiring a painting he’d stolen once and hidden from the world.

"Because you belong to me. You gave yourself freely. No bargain’s ever tasted so sweet."

Your throat tightened.

"I didn’t know what I was agreeing to."

"You did," he said, softly now, stepping close enough that his chest nearly brushed yours. "You knew. Your soul knew. Even if your head didn’t catch up."

You opened your mouth to protest, to say something, anything that would push back this slow suffocation of certainty—

But his hand came up to your jaw. Fingers feather-light. Not forcing. Just holding. Just there.

"And you’ve been thinkin’ about me ever since," he said.

Not a question. A statement.

You didn’t answer.

He leaned in, his breath ghosting over your cheek, his voice a rasp against your ear.

"You dream of me, don’t you?"

Your hands trembled at your sides.

"I don’t—"

"You wake wet. Ache in your belly. You don’t know why. But I do."

You let your eyes fall shut, shame burning behind them like fire.

"Fuckin’ knew it," he murmured, almost reverent. "You smell like want, dove. You always have.”

His hand didn’t move. It just stayed there at your jaw, thumb ghosting slow along the hollow beneath your cheekbone. A touch so gentle it made your knees ache. Because it wasn’t the roughness that undid you—it was the restraint.

He could’ve taken.

He didn’t.

Not yet.

His gaze held yours, slow and unblinking, red still smoldering in the center of his irises like the dying core of a flame that refused to go out.

"Say it," he murmured.

Your lips parted, but nothing came.

"I can smell it," he said, voice low, rich as molasses. "Your shame. Your want. You’ve been livin’ like a nun with a beast inside her, and no one knows but me."

You hated how your breath stuttered. Hated more that your thighs pressed together when he said it.

"Why do you talk like that," you whispered, barely able to get the words out, "like you already know what I’m feeling?"

His fingers slid down, grazing the side of your neck, stopping just before the pulse thudding there.

"Because I do."

"That’s not fair."

He smiled, slow and crooked, nothing kind in it.

"No, dove. It ain’t."

You hated him.

You hated how beautiful he was in this light, sleeves rolled, veins prominent in his arms, shirt hanging open just enough to show the faint line of a scar that trailed beneath his collarbone. A body shaped by time, not by vanity. Not perfect. Just true. Like someone carved him for a purpose and let the flaws stay because they made him real.

He looked like sin and the sermon that came after.

Remmick moved closer. You didn’t retreat.

His hand flattened over your sternum now, right above your heartbeat, the warmth of him pressing through the cotton of your slip like it meant to seep in. He leaned down, mouth near yours, not kissing, just breathing.

"You gave yourself to me once," he said. "I’m only here to collect the rest."

"You saved my brother."

"I saved you. You just didn’t know it yet."

A shiver rippled down your spine.

His hand moved lower, skimming the curve of your ribs, hovering just at the soft flare of your waist. You could feel the heat rolling off him like smoke from a coalbed. His body didn’t radiate warmth the way a man’s should—but something older. Wilder. Like the earth’s own breath in summer. Like the hush of a storm right before it split the sky.

"And if I tell you no?" you asked, barely more than a breath.

His eyes flicked to yours, unreadable.

"I’ll wait."

You weren’t expecting that.

He smiled again, this time softer, almost cruel in its patience.

"I’ve waited centuries for sweeter things than you. But that don’t mean I won’t keep my hands on you ‘til you change your mind."

"You think I will?"

"You already have."

Your chest rose sharply, breath stung with heat.

"You think this is love?"

He laughed, low and dangerous, the sound curling around your ribs.

"No," he said. "This is hunger. Love comes later."

Then his mouth brushed your jaw—not a kiss, just the graze of lips against skin—and every nerve in your body arched to meet it.

Your knees buckled, barely.

He caught your waist in one hand, steadying you with maddening ease.

"I’m gonna ruin you," he whispered against your throat, his nose dragging lightly along your skin. "But I’ll be so gentle the first time you’ll beg me to do it again."

And God help you—

You wanted him to.

The house didn’t sleep.

Not the way houses were meant to.

It breathed.

The walls exhaled heat and memory, the floors creaked even when no one stepped, and somewhere in the rafters above your room, something paced slowly back and forth, back and forth, like a beast too restless to settle. The kind of place built with its own pulse.

You’d spent the rest of the night—if you could call it that—in a room that wasn’t yours, wearing nothing but a cotton shift and your silence. You hadn’t asked for anything. He hadn’t offered.

The room was spare but not cruel. A basin with a water pitcher. A four-poster bed draped in a netting veil to keep out the bugs—or the ghosts. The mattress was soft. The sheets smelled faintly of cedar, firewood, and something else you didn’t recognize.

Him.

You didn’t undress. You lay on top of the blanket, fingers threaded together over your belly, the thrum of your heartbeat like a second mouth behind your ribs.

Your door had no lock. Just a handle that squeaked if turned. And you hated how many times your eyes flicked toward it. Waiting. Wanting.

But he never came.

And somehow, that was worse.

Morning broke soft and gray through the slatted shutters. The sun didn’t quite reach the corners of the room, and the light that filtered in was the color of dust and river fog.

When you finally stepped out barefoot into the hall, the house was already awake.

There was a scent in the air—coffee. Burned sugar. The faintest curl of cinnamon. Something sizzling in a skillet somewhere.

You followed it.

The kitchen was enormous, all brick hearth and cast iron and a long scarred table in the center with mismatched chairs pushed in unevenly. A window hung open, letting in a breath of swamp air that rustled the lace curtain and kissed your ankles.

Remmick stood at the stove with his back to you, sleeves still rolled to the elbow, suspenders crossed low over his back. His shirt was half-unbuttoned and clung to his sides with the cling of heat and skin. He moved like he didn’t hear you enter.

You knew he had.

He reached for the pan with a towel over his palm and flipped something in the cast iron with a deft flick of the wrist.

"Hope you like sweet," he said, voice thick with morning. "Ain’t got much else."

You didn’t speak. Just stood there in the doorway like a ghost he’d conjured and forgotten about.

He turned.

God help you.

Even like this, barefoot, collar open, hair mussed from sleep or maybe just time—he looked unreal. Like a sin someone had tried to scrub out of scripture but couldn’t quite forget.

"Sleep alright?" he asked.

You gave a small nod.

He looked at you a moment longer. Then—

"Sit down, dove."

You moved toward the table.

His voice followed you, lazy but pointed.

"That’s the wrong chair."

You paused.

He nodded to one at the head of the table—old, high-backed, carved with curling vines and symbols you didn’t recognize.

"That one’s yours now."

You hesitated, then lowered yourself into it slowly. The wood groaned under your weight. The air in the kitchen felt thicker now, tighter.

He brought the plate to you himself.

Two slices of skillet cornbread, golden and glistening with syrup. A few wild strawberries sliced and sugared. A smear of butter melting slow at the center like a pulse.

He set the plate in front of you with a quiet care that felt almost obscene.

"You ain’t gotta eat," he said, leaning against the table beside your chair. "But I like watchin’ you do it."

You picked up the fork.

His eyes stayed on your mouth.

The cornbread was still warm.

Steam curled from it like breath from parted lips. The syrup pooled thick at the edges, dripping off the edge of your fork in slow, amber ribbons. It stuck to your fingers when you touched it. Sweet. Sticky. Sensual.

You brought the first bite to your mouth, slow.

Remmick didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His eyes tracked the motion like a starving man watching someone else’s feast.

The bite landed soft on your tongue—golden crisp on the outside, warm and tender in the middle, butter melting into every pore. It was perfect. Unreasonably so. And somehow you hated that even more. Because nothing about this should’ve tasted good. Not with him watching you like that. Not with your body still humming from the memory of his voice against your skin.

But you swallowed.

And he smiled.

"Good girl," he murmured.

You froze. The fork paused just above the plate.

"You don’t get to say things like that," you whispered.

"Why not?"

Your fingers tightened around the handle.

"Because it sounds like you earned it."

He chuckled, low and easy. A slow roll of thunder in his chest.

"Think I did. Think I earned every fuckin’ word after draggin’ you out that night and lettin’ you walk away without layin’ a hand on you."

You looked up sharply, heat crawling up your neck.

"You shouldn’t have touched me."

"I didn’t," he said. "But I wanted to. Still do."

Your breath caught.

His knuckles brushed the edge of your plate, slow, casual, like he had all the time in the world to make you squirm.

"And I know you want me to," he added, voice low enough that it coiled under your ribs and settled somewhere molten in your belly.

You pushed the plate away.

He didn’t flinch. Just reached forward and dragged it back in front of you like you hadn’t moved it at all.

"You eat," he said, gentler now. "You need it. House takes more from you than it gives."

You glanced around the kitchen, suddenly uneasy.

"You talk about it like it’s alive."

He gave a slow nod.

"It is. In a way."

"How?"

He looked down at your plate, then back at you.

"You’ll see."

You pushed another bite past your lips, slower this time, aware of the weight of his gaze with every chew, every swallow. You didn’t know why you obeyed. Maybe it was easier than defying him. Maybe it was because some part of you wanted him to keep watching.

When the plate was clean, he reached out and caught your wrist before you could stand.

Not hard. Not even firm. Just…inevitable.

"You full?" he asked, his voice all smoke and sin.

You nodded.

His eyes darkened.

"Then I’ll have my taste next."

Your breath lodged sharp in your throat.

He said it like it meant nothing. Like asking for your pulse was no more intimate than asking for your hand. But there was a glint in his eye—red barely flickering now, but still there—and it told you everything.

He was done pretending.

You didn’t move. Not right away.

His fingers were still wrapped around your wrist, light but unyielding, the pad of his thumb grazing the fragile skin where your pulse drummed loud and frantic. Like it wanted to leap out of your veins and spill into his mouth.

You swallowed hard.

"You said you didn’t want blood."

"I don’t."

"Then what do you want?"

"You."

You watched him now, trying to make sense of what you wanted.

And what terrified you was this—

You didn’t want to run.

You wanted to know how it would feel.

To give something he couldn’t take without permission.

To see if your body could handle the worship of a mouth like his.

Remmick’s other hand came up slow, brushing hair from your cheek, his knuckles rough and reverent.

"You said I smelled like want," you whispered.

"You do."

"What do you smell like?"

He leaned in, mouth near your throat again, his nose dragging along your skin, slow, as if he were drawing in the scent of your soul.

"Rot. Hunger. Regret," he said. "Old things that don’t die right."

You shivered.

"And still I want you," you breathed.

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes.

"That’s the worst part, ain’t it?"

You didn’t answer.

Because he was right.

His hand slid down to your elbow, then lower, tracing the curve of your waist through the thin fabric. His touch was warm now, or maybe your body had just given up trying to tell the difference between threat and thrill.

He guided you up from the chair.

Didn’t yank. Didn’t drag.

Just stood and took your hand like a dance was beginning.

"Come with me," he said.

"Where?"

"Somewhere I can kneel."

Your heart stuttered.

He led you through the house, down the long hallway past doorways that watched like eyes. The floor groaned underfoot, the air thickening around your shoulders as he brought you deeper into the home’s belly. You passed portraits whose paint had faded to shadows, velvet drapes drawn tight, mirrors that refused to hold your reflection quite right.

The door at the end of the hall was already open.

Inside, the room was dark.

Just one candle lit, flickering low in a glass jar, its light catching the edges of something silver beside the bed. An old bowl. A cloth. A pair of gloves, yellowed from time.

A ritual.

Not violent.

Intimate.

Remmick turned toward you, his face bare in the soft light. He looked younger. More human. And somehow more dangerous for it.

"Sit," he said.

You sat.

He knelt.

And then his hands found your knees.

His hands rested on your knees like they belonged there. Not demanding. Not prying. Just there. Anchored. Reverent.

The candlelight licked up his jaw, catching in the hollows of his cheeks, the deep shadow beneath his throat. He didn’t look like a man. He looked like a story told by firelight—half-worshipped, half-feared. A sinner in the shape of a saint. Or maybe the other way around.

His thumbs made a slow pass over the inside of your thighs, just above the knee. Barely pressure. Barely touch. The kind of contact that made your breath feel too loud in your chest.

"Yer too quiet," he murmured.

"I don’t know what to say," you whispered back.

His gaze lifted, locking with yours, and in that moment the whole room seemed to still.

"Ya ain’t gotta say a damn thing," he said. "You just need to stay right there and let me show ya what I mean when I say I don’t want yer blood."

Your lips parted, but no sound came.

He leaned in, slow as honey in the heat, until his mouth hovered just above your knee. Then lower. His breath ghosted over your skin, warm and maddening.

You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until he pressed a single kiss just above the bone.

Your lungs stuttered.

His lips trailed higher.

Another kiss.

Then another.

Each one higher than the last, until your legs opened on instinct, until you felt the hem of your slip being eased upward by hands that moved with worshipful patience. Like he wasn’t just undressing you—he was peeling back a veil. Unwrapping something sacred.

"You ever had someone kneel for ya?" he asked, voice rough now. Thicker.

You shook your head.

He smiled like he already knew the answer.

"Good. Let me be the first."

He kissed the inside of your thigh like it meant something. Like you meant something. Like your skin wasn’t just skin, but a prayer he intended to answer with his mouth.

The air was too hot. Your thoughts slid loose from the edges of your mind. All you could do was breathe and feel.

He looked up at you once more, red eyes burning low, and said—

"You gave yerself to me. Let me taste what I already own."

And then he bowed his head, mouth meeting the softest part of you, and the rest of the world disappeared.

His mouth touched you like he’d been dreaming of it for years. Like he’d earned it.

No rush. No hunger. Just that first velvet press of his lips against the tender center of you, reverent and slow, like a kiss to a wound or a confession. He moaned, low and guttural, into your skin—and the sound of it vibrated up through your spine.

He parted you with his thumbs, just enough to taste you deeper. His tongue slipped between folds already slick and aching, and he groaned again, this time with something like gratitude.

"Sweet as I fuckin’ knew you’d be," he rasped, voice hot against your core.

Your hands gripped the edge of the chair. Wood bit into your palms. Your head tipped back, eyes fluttering shut as your thighs trembled around his shoulders.

He didn’t stop.

He licked you with patience, with purpose, like he was reading scripture written between your legs—each flick of his tongue slow and deliberate, every pass perfectly placed, building pressure inside you with maddening precision.

And all the while, he watched you.

When your head dropped forward, you found him staring up at you. Red eyes glowing low, heavy-lidded, mouth glistening, jaw tense with restraint. He looked ruined by the taste of you.

"Look at me," he said. "Wanna see you fall apart on my tongue."

Your breath hitched, hips rocking forward on instinct, chasing his mouth. He growled low and deep in his chest, gripping your thighs tighter.

"That’s it, dove," he murmured. "Don’t run from it. Give it to me."

He flattened his tongue and dragged it slow, then circled the swollen peak of your clit with the tip, teasing you to the edge and pulling back just before it broke.

You whined. Desperate.

He smirked against your cunt.

"You want it?" he asked, voice thick. "Say it."

Your lips barely formed the word—"Please."

He hummed in approval.

Then he devoured you.

No more teasing. No more pacing. Just his mouth fully locked on you, tongue relentless now, lips sealing around your clit while two fingers slid into you with that obscene, perfect pressure that made your body jolt.

You cried out, gasping, your thighs tightening around his head as the world tipped sideways.

"That’s it," he groaned, curling his fingers just right. "Cum f’r me, girl. Let me taste what’s mine."

And when it hit—

It hit like a fever. Like lightning. Like your soul cracked in half and bled straight into his mouth.

You broke with a cry, hips bucking, your fingers tangled in his hair as wave after wave crashed through you.

He didn’t stop. Not until your thighs twitched and your breath came in ragged little sobs, not until your body went limp in his hands.

Then, finally—finally—he pulled back.

His lips were wet. His eyes were feral. And he looked at you like a man who’d just fed.

"You’re fuckin’ divine," he whispered. "And I ain’t even started ruinin’ you yet."

The room pulsed with quiet. The candle flickered low, flame swaying as if it too had held its breath through your unraveling.

Your body felt boneless. Glazed in sweat. Your pulse echoed everywhere—in your wrists, your throat, between your legs where he’d buried his mouth like a man sent to worship. You weren’t sure how long it had been since you’d spoken. Since you’d breathed without shaking.

Remmick still knelt.

His hands were on your thighs, thumbs drawing idle circles into your skin like he couldn’t bear to stop touching you. His head was bowed slightly, but his eyes were on you—watchful, reverent, hungry in a way that had nothing to do with the softness between your legs and everything to do with something older. Something darker.

He looked drunk on you.

You opened your mouth to speak, but your voice caught on the edge of a sigh.

He beat you to it.

"Reckon you know what’s comin’ next," he murmured.

You didn’t answer.

He rose from his knees in one slow, unhurried motion. There was a heaviness to him now, a tension rolling just beneath his skin, like a dam about to split. He reached up with one hand and wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of it—then licked the taste from his thumb like it was honey off the comb.

You watched, breath held tight in your chest.

He stepped closer. You stayed seated, knees still parted, your slip pushed up indecently high, but you didn’t fix it. Didn’t move at all. The heat between your legs hadn’t faded. If anything, it curled deeper now, thicker, laced with something close to fear but not quite.

He stopped in front of you.

Tilted his head slightly.

"How’s yer heart?"

You blinked.

"It’s…fast," you whispered.

He smiled slow. Not mocking. Not soft either.

"Good. I want it fast."

Your throat tightened.

"Why?"

He leaned in, hands bracing on either side of your chair, body boxing you in without touching.

"‘Cause I want yer blood screamin’ for me when I take it."

Your breath caught somewhere between your ribs.

He didn’t touch you yet—didn’t need to. The weight of his body, caging you in without a single finger laid, made your skin flush from your chest to your knees. Every inch of you throbbed with awareness. Of him. Of your own pulse. Of the air cooling the places he’d worshiped with his mouth not moments before.

You swallowed.

"You said you’d wait," you whispered.

He nodded once, slowly, his eyes never leaving yours.

"I did. And I have. But yer body’s already beggin’ for me. Ain’t it?"

You hated that he was right. That he could feel it somehow. Not just see the tremble in your thighs or the way your lips parted when he leaned closer—but that he could feel it in the air, like scent, like vibration.

You lifted your chin, barely.

"I’m not scared."

He chuckled low, and it rumbled through your bones.

"Good. But I don’t need ya scared, dove. I need ya open."

He raised one hand then, slow as scripture, and brushed his knuckles along the column of your throat. Just a whisper of contact, a ghost’s touch. Your head tilted for him without thinking, baring your neck.

"Right here," he murmured. "Right where it beats loudest. That’s where I wanna taste ya."

You shivered.

He bent down, mouth near your pulse. His breath was warm, slow, drawn in like he was savoring you already.

"I ain’t gonna hurt ya," he said. "Not unless you want it."

Your fingers twisted in your lap.

"Will it—" you started, but the question got tangled.

He smiled against your skin.

"Will it feel good?"

You said nothing.

"You already know."

You did.

Because everything with him did. Every word. Every look. Every touch. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t holy. But it was real. It lived under your skin like rot and root and ruin.

You nodded once.

"Then take it."

Remmick stilled.

And then his lips pressed to your throat. Not with hunger. With reverence. Like a blessing.

"That’s my girl," he breathed.

And then he bit.

It wasn’t pain.

It was pressure, first.

A deep, aching pull that bloomed just beneath the skin, right where his mouth latched onto you. His lips sealed tight around your throat, and then—sharpness. Two points sinking in like teeth through silk. Like sin through flesh.

You gasped.

Not from fear. Not even from the sting. But from the rush.

Heat burst behind your eyes, white and sudden and dizzying. Your hands flew to his shoulders, clinging, grounding, anchoring you to something real while your mind drifted into something else—something otherworldly.

The pull came next.

A steady rhythm, slow and patient, like he was sipping you instead of drinking. Like he had all the time in the world. You could feel it, the way your blood left you in waves, not violent, not greedy—just…intimate. Like giving. Like surrender.

He groaned low against your neck, the sound vibrating through your bones.

"Fuck, you taste like sunlight," he rasped against your skin, voice thick with hunger and awe. "Like everythin’ warm I thought I’d forgotten."

Your head tipped further, offering him more.

You didn’t know when your legs opened wider, or when your hips rocked forward just to feel more of him. But his body shifted instinctively, meeting yours with a growl, his hand gripping your thigh now, possessive and unrelenting.

Your pulse faltered. Not from weakness, but from pleasure. From the unbearable knowing that he was inside you now, in the most ancient way. That your body had opened to him, and your blood had welcomed him.

Your moan was breathless.

"Remmick—"

He shushed you, mouth never leaving your throat.

"Don’t speak, dove. Just feel."

And you did.

You felt every lick. Every pull. Every sacred claim. You felt his tongue soothe where his fangs pierced, his hand slide higher along your thigh, his knee pushing between your legs until your breath stuttered out of you in something like a sob.

It was too much. It was not enough.

And when he finally pulled back, slow and reluctant, your blood on his lips like a mark, like a vow, he stared at you like you were holy.

Like he hadn’t fed on you.

Like he’d prayed.

The room was quiet, but your body wasn’t.

You felt every beat of your heart echo in the hollow where his mouth had been. A slow, reverent throb that pulsed through your neck, your chest, your thighs. It was like something had been lit beneath your skin, and now it smoldered there—glowing, aching, changed.

Remmick’s breath was uneven. His lips were stained red, parted just slightly, his jaw slack with something like awe. The burn of your blood still shimmered in his eyes, brighter now. Alive.

He looked undone.

And yet his hands were steady as he reached up, cupped your jaw in both palms, and tilted your face toward him. His thumb swept across your cheekbone like you might vanish if he didn’t touch you just right.

"You alright?" he asked, voice quieter now, roughened at the edges like a match just struck.

You nodded, though your limbs still trembled.

"I feel…" you swallowed, the word too small for what bloomed in your chest, "…warm."

He laughed, soft and almost bitter, and leaned his forehead against yours.

"You should. You’re inside me now. Every drop of you."

The words rooted somewhere deep. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. You could still feel the heat of his mouth, the bite, the pleasure that followed. It wasn’t just lust. It wasn’t just surrender. It was something older. Something binding.

"Does it hurt?" you asked, your fingers brushing the side of his neck, the line of his collarbone slick with sweat.

He looked at you like you’d asked the wrong question.

"Hurt?" he echoed. "Dove, it’s ecstasy."

You stared at him.

"You mean for you?"

He shook his head once.

"For us."

Then he pulled back just enough to look at you—really look. His gaze swept your features like he was committing them to memory. As if this moment, this very breath, was something sacred. His fingers moved to your throat again, this time to the place just above the bite, and he pressed lightly.

"You’ll bruise here," he said. "Won’t fade for a while."

"Will it heal?"

"Eventually."

"Do you want it to?"

His mouth curved, slow and wicked.

"No," he said. "I want the world to see what’s mine."

And before you could reply—before the heat in your belly could cool or your mind could gather itself—he kissed you.

Not soft.

Not careful.

His mouth claimed you like he’d already been inside you a thousand times and wanted to do it a thousand more. He kissed you like a man starving. Like a creature who’d gone too long without flesh, and now that he had it, he wasn’t letting go.

You tasted your own blood on his tongue.

And it tasted like forever.

The house knew.

It breathed deeper now. Its wood swelled, its walls sighed, its floorboards creaked in time with your heartbeat—as though it had taken you in too, accepted your offering, and now it wanted to keep you just like he did. Not as a guest. Not as a lover.

As a belonging.

Remmick hadn’t let you go.

Not when the kiss ended. Not when your blood slowed in his mouth. Not when your knees gave and your body folded forward into him. His arms had caught you like he knew the shape of your collapse. Like he’d been waiting for it. Like he’d never let you fall anywhere but into him.

He carried you now, one arm beneath your legs, the other braced around your back, his chest solid against yours.

"Don’t reckon you’re walkin’ after all that," he muttered, gaze fixed ahead, voice gone syrup-slow and thick with something possessive.

You didn’t argue. You couldn’t.

Your head rested against the place where his heart should’ve beat. But it was quiet there. Not lifeless—just other.

He carried you past rooms you hadn’t seen. A library, long abandoned, lined with crooked books and a grandfather clock that had no hands. A parlor soaked in velvet and silence. A door nailed shut from the outside, something heavy breathing behind it.

You didn’t ask.

He didn’t explain.

The room he took you to was nothing like the others.

It wasn’t grand.

It was personal.

The windows here were narrow and high, soft light slanting through the dusty glass in thin gold ribbons. The bed was simple but large, the sheets dark, the frame iron-wrought and worn smooth by time. A single cross hung above the headboard—but it had been turned upside down.

He set you down like you were breakable. Sat you on the edge of the bed, knelt once more to remove the slip still clinging to your body, inch by inch, as if undressing you were a sacrament.

"Y’ever wonder why I picked you?" he asked, voice low as the hush between thunderclaps.

Your breath stilled.

"I thought it was the blood."

He shook his head, his hands pausing at your hips.

"Nah, dove. Blood’s blood. Yours sings, sure. But it ain’t why I chose."

He looked up then, red eyes gleaming in the half-light.

"You remind me of the last thing I ever loved before I died."

The words landed like a stone in still water.

They rippled outward. Slow. Wide. Deep.

You stared at him, breath shallow, your skin bare under his hands, your throat still warm from where he’d fed. The room held its silence like breath behind gritted teeth. Outside, somewhere beyond the high windows, something moved through the trees—branches bending, wind pushing low and humid across the land—but in here, it was only the two of you.

Only his voice.

Only your blood between his teeth.

"What…what was she like?" you asked.

His thumbs drew circles at your hips, but his eyes drifted, not unfocused—just distant. Remembering.

"She had a mouth like yours. Sharp. Didn’t know when to shut it. Always speakin’ when she should’ve stayed quiet." A smile ghosted across his lips. "God, I loved that. I loved that she ain’t feared me even when she should’ve."

He exhaled through his nose, slow.

"But she didn’t get to finish bein’ mine."

Your brows pulled.

"What happened to her?"

He looked back at you then, and the heat in his gaze returned—not hunger, not even desire, but something deeper. Possessive. Terrifying in its tenderness.

"They tore her from me. Burned her in a chapel. Said she was a witch on account’a what I’d given her."

Your heart dropped into your stomach.

"Remmick—"

"She didn’t scream," he said, voice rough. "Didn’t cry. Just looked at me like she knew I’d find her again. And I have."

You froze.

His hands slid higher, up your ribs, his palms reverent.

"I don’t believe in fate. Not really. But you—" he leaned in, lips brushing your jaw, voice low like a spell, "you make me wanna believe in things I ain’t allowed to have."

You whispered against the curl of his mouth.

"And what do you think I am?"

He kissed the hinge of your jaw.

"My penance," he said. "And my reward."

You shivered.

"You said you saved me."

He nodded.

"I did."

"Why?"

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, and his voice dropped to a near whisper.

"‘Cause I ain’t lettin’ another thing I love burn."

You didn’t realize you were crying until he touched your face.

Not with hunger, not with heat, but with the kind of softness that had no business living in a man like him. His thumb caught a tear on your cheek like he’d been waiting for it, like it meant something sacred.

"You ain’t her," he murmured. "But you feel like the same song in a different key."

His voice cracked a little at the edges, not enough to ruin the shape of it, just enough to prove that something in him still bled.

You reached up, fingers trembling, and cupped the side of his neck. The skin there was warmer now. Still inhuman, still not quite alive, but it held your heat like it didn’t want to give it back. You felt the ridges of old scars beneath your palm. The echo of stories not told.

"I don’t know what I’m becoming," you said.

He leaned into your hand, eyes half-lidded.

"You’re becomin’ mine."

Then he kissed you again—not like before. Not full of fire. But slow, like he had all the time in the world to learn the shape of your mouth. His lips moved over yours with a kind of tenderness that made your bones ache. A kind of reverence that said this is where I end and begin again.

When he pulled back, your breath followed him.

The room shifted.

You felt it. Like the house had exhaled too.

"Lie down," he said, voice softer than it had ever been. "Let me hold what I almost lost."

You obeyed.

You lay back against the sheets that smelled like him, like dust and dark and something unnameable. The iron bed creaked softly beneath you, and the candlelight trembled with the movement. He undressed with quiet purpose, shirt sliding from his shoulders, buttons undone by slow fingers, trousers falling away to bare the sharp planes of his body.

And when he climbed over you, it wasn’t to take.

It was to be taken.

Remmick hovered above you, breath warm at your lips, hands braced on either side of your head. He looked down at you like he was staring through time. Like you were something he'd pulled from the fire and decided to keep even if it burned him too.

You’re mine, he whispered, but didn’t say it aloud.

He didn’t have to.

His body said it.

His mouth said it.

And when he finally eased inside you, slow and steady, filling you inch by trembling inch—your soul said it too.

His body hovered just above yours, every inch of him trembling with a control you didn’t quite understand—until you looked into his eyes.

That red glow was dimmer now. No less powerful, but softened by something raw. Something reverent.

Not hunger.

Not lust.

Not even possession.

Devotion.

The kind that didn’t speak. The kind that buried itself in the bones and never left.

His hand slid down the side of your face, tracing the curve of your cheek, then the line of your jaw, calloused fingers lingering in the hollow of your throat where your heartbeat thudded wild and uneven.

"Still fast," he murmured, half to himself.

"You’re heavy," you whispered, not in protest, but in awe. Every breath you took was filled with him.

He smirked, the corner of his mouth twitching in that crooked, wicked way of his.

"Ain’t even layin’ on you yet."

You didn’t laugh. Couldn’t. Your body was stretched too tight, strung out with anticipation and need. Every inch of you burned.

He leaned down then, not to kiss you, but to breathe you in. His nose skimmed your cheek, the edge of your ear, the curve of your throat already marked by his bite. His hands traced your ribs, the sides of your waist, slow and steady, like he was trying to learn you by touch alone.

"You’re shakin'," he whispered, voice low, thick with something close to worship.

"So are you."

A pause.

Then softer—truthfully,

"Yeah."

He kissed the inside of your wrist, then the space between your breasts, then lower still—his lips reverent as they moved over your belly, your hipbone, the softest parts of you.

"You ever had someone take their time with you?" he asked, mouth against your skin.

You didn’t speak.

"Didn’t think so," he muttered. "Shame."

His hand slid between your thighs, spreading you again—not rushed, not greedy, just gentle. Like he knew he’d already had the taste of you and now he wanted the feel.

"Tell me if it’s too much," he said.

"It already is."

He looked up at you then, his face half-shadowed, half-lit, and something flickered in his eyes.

"Good."

His cock brushed against your entrance, hot and heavy, and you nearly arched off the bed at the first contact. Not even inside. Just there. Teasing. Pressed to the slick mess he'd made of you earlier with his mouth.

He groaned deep.

"Fuck, you feel like sin."

You reached for him, pulled him down by the back of his neck until your mouths were inches apart.

"Then sin with me."

He didn’t hesitate.

He began to press in—slow. Devastatingly slow. The head of his cock stretching you open with a care that felt like madness. His hands gripped your hips as if holding himself back took more strength than killing ever had.

He moved in inch by inch, his breath hitched, jaw tight, sweat beginning to bead at his temple.

"Shit—ya takin’ me so good, dove. Just like that."

You moaned. Your fingers dug into his back. You were full of him and not even halfway there.

"Remmick—"

"I gotcha," he whispered. "Ain’t gonna let you break."

But he was already breaking you. Gently. Thoroughly. Beautifully.

He filled you like he’d been made for the task.

No sharp thrusts. No hurried rhythm. Just the unbearable slowness of it. The stretch. The burn. The drag of his cock as he sank deeper, deeper, deeper into you until there was nothing left untouched. Until your body stopped bracing and started opening.

You clung to him—hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt that still clung to his back, damp with sweat. He hadn’t even undressed all the way. There was something obscene about it, something holy, too—the way he kept his shirt on like this wasn’t about bareness, it was about belonging.

"That’s it," he rasped against your throat. "There she is."

Your moan was caught between breath and prayer.

He buried himself to the hilt.

And still—he didn’t move.

His hips pressed flush to yours, his breath shaky against your skin as he held himself there, nestled so deep inside you it felt like you’d never known emptiness before now. Like everything that came before this moment had just been the ache of waiting to be filled.

"You feel that?" he whispered, voice thick, almost reverent. "Where I am inside ya?"

You nodded. Couldn’t find your voice.

His lips brushed the shell of your ear.

"Ain’t no leavin’ now. I’ll always be in ya. Even when I ain’t."

You whimpered.

Not from pain. From how true it felt.

He moved then—barely. Just a slow roll of his hips, a gentle retreat and return. It was enough to make your breath hitch, your body arch, your legs wrap tighter around him without thinking.

"That’s right, dove. Let me in. Let me have it."

You didn’t even know what it was anymore.

Your body?

Your blood?

Your soul?

You’d already given them all.

And still, he took more.

But not cruelly.

Like a man kissing the mouth of a well after years of thirst. Like a thief who knew how to make you feel grateful for the stealing.

He found a rhythm that made the air vanish from your lungs.

Slow. Deep. Measured. His hips grinding just right, dragging his cock against every place inside you that had never known such touch. Every stroke sang with heat. Every breath he took turned your name into something more than a sound.

"Fuck, I could stay in you forever," he groaned. "Like this. Warm. Tight. Mine."

You dug your nails into his shoulders, legs trembling.

"Please," you whispered, though you didn’t know what you were asking for.

He did.

"Beg me," he said, dragging his mouth down your neck, over the bite he’d left. "Beg me to make you come with my cock in you."

"Remmick—"

"Say it."

You were already gone. Already shaking. Already his.

"Make me come," you breathed. "Please—God, please—"

His smile was sinful.

And then he fucked you.

His rhythm shifted—no longer slow, no longer sacred.

It was worship in the way fire worships a forest. The kind that devours. The kind that remakes.

Remmick braced a hand behind your thigh, hitching your leg higher as he thrust harder, deeper, dragging guttural sounds from his chest that you felt before you heard. The bed groaned beneath you, iron frame clanging soft against the wall in time with his hips. But it was your body that made the noise that filled the room—the gasps, the breaking sighs, the high whimper of his name torn raw from your throat.

He kissed your jaw, your collarbone, your shoulder, not like he was trying to be sweet but like he needed to taste every inch he claimed.

"You feel me in your belly yet?" he growled, words hot against your skin.

You nodded frantically, tears pricking the corners of your eyes from the sheer force of sensation.

"Say it," he panted, each thrust brutal and beautiful.

"Yes—yes, I feel you, Remmick, I—"

"You gonna come f’r me like a good girl?"

"Yes."

"Say my fuckin’ name when you do."

His hand slid between your bodies, finding your clit like he’d owned it in another life, and the moment his fingers circled that aching bundle of nerves, your vision went white.

Your body seized around him.

The sound you made was raw, wrecked, something no one but him should ever hear.

He kept fucking you through it, hissing curses through his teeth, chasing his own high with the rhythm of a man who’d waited centuries for the perfect fit.

And then he broke.

With your name groaned low and reverent in your ear, he came deep inside you, hips stuttering, breath ragged, body shuddering with the force of it. You felt every throb of his cock inside you, every spill of heat, every ounce of him taking root.

For a long, suspended moment, he didn’t move.

Only the sound of your breaths tangled together.

Your sweat mixing.

Your bodies still joined.

"That’s it," he whispered hoarsely, pressing his forehead to yours. "That’s how I know you’re mine."

The house exhaled around you.

The candle sputtered in its jar, flame dancing low and crooked, like even it had been made breathless by what it had witnessed. Somewhere in the walls, the wood groaned—settling. Sighing. Accepting.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Your body was a temple razed and rebuilt in a single night, still pulsing with the memory of his mouth, his weight, the stretch of him inside you like a secret only your bones would remember. Every nerve hummed low and soft beneath your skin, like your blood hadn’t figured out how to move without his rhythm guiding it.

Remmick stayed inside you.

His body was heavy atop yours, but not crushing. His head tucked into the curve of your neck, the same place he’d bitten, the same place he’d worshipped like it held some holy truth. His breath came slow and ragged, the rise and fall of his chest matching yours as if your lungs had struck the same pace without meaning to.

"Don’t move yet," he muttered, voice wrecked and hoarse. "Wanna stay here just a minute longer."

You let your hand drift through his hair, damp with sweat, curls sticking to his forehead. You carded through them lazily, mind blank, heart full.

He pressed a kiss to your throat. Then another, just above your collarbone.

"You still with me?" he asked, quieter now.

You nodded.

"Good," he murmured. "Didn’t mean to fuck the soul outta ya. Just…couldn’t help it."

You let out the softest laugh, and he smiled into your skin.

His hand slid down your side, tracing the curve of your waist, your hip, the spot where your thigh met his. His fingers moved slowly, not with lust, but with a kind of quiet awe.

"Y’know what you feel like?" he whispered.

"What?"

"Home."

The word struck something inside you. Something tender. Something deep.

He lifted his head then, just enough to look down at you. His eyes had faded from red to something darker, something richer—garnet in low light. The kind of color only seen in blood and wine and promises too old to be remembered by name.

"You still think this is just hunger?" he asked.

You blinked at him, dazed.

"It was never just hunger," he said. "Not with you."

The silence between you was warm now.

Not empty. Not tense. Just quiet, the kind that comes after thunder, when the storm’s rolled through and the trees are still deciding whether to stand or kneel.

You felt it in your limbs—heavy, humming, holy. The afterglow of something you didn’t have language for.

Remmick hadn’t moved far.

He still blanketed your body like a second skin, one arm braced beneath your shoulders, the other tracing idle shapes across your hip as if he were still mapping the terrain of you. His cock, softening but still nestled inside, pulsed faintly with the last of what he’d given you.

And he had given you something. Not just release. Not just blood. Something older. Something that whispered now in the place between your ribs.

You turned your head to look at him.

His gaze was already on you.

"What happens now?" you asked, barely above a whisper.

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he ran the back of his fingers along your cheekbone, down the side of your neck, pausing over the place where his mark had already begun to bruise.

"You askin’ what happens tonight," he murmured, "or what happens after?"

You blinked slowly. "Both."

He let out a breath through his nose, the sound tired but not cold.

"Tonight, I’ll hold you. Long as you’ll let me. Won’t leave this bed unless you beg me to. Might even make ya cry again, if you keep lookin’ at me like that."

You flushed, and he smiled.

"As for after…"

He looked past you then, toward the ceiling, like the truth was written in the beams.

"Ain’t never planned that far. Not with anyone. Just fed. Fucked. Moved on."

"But not with me."

His eyes snapped back to yours. Serious now.

"No, dove. Not with you."

You swallowed the knot rising in your throat.

"Why?"

His jaw flexed, tongue darting briefly across his lower lip before he answered.

"‘Cause I been alone too long. Lived too long. Thought I was too far gone to want anythin’ that didn’t bleed beneath me."

He leaned closer, forehead resting against yours, his next words no louder than a ghost’s sigh.

"But you—you made me want somethin’ tender. Somethin’ breakable."

"That doesn’t make sense."

"Don’t gotta. Nothin’ about you ever has. And yet here you are."

You let your eyes drift shut, just for a moment, and whispered into the stillness between your mouths.

"So I stay?"

He didn’t hesitate.

"You stay."

The candle had burned low.

Its glow flickered long shadows across the walls—your bodies painted in gold and blood-tinged bronze, limbs tangled in sheets that still clung with sweat and want. The house had quieted again, the way an animal settles when it knows its master is content. Outside, the wind threaded through the trees in soft moans, like the Delta herself was eavesdropping.

Neither of you spoke for a while. You didn’t need to.

Your fingers traced lazy patterns across Remmick’s chest—over his scars, the slope of muscle, the faint rise and fall beneath your palm. You still half-expected no heartbeat, but it was there, slow and stubborn, like he’d stolen it back just for you.

He watched you. One arm draped across your waist, his thumb stroking your bare back like you might fade if he stopped.

"You still ain’t askin’ the question you really wanna ask," he said, voice rough from silence and sleep.

You paused.

"What question is that?"

He tipped his head toward you, resting his chin on his knuckles.

"You wanna know if I turned you."

Your heart gave a traitorous flutter.

"And did you?"

He shook his head.

"Nah. Not yet."

"Why not?"

His fingers stilled. Then resumed.

"’Cause you ain’t asked me to."

You looked up at him sharply.

"Would you?"

A long beat passed. Then he nodded once.

"If it was you askin’. If it was real."

Your breath caught.

"And if I don’t?"

His gaze didn’t waver.

"Then I’ll stay with you. ‘Til you’re old. ‘Til your hands shake and your bones ache and your eyes stop lookin’ at me like I’m the only thing that ever made you feel alive."

Your throat tightened.

"That sounds awful."

He smiled, slow and aching.

"It sounds human."

You looked at him for a long time. At the man who had killed, who had bled you, who had tasted every part of you—body and soul—and still asked nothing unless you gave it.

"Would it hurt?"

His hand slid up, fingers curling beneath your jaw, tilting your face to his.

"It’d hurt," he said. "But not more than bein’ without you would."

The quiet stretched long and low.

His words hung in the space between your mouths like smoke—something sweet and terrible, something tasted before it was fully breathed in.

Your chest rose and fell against his slowly, and for a long time, you said nothing. You just listened. To the house settling around you. To the wind curling past the windows. To the steady thrum of blood still echoing faintly in your ears.

And beneath it all—

You heard memory.

It came soft at first. A shape, not a sound. The slick thud of your knees hitting the alley pavement. The scream you didn’t recognize as your own. Your brother’s blood, warm and fast, pumping between your fingers like water from a broken pipe. His mouth slack. His eyes wide.

You remembered screaming to the sky. Not to God.

Just up.

Because you knew He’d stopped listening.

And then—

He came.

Out of nothing. Out of dark.

You remembered the slow scrape of his boots on the gravel. The silhouette of him under the weak yellow glow of a flickering streetlamp. You remembered the quiet way he spoke.

"You want him to live?"

You didn’t answer with words. You just nodded, crying so hard you couldn’t breathe. And he’d knelt—right there in the blood—and laid his hand flat against your brother’s chest.

You never saw what he did. Only saw your brother’s eyes flutter. Only heard his breath return, sudden and wet.

And then he looked at you.

Not your brother.

Remmick.

He looked at you like he’d already taken something.

And he had.

Now, years later, lying in the hush of his house, your body still joined to his, you could still feel that moment thrumming beneath your skin. The moment when everything shifted. When your life became borrowed.

You looked up at him now, breathing steady, lips parted like a prayer just barely forming.

"I’ve already given you everything."

He shook his head.

"Not this."

He pressed two fingers to your chest, right over your heart.

"This is still yours."

"And you want it?"

He didn’t smile. Didn’t look away.

"I want it to keep beatin’. Forever. With mine."

You stared at him.

You thought about that alley. About your brother’s eyes opening again.

About how no one else came.

And you made your choice.

"Then take it."

Remmick stilled.

"Don’t say it unless you mean it, dove."

"I do."

His voice was barely more than a breath.

"You sure?"

You reached up, touched his face, fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw.

"I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life."

His eyes shimmered—deep red now, alive with something wild and tender.

"Then I’ll make you eternal," he whispered. "And I’ll never let the world take you from me."

He didn’t rush.

Not now. Not with this.

Remmick looked at you like you were something rare—something holy—like he couldn’t believe you’d said it, even as your voice still echoed between the walls.

Then he moved.

Not with hunger. Not with heat.

With purpose.

He sat up, kneeling beside you on the bed, and pulled the sheet slowly down your body. His eyes drank you in again, but this time there was no heat in them. Just reverence. As if you were the altar, and he the sinner who’d finally been granted absolution.

"You sure you want this?" he asked one last time, voice soft, like the hush of water in a cathedral.

You nodded, throat tight.

"I want forever."

His jaw clenched. A tremble passed through him like he’d heard those words in another life and lost them before they were ever his.

He leaned down.

His hand cupped the back of your head, the other settled flat on your chest, palm over your heart.

"Close your eyes, dove."

You did.

And then—

You felt him.

His breath. His lips. The soft, cool press of his mouth against your neck. But he didn’t bite.

Not yet.

He kissed the mark he’d already left. Then higher. Then lower. Slow. Measured. Your body melted beneath him, your hands curling into the sheets.

And then—

A whisper against your skin.

"I’ll be gentle. But you’ll remember this forever."

And he sank his fangs in.

It wasn’t like the first time.

It wasn’t lust.

It wasn’t climax.

It was rebirth.

Pain bloomed sharp and bright—but only for a heartbeat. Then the warmth flooded in. Then the cold. Then the ache. Your pulse stuttered once, then surged. It was like drowning and being pulled to the surface at once. Like everything you’d ever been burned away and something older moved in to take its place.

He held you as it happened.

Cradled you like something delicate.

His mouth sealed over the wound, drinking slow, but not to feed. To anchor you. To tether you to him.

You felt yourself go limp. The world turned strange. Light and dark bled into each other. Your breath faded. Your heartbeat fluttered like wings against glass.

And then—

It stopped.

Silence.

Stillness.

And in the space where your heart had once beat…

You heard his.

Then—

Your eyes opened.

The world looked different.

Sharper.

Brighter.

Every shadow deeper. Every color richer. The candlelight burned gold-red and alive. The scent of the night air was so thick it choked you—smoke, soil, blood, him.

Remmick hovered above you, lips stained crimson, breathing hard like he’d just returned from war.

And when he looked at you—

You saw yourself reflected in his eyes.

He smiled.

"Welcome home, darlin’."

[hwanghyunjinenthusiast]

Just Like That — h.joshua

» seventeen masterlist «

playlist: fever — enhypen; light a flame — seventeen; sexuality — taemin

➮ incubus!Joshua × f!reader

wc: 16k

summary: fantasizing about her handsome and sweet coworker has some unintended consequences for Y/N when an incubus shows up in her home after unintentionally summoning him with what she thought was just gibberish.

genres/themes/au: angst, one sided pining, smut; religious themes, supernatural themes, demonic themes; non idol au, demon au

warnings: adult dialogue, female reader, sexual content (18+ mdni), see smut warnings under the cut!

permanent taglist: @yoonguurt @wonderfulshinee @candidupped @dejavernon @violagoth @tigermoonbiss @katsukis1wife @luvsooby @thesolarplanetarysystem @salty-for-suga @devilsmatches @dmnspiit @simeonswhore @yangracha @atinypurr @aikyubi @labyrinthonmymind @bintificreads @toxic-babexe @plutoneu @sunwoosbaby @lilramennoodle @deadgirlwalking3

seventeen taglist: @aikisbbq @drunk-on-dk @cixrosie @hoeforcheol @98-0603 @briannabk22 @vampiirose @plants-w0rld @dementedaly @generic-teez-127 @sweetlylemon unable to tag: @prestineaugstine @imwhoever @lunaryoongie

join my taglists: permanent | group

Strikethrough means I cannot tag you. 

MINORS WILL BE BLACKLISTED & BLOCKED. 

a/n: this is just pure filth and I won't apologize lol I did this to torture the bestie. It was supposed to be a timestamps lol and it turned into 16k. Thank you for reading, reblogs and comments are always appreciated, and as always, this is a work of fiction and all characters are not reflective of their respective irl counterparts. for entertainment purposes only.

A huge thank you to @kpop-stories-21 & @anyamaris for sprinting with me back to back and essentially keeping me company while I worked on this 💕

Translation notes: Cur curritis is google translate latin for ‘why are you running?’ disclaimer: I do not know latin so this could be wildly inaccurate because it’s google translate. Likewise, Mortalem te interro- gavi is what I got for ‘i asked you a question, mortal.’ Again, I don’t know latin. I just used google translate. I’m not going for accuracy here lol. The incantation, Te invoco a profundus inferni is from Supernatural lol

smut warnings: unprotected sex (pls use protection), tentacles, dirty talk, praise, pet names (baby, doll, angel, slut, etc), marking (f receiving), spanking (f receiving) , spitting, choking (f receiving) , fingering (f receiving), slight somnophilia, rough sex, anal, double penetration, multiple orgasms (f receiving), creampie, breeding kink, big d!ck!Joshua being a menace to my sanity, dom!Shua, sub!Reader, and I think that's everything but of course, let me know if I missed something!

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Autumn was in the air. The mornings had become chilly, frosty dew covered grass crunching underfoot that gave way to cool days, the sun warming just enough but not burning. The scent of the holidays hung in the air as you noticed decor going up on your way to work in the mornings.

The only coffee shop in town had finally put up their fall menu and despite how much flack you got for it, you were excited that the pumpkin cakes and warm vanilla chai lattes with a sprinkle of cinnamon and Halloween themed foam designs were back. On your days off, you could enjoy a steaming mug, adoring the jack-o-lantern face staring back at you from atop your drink.

On days like today, you opted for the to-go version of your favorite vanilla latte, grabbing an americano as well as two slices of pumpkin cake, topped with chopped candied walnuts. The bell rang, the sound crystal clear as you exited the shop and headed down the sidewalk littered with fallen leaves in various shades of browns, oranges, and yellows.

Children hurried on by, on their way to school as you walked, rounding the corner and heading for the end of the block where the antique shop you worked at stood, the old brick building stood. It was a much older building than the ones that stood around it, the brick darker and more weatherworn.

You let out a sigh, breath hanging briefly in the cool air as you looked at the storefront. White and black striped awnings hung over the large windows, gold lettering adorning the glass in a curly script that read ‘Pandora’s Box’. You crossed the cobblestone street, heading for the old wooden door and pressed down on the handle. It turned under your hand and allowed you to enter the shop.

A soft bell rang out and immediately you could hear shuffling coming from the back of the shop.

“Sorry!” a voice called out. “We’re closed!” You ignored the voice as you moved around behind the front counter and set down both coffees and the paper bag with the pumpkin cake. You were taking off your coat when your coworker and owner of the voice appeared and glanced over at you.

“Oh, it’s you,” he said, perking up and straightening his tan colored apron. You fought the urge to giggle as he walked over to the door and peered outside the window before turning the lock and looking over at you. “Thought I locked that when I came in,” he said as you removed your scarf and hung it up with your coat on the hook behind your seat.

“What’s this?” Joshua asked, looking down at the two coffees. You picked yours up and took a sip before picking the second one up and held it out for him. “You got me coffee?” he asked, taking the cup gently from you. “Hot americano, extra cream,” you answered, setting your cup down. “I also got us some-” you were interrupted by a sharp knocking at the window of the door.

Both you and Joshua turned to look and saw an older woman standing at the door. It was the elderly woman that lived out on Broome street. “Isn’t that the cat lady?” Joshua whispered, turning his head to look at you as he set his cup down. “Mrs. Briggs,” you reminded him.

Joshua moved to the door and unlocked it, opening the door and no doubt giving the grumpy old woman a pleasant smile. “How can I help you Mrs. Briggs?” he asked in his sweet voice. The old woman wore a very old fur coat that was a bit ratty, almost as if it hadn’t been taken proper care of.

Under the brown fur, she wore a mustard yellow turtleneck sweater with a long brown skirt that reached almost to her ankles. Under she had brown stockings and some brown low heels. She had all of her gray hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun complete with a yellow scrunchie. In her hands she carried a basket full of different knick knacks and trinkets.

“I need to drop these off,” she said in a gruff voice as she attempted to push past Joshua who blocked her path. She looked up at him, lips parted in a look of pure shock. “Who are you?” she demanded. Joshua gave her his famous smile. The one that had all the girls in the coffee shop swooning or the high school girls giggling as he passed by.

Joshua had only lived in this town for a few years now. He moved into the space above the shop which was owned by his aunt. His uncle had originally run the shop but after his uncle got sick and passed away, Joshua moved in to help his aunt out. He was only supposed to be in town for a short time but he decided to stay after a year. 

Joshua smiled at Mrs. Briggs. “It’s Joshua, Mrs. Briggs,” he reminded her. She looked positively outraged. “Well where is Bill?” she demanded angrily. “Uncle Bill passed away three years ago, Miriam,” you said, moving from behind the counter and approaching the door.

Upon seeing you, Mrs. Briggs looked much calmer. “Y/N!” she said desperately. You sent a subtle wink Joshua’s way and took over, keeping the old woman at the door. “I need to drop this off. I can’t have it in the house anymore,” she said, holding out the basket. You nodded, looking down and back up.

“Okay, Miriam. Let me just get my pad of paper and we’ll take care of it,” you said, turning to grab the pad from the counter. In your momentary lapse, Mrs. Briggs had managed to push the door open. Joshua moved forward but you waved him off. “I got this,” you mouthed as the woman set her basket on the counter. Joshua nodded and started to head to the back when you called him back, holding out his coffee and the paper sack.

He took them from you and you told him you’d eat your pumpkin cake later.

It took all of ten minutes to check in all the items Mrs. Briggs had brought in and when you were done, you gently ushered her to the door and waved her off before shutting and locking the door. Joshua reappeared, peering around. “You think after three years, she’d know who I am,” he said, moving to lean on the counter as you finished adding the items to the store’s inventory.

“She’s got Alzheimer’s,” you said softly as you worked. Joshua said nothing, watching you write instead. When you finished the line you were on, he finally spoke. “Sorry,” he whispered. You glanced up as you capped the pen and smiled at him. “It’s okay,” you responded, setting the pen aside and flipping the page to a new sheet. “She’s a mean old lady, even before her diagnosis. Very pushy and rude,” you replied as you started to place the items back in the basket.

Joshua moved to help you. “Did she want the basket back?” he asked as you worked together. You shook your head. “No,” you said with a chuckle. “The only thing Mrs. Briggs has more than cats are baskets. I don’t think she’ll be missing this one.” You gave him a wink and made to grab the handles. He stopped you, taking the basket himself. “I got this,” he said and nodded towards the back.

“Your slice of pumpkin cake is in the back. I’ll finish opening up, you go eat.”

You smiled, thanking him before heading to the break room in the back. It wasn’t so much a room as it was an area blocked off. There was a small kitchenette with a mini fridge, microwave, and a sink. In the middle of the space was a small round table with three wooden chairs. Sitting on the table was the paper sack. You washed your hands quickly and took a seat, opening the bag.

The pumpkin cake was delicious as always and you savored each bite. As you were finishing it, Joshua’s voice rang out from the front. “I’m going to open the shop!” he called. You stuffed the last bite of cake in your mouth and got up, tossing the paper sack in the bin and washed your hands, chewing hastily as you dried your hands and hurried back to the front.

Joshua stood behind the counter and looked up as you approached. “You didn’t have to come up here,” he chuckled as you grabbed your own apron from under the counter and put it on. “I was finished anyway,” you replied, attempting to tie your apron strings. Joshua laughed softly and moved to stand behind you. “Here,” he said softly, taking the ties from you and carefully tying them.

“It’s a lot easier when you have help,” he said, his voice soft and breath hitting the back of your neck.

Your cheeks burned and you were thankful he couldn’t see the way you drew your bottom lip between your teeth or hear the way your heart hammered in your chest or feel the heat rush to your core.

“There,” he said simply and moved to grab the paper he’d been reading. “All set.”

You forced a smile, turning your head before moving to your usual spot behind the counter and taking a seat on the stool.

It wasn’t the first time you’d had this reaction to Joshua and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

You weren’t proud to admit it, but you’d had more than one fantasy about your coworker. It was his fault really for being so nice and polite and sweet. Not to mention incredibly handsome and when he pushed his sleeves up, exposing his forearms, you could feel your panties stick to you every time he did something so effortlessly. 

It was no secret half the women in town found Joshua attractive and you were one of them. Unfortunately for you, he was your coworker and although Bill wasn’t around anymore, Joshua seemed to adhere to the strict no dating coworkers policy Bill had. Of course, Bill was married and he was usually the only one in the shop until you joined.

You weren’t in the habit of dating bosses so you never cared much about the policy but now it was driving you mad. Especially during the times it felt like Joshua was flirting with you though you never truly knew for sure if he was serious or just being playful. It was hard to tell with him.

The morning flew by after opening the shop. It wasn’t like you were busy. Most of the customers that came in only wanted to look around and very few ever bought anything. Sometimes you’d have town residents come by and drop off their old things. Most of your job was cashiering and inventory.

Joshua did most of the restoration work that came with old furniture as well as other physical tasks like carrying the larger items out to customers’ cars or moving large furniture items to make space for new items. When you weren't busy ringing someone up or filling out an inventory sheet, you’d find yourself watching Joshua work, admiring the way he lifted things with ease. He’d pushed up the sleeves of his cream colored sweater hours ago, exposing his forearms and the veins that peeked out whenever he exerted any force.

You tried not to make it obvious you were staring but sometimes he’d glance over and catch you, prompting you to turn your gaze back to the crossword puzzle you were absentmindedly filling out with bogus answers in pencil. When you looked away, you missed the way Joshua’s smile turned into more of a smirk. He knew you were watching him and he knew he had an effect on you to some extent.

But not the full extent.

He didn’t know how you sometimes thought about him late at night as you teased yourself with your fingers or how you imagined it was his fingers as you pushed them into your aching heat. He didn’t know it was him that you dreamed about riding or that you wondered how his cock tasted.

And he never would.

The sun had started to set when Joshua finally locked the front door. You stretched your arms above your head, letting out the tiniest of squeaks as he walked over. “You can head home,” he said, leaning against the counter, resting his palms against the surface.

“I can close up here,” he added. You shook your head. “It’s okay, you answered. “I don’t have any plans.” Joshua tilted his head, trying to hold back a smirk. “No exciting hot dates?” he asked as you opened the register. You snorted, shaking your head. “No,” you replied.

“Why not?” he asked as you started to count the bills in the till. You looked up to meet his gaze. You hadn’t expected him to ask you that. “Uh…” you trailed off as you stopped counting. “I guess I just haven’t met someone,” you answered. Joshua’s head tilted the opposite way at that.

“You haven’t?” he pressed. It seemed like he was trying to make a point but you weren’t sure what he expected you to say. You shook your head. “Well,” you continued. “Not anyone that’s available,” you added softly, turning your gaze back down to continue counting.

You finished counting the bills and moved onto the change as Joshua watched you. When you finished and wrote down the total, adding it to the records book, Joshua finally spoke. “How about we finish up here and then go get dinner,” he offered. You nearly tripped over your own feet as you turned away from the shelf where you stored the records book.

Turning to look at him, you found him already looking at you, a smile and expectant look.

“O-okay,” you said softly, mentally cursing yourself for stammering. Joshua smiled and turned away before heading to the back of the shop to make sure everything was locked up while you pulled out the profits from the register and placed them into a bank bag and headed for the back where you found Joshua grabbing the broom. “Here,” you said, holding out the bank bag.

He looked up as he separated the dustpan from the broom. He nodded towards the door that led upstairs. “Just set it up on the counter up there,” he said as he moved past you for the door back into the shop. “What?” you asked, turning as he stopped at the door. “Just put it on the kitchen counter up here,” he said with a smile. You glanced at the door to the stairs and then back at Joshua.

“You mean in your apartment?”

He nodded, the smile spreading. “Yeah,” he answered. “Here.” You watched as he reached into his pocket and fished out his keys before tossing them to you. “Just let yourself in.”

With that, he disappeared into the front and left you standing in the break area. Taking a deep breath, you turned to the door and took hold of the knob. ‘You got this Y/N,’ you told yourself. ‘It’s just his apartment.’ 

You turned the knob and pushed the door open. It creaked softly as you peered into the dimly lit hall. The bottom landing was small and immediately went into the staircase. You shut the door behind you and started up the stairs, each step creaking under foot.

At the top, you managed to pick out the right key and unlocked the door before pushing it open.

Whatever you’d been expecting, it was not this. You’d only ever seen this space once and it was a mostly empty space with a few furniture items stored up here. It was dusty, dark save for the large glass windows at the back of the space that looked out into a small courtyard that backed up to a wooded area. The space had been transformed into a functional studio apartment.

A kitchen had been installed, brown counters with white quartz tops lined the wall against the stairs. A kitchen island separated the kitchen space from the living space. Facing a brick wall was a comfortable looking sofa with a low table between it and a media stand where a large flatscreen stood.

You walked further into the apartment, shutting the door behind you as you continued to look around.

The media stand held numerous DVDs and knick knacks. A knitted blanket lay folded over the arm of the cream colored couch with warm brown accent pillows. On the coffee table sat a small mirrored tray with a gold rim. In the middle was a small tv remote and a couple candles.

Against the wall under the windows stood a side table running the length of one of the windows. It had doors with small brass knobs and most likely held an assortment of different things. ‘Probably storage,’ you told yourself as you turned away from the living room. 

Behind the couch was a partition wall that didn’t reach the ceiling. It was made of bamboo and straight geometric shapes with a sheer material on one side to create a separate bedroom space.

The bed was a large king size, wooden frame with clawed feet. You recognized it as one of the pieces that had been stored up here before. Joshua must have cleaned and restored it because the last time you saw it, the wood was dull and coated with a thick layer of dust. 

At the end of the bed was a small bench with a folded blanket and a space to sit. Oh either side of the bed were matching nightstands in matching wood to the bed frame. The bed linens were creams and browns, both neutral but cozy and inviting. 

Next to the bedroom space at the end of the kitchen was a small folding door housing what you assumed was a pantry and next to that was another door which you could only assume led to a bathroom. 

Between the bed and the bathroom stood a large armoire with double doors. It was another piece that you recognized being stored in the space and just like the bed frame, Joshua cleaned and restored it so it was almost unrecognizable.

Next to the armoire in the corner was a full length mirror leaning against the wall. The top was decorated with postcards and a few pictures. Before you had a chance to move closer and take a look, you heard the door behind you open and spun around to find Joshua entering the apartment.

The two of you stared at one another for a moment before he spoke. “I’m done downstairs,” he commented. “Thought you might have gotten lost,” he added with a smirk. You shook your head, still holding the bank bag. Joshua nodded towards it. “You gonna hold onto that?” he asked, amused when you quickly set it down on the kitchen island.

“Shall we then?” he asked, nodding towards the door. You nodded without another word and headed for the door quickly, much to his amusement. Joshua stopped you with his hand on your arm gently. You looked down at his hand and up to meet his gaze. He held out his other hand.

“Keys?” he asked simply. You dropped them in his hand and headed down the stairs as he chuckled to himself, closing the door and locking it before following you.

“Are you hungry?” he asked as you reached the landing. You nodded again. “Yeah,” you managed to say as he led the way into the front of the shop. “How does Italian sound?” he asked as you grabbed your things, pulling on your coat and scarf. You nodded, heading for the door as he followed.

“Italian sounds fine.”

Once the shop was locked up, the walk to the Italian restaurant didn’t take much time at all. It was a small place with only about 5 tables and a small bar. It was nestled between a bakery and butcher shop, all owned by the same family. Joshua held the door for you with a smile as you thanked him and stepped inside.

You’d been to this place maybe once or twice in the whole time you’d lived in this town. It had been owned by the same family for generations and was currently being run by the grandchildren of the original owner. A young girl at the host stand smiled as you entered the building.

“Just two?” she asked. Joshua nodded as she gathered the menus and silverware, rolled up into black cloth napkins. She tucked the menus and silverware into her arm and picked up a pen, jotting something down on a piece of paper on the host stand before smiling at the two of you. “Right this way!”

She led you to a smaller table in the corner meant for couples. All the tables were round, most seating about four patrons. There was a small room off the main dining area with a much larger table meant for bigger parties. Along the wall were smaller tables with two chairs each and at the back was the bar. A long window allowed a look into the kitchen where you could catch glimpses of workers passing by.

A door at the far corner opposite your table allowed workers in and out of the kitchen. You removed your coat, laying it across the back of your chair and sat down as Joshua did the same and the hostess set the menus and silverware down on the table. “What can I get you started to drink?” she asked as you both settled into your seats.

“Just water,” you answered, not in the mood for soda or coffee. Joshua smiled at the hostess as he glanced over the drink menu. “A glass of cabernet, please,” he said politely. He turned to look at you. “You sure you just want water?” he asked, tilting his head. You looked down at the menu, eyes scanning before finding something that sounded good. “I’ll just have a limoncello martini,” you said, looking up at the hostess who smiled and nodded. “I’ll go put those in and your server will be by soon,” she chirped.

“And I’ll still bring you that water,” she added with a wink your way before heading off.

You looked down at the menu, flipping it over to look at the entrees. The menu wasn’t huge but they had a lot of options to choose from. As your eyes scanned, you could feel eyes on you and glanced up through your lashes to find Joshua already doing the same. He glanced back down, a smirk tugging at his lips. You looked back down, trying to finalize your decision.

“I can’t choose,” you heard him say softly. “I’m stuck between the tuscan-grilled sirloin or the mezzaluna,” he added, glancing up to meet your gaze. “Well they have an option to do both,” you offered, looking over the combinations. “You could get a 7 oz sirloin and a half order of mezzaluna,” you read off the menu. “That way you don’t have to choose.”

Joshua nodded as he looked at the menu. “What are you getting?” he asked softly, looking up once more. “The chicken,” you answered, setting your menu down as the host returned, setting two glasses of water down. You thanked her and picked it up, taking a sip. “Which chicken?” Joshua asked as he lifted his own glass, keeping his eyes trained on you.

Before you could answer, the server arrived. She was around the same age as the hostess and looked like she could be an older sister. “Hey,” she said breathlessly and you could only assume she’d been running all over the restaurant, serving multiple tables. “Your drinks should be coming from the bar in just a moment,” she said as she pulled out a pad and a pen. “Would you like to start with an appetizer?” she asked, looking between the two of you.

Before you could say anything, Joshua answered.

I’d actually like to get an order of the cozze in bianco,” he said without even looking at the menu. “I’ve tried just about every other starter but I haven’t tried the mussels,” he added. The server smiled as she jotted that down. “They’re really good,” she answered. “I’m not just saying that cause I work here,” she continued. “They’re genuinely delicious. It’s my grandma’s recipe,” she added.

You looked up, intrigue written across your face. “You’re part of the family?” you asked. She nodded with a proud smile. “Fourth generation,” she clarified. “My great grandparents started the place. My grandparents just retired and now my uncle and dad are running the place,” she explained, pointing at two men behind the bar.

“My sister is one of the hosts,” she added, pointing to the host stand where the hostess who had seated you stood. “I thought you might be related,” you said with a triumphant smile. It felt good knowing your instincts were spot on. “Yeah!” the server said. “Anyway, I’ll get this in,” she said, tapping the pad with her pen. “Then I’ll grab your drinks and come back to take your meal order,” she added with a smile and an “I’ll be right back.”

Once she left, Joshua turned to look at you. “I guess it really is a family business,” he said with an amused tone. You nodded, uncertain of what to say. Silence fell over the two of you as you waited for the server to return. You glanced up from the menu to find Joshua reading over the list of wines. “So,” you said softly, drawing his attention away from the paper.

“You’ve been here a lot?” you asked. Joshua smiled, setting the wine list down. “Been here? Sort of,” he answered. “This place is right around the corner from the shop,” he started to explain as you took another sip of water. “It’s perfect for getting carryout,” he added. “I’ll just call and place an order and then come pick it up and take it home.”

You listened patiently as he explained. “I don’t go out much,” he continued. You tilted your head as he spoke. “How come?” Joshua looked up from the table, eyes meeting yours. “I don’t know many people,” he admitted softly. “So you just stay in your apartment?” you questioned.

He nodded slowly. “Sometimes I go visit my aunt but my cousin recently moved back in with her and we don’t exactly…” he trailed off, thinking of the right words. “Get along.” Before you could ask any more, the server returned with your drinks, setting the wine in front of Joshua and the cocktail in front of you.

“So,” she said with a smile as she pulled out her notepad and pen. “What can I get you?”

After ordering, your conversation with Joshua shifted to other things. You talked about what he did in his spare time, discussing his taste in movies, books, and more. It was the most you’d ever gotten the chance to speak to him but it was nice to learn more about the man you spent half your day with four days a week. You wanted to consider Joshua a friend and hoped he could do the same.

The food was amazing. The mussels were cooked to perfection and though you were never big on them, Joshua got you to try at least one and you were surprised by how good it was. Your meals arrived just as you were finishing the last of your appetizers.

His steak looked incredible and he’d asked for marsala sauce on top. Your chicken was juicy and tender and the lemon butter sauce was perfect. You were glad you decided to forgo the capers in the end. The portions were just right and you were left feeling full but not stuffed at the end.

As your server took your empty dishes, she asked if you had saved room for dessert. Joshua glanced at you. “We’ll look over the menu,” he said and she nodded, moving to take your empty plates away. Joshua looked over the dessert menu. “I don’t think I could any more,” you commented. “Not without hating myself afterwards.” Joshua snorted and handed the menu to you.

“We could always split something,” he offered. 

You looked over the page, eyes scanning the sheet. There were staples like tiramisu and cannolis but there were also unique twists on traditional pieces like a cannoli cake. You spotted a chocolate cake as well as cheesecake. “I’m not sure,” you said softly, drawing your bottom lip between your teeth before handing the menu back. “You decide. I’m sure whatever you pick will be delicious,” you added.

Joshua looked over the menu as the server returned. “Made a decision?” she asked to which Joshua nodded. “One slice of the cannoli cake,” he answered, handing her the menu. “We’ll take it to go,” he added and she nodded, moving to put in the order and bring the check. You moved to open your bag but Joshua stopped you. “This is on me,” he said as he pulled out his wallet.

“No, it’s okay!” you said as you pulled your own wallet out. Joshua shook his head. “I insist,” he said more firmly. “I asked you to join me. It’s my treat,” he continued. Sensing you weren’t going to win this argument, you let him have his victory.

When the server returned with the check, Joshua immediately handed her his card and she walked away. While she was gone, you replaced your wallet in your bag and looked up to meet Joshua’s gaze. “Thank you,” you said softly. “For dinner.” Joshua returned the smile as the server returned with his card and the cannoli cake slice already bagged up.

Joshua signed the slip as the server smiled at you. “How was everything?” she asked.

“Oh it was amazing,” you answered as you finished your cocktail. “Better than I remembered,” you added. “Thank you so much,” Joshua said as he slipped a couple bills out of his wallet and tucked them behind the signed slip and handed them to the server. “The food and the service was incredible as always,” he added. The server thanked both of you before walking away.

Joshua stood up and grabbed his coat. You stood up quickly, gathering your things as he grabbed the togo bag and led the way to the door.

Outside, the sun had fully set behind the trees and the streetlamps outside had turned on. You pulled your coat on, noticing the chill that had set in. Joshua had already pulled his coat on and was watching as you slung your scarf around your neck. “Well, I should get home,” you said breathlessly. 

Joshua gave you a peculiar look. “Don’t you want to come up and try this?” he asked, holding up the to-go bag. “We got it to split,” he reminded you.

Although your gut was telling you this was a bad idea, you agreed and followed Joshua down the sidewalk and around the corner. The shop loomed over the both of you in the darkness, only one dim streetlamp illuminating the space in front of it as Joshua reached the door and pulled out his keys.

He unlocked the door and stepped in, allowing you to enter after him. As he shut the door your eye fell on the basket on the counter. You were almost one hundred percent certain that hadn’t been there when you both left earlier. “Uh… what’s that?” you asked as Joshua closed and locked the door.

He looked to where you were pointing, setting the bag on the counter and moving to the basket.

“It almost looks like Mrs. Briggs basket,” he said as he grabbed the handle and pulled it towards him. “But the items are different.” You watched as he sifted through the items. “Could you uh…” he asked, turning to look at you. “I hate to ask since we’ve already closed up and it is pretty late, but could you inventory this for me?,” he continued. 

“I really should learn how to do it myself.”

You nodded, moving around the counter to grab your pad and pen. You watched as he pulled each item  out and set them on the counter. “None of these items are the same as the ones Mrs. Briggs brought earlier,” you said softly as you started to write down the items and the descriptions.

Your eyes fell onto a small statuette and you set your pen down before grabbing it and looking at it.

In the low light you could tell it was very old. It was a small animal statue. The material you couldn’t discern but it almost felt ceramic. It was a cute little calico kitty. You looked it over but couldn’t find any manufacturer or name. “Huh,” you huffed as you set it down, drawing Joshua’s attention.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. You looked up at him. “This little statue,” you replied, gesturing to the cat. Joshua picked it up and turned it to face him. “What about it?” he asked. You shrugged. “I don’t know actually,” you said softly. “It just caught my eye.”

Joshua glanced up at you and back to the figurine in his hand. He set it back down in front of you. “Tell you what,” he said softly. “You can have it.” You looked up from the notepad, eyes wide. “What? Really?” you asked. He nodded and shrugged. “It’s just a little cat figurine,” he added. “Keep it,” he said.

You thanked him and went back to finishing inventorying all the items. When you were done and the basket packed back up save for your little calico figure, you followed Joshua up to his apartment where he started to unpack the slice of cake. The two of you stood around the kitchen island. “Here,” Joshua said, handing you a fork and using his own to take a bite.

You watched as his eyes fluttered shut, sighing in contentment. “That’s really good,” he murmured, turning to find you watching him. “Try it,” he urged, pushing the plate towards you. You gently stabbed your fork into the cake and brought a piece up to your mouth, fully aware Joshua was watching you intently. It felt oddly intimate, having him watch you so keenly.

Once you tasted the cake, however, his interest in watching you was made clear.

“Wow,” you said through a mouthful of cake, covering your mouth with your hand and looking up to meet his gaze. “That’s really good!” Joshua smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I know!” he exclaimed, taking another bite. The two of you continued to take bites of the cake until there was one little piece left. 

You held your hands up and moved to the kitchen sink, rinsing your fork and placing it with the other dishes. “I’m done!” you said as Joshua turned. “The last bite is yours though,” he said with a frown. You shook your head. “No,” you said softly. “I’m good. You can have it.”

Joshua shook his head, moving to stand beside you. “No,” he replied, holding the piece for you. “It’s yours.” You looked from the piece of cake up to his face. He was waiting patiently for you to take the bite and although your gut was telling you this was a bad idea, you took the plunge anyway.

His eyes never left your face as you pulled back, chewing and swallowing the last bite of cake. “Okay,” you said, looking up. “Now I’m-”

Your words were cut short by Joshua pulling you in, lips crashing against yours. You moaned into the kiss as his lips parted yours, tongue slipping into your mouth. All you tasted was cake and saliva. He’d abandoned the plate the second you accepted his advances, discarding it on the counter behind you as one hand moved to your hip, the other staying put on the back of your neck.

Joshua guided your body away from the sink and against the kitchen island. You groaned as the counter dug into your back, a sound that Joshua swallowed as he deepened the kiss. “Fuck,” you hissed as his lips left yours, trailing over your cheek and down the side of your neck.

Without warning, he pulled back, spinning you to face the rest of the room, pushing you against the counter as he grinded against you, allowing you to feel his hard cock. “You have no idea how crazy you drive me,” he growled, one arm wrapping around your chest and holding you against him as he rutted against you. You let out a feeble moan, hands moving up to grab his arm as your legs threatened to give out under you. “J-Joshua,” you whimpered.

Your voice must have snapped him back to reality and just as quickly as it started, Joshua pushed away from you, facing the sink and gripping the sides as he tried to control his breathing. “Oh my god,” he breathed. “I’m so sorry.” You turned to face his back, hands on the counter behind you as you steadied yourself. “Wh-what just happened?” you panted.

Joshua shook his head and when he spoke again, his voice sounded strained. “I think you should go.”

Your brows knit together in confusion. Was he… kicking you out? After all that?

“What?” you whispered. Joshua raised his head but still didn’t turn to look at you.

“You should go home,” he said, his voice still strained. “This is wrong.”

You stared at the back of his head incredulously. He practically jumped you at the sink and almost bent you over the island of his kitchen and now he was backpedaling? You said nothing, instead grabbing your coat and scarf from the seat you left them on and headed for the door, yanking it open before stepping out onto the landing and slamming the door behind you.

Your footsteps were loud, echoing as you ran down the old wooden steps and into the back room of the shop.

Up front you reached the door in record time but stopped as something caught your eye. The little cat figurine was sitting on the counter, staring back at you. In a split second decision, you grabbed it. He had said you could keep it after all.

The bell rang softly as you exited the shop, slamming the door behind you and hurried down the sidewalk and around the corner. You stopped for a moment to catch your breath before continuing on.

It was late. Really late you noticed as you walked in the direction of your home. The shops and restaurants had all closed for the night and there wasn’t a soul to be found as you walked down the deserted street. 

The shops to your left were all dark, only a couple with running lights on in the back of the shop. On the right side, across the street was the park. It covered a good portion of the town, stretching for several blocks. The park was home to the playground, a pond, a dog park, and lots of walking trails.

It was covered in trees and lots of shrubbery. It was a lovely place to walk and visit all year round but right now it felt menacing and looming. You tried not to focus on it as you continued down the path before you, clutching the cat statue tightly in your hands.

It didn’t take long for you to finally reach your home, ignoring the chilly breeze that followed as you let yourself in and shutting the door behind you. It was an older home, built back before the town grew up. It was a family home, one you inherited from your parents after their passing. It was a cute craftsman style home with four bedrooms. You’d closed off the bedrooms upstairs, taking up residence in the master bedroom on the main floor.

You locked the door, listening for the click of the lock as it engaged before finally settling and feeling relieved. You shrugged your coat off and pulled the scarf from around your neck, hanging both up by the door before kicking your shoes off and heading into the living area.

You set the cat statue on the kitchen counter and moved to your fridge to grab some water. You always kept a few bottles of water in the fridge. Turning as you uncapped the bottle and started to sip, you jumped slightly at the glowing eyes peering in at you from the back window.

Once you realized it was only a cat, you berated yourself for overreacting and downed some more water before moving to the bedroom but only after making sure the doors and windows were locked.

In the safety of your room, you drew the blinds and curtains, quickly undressing and pulling on your pajamas. Your bed was all but calling your name as you pulled back the covers and climbed in, settling under the comforter as the exhaustion of the day weighed down on you.

You fell into a deep slumber, one you didn’t even remember falling into.

Your alarm woke you up at 630 on the dot and you groaned, lifting your head to peek at the red numbers. You really did not want to get out of bed. Mostly because you were comfortable in your warm cocoon and because the events of last night were flooding back in and you weren’t sure if you could even face Joshua after that. 

You knew staying in bed and wallowing in your misery wasn’t going to help so as much as you didn’t want to, you turned your alarm off, threw the covers off your body and started to pull yourself from the depths of your bed.

As you sat up, you grabbed your phone sitting on the nightstand beside your half empty bottle of water.

Unlocking the screen you found you had a text waiting for you. From Joshua.

Your heart hammered in your chest as you tapped on the icon to read what he had to say.

Joshua: hey, don’t worry about coming in today. The shop is closed for some repairs. You’ll still get paid so don’t worry about that either. I’ll see you Monday

Your stomach dropped into your lap as you read his messages. So he couldn’t face you either? You weren’t sure what kind of repairs the shop could need. There wasn’t anything you noticed in the last few days. You chose to avoid deciphering what he meant and instead to use the day to get things done.

As you got up and started your morning, you took a shower and changed into clean clothes, opting for a light caramel colored sweater and light denim jeans. You gathered up your dirty clothes and took them to the small laundry room off your kitchen, setting a load and going about the rest of the house, cleaning and putting things back where they belonged.

Time ticked by as you worked, stopping briefly to take a lunch break when you realized you were low on groceries. Deciding to swap your washed clothes over to the dryer first, you set out from the house, donning your cream colored long coat but forgoing the scarf. Today was much warmer than the previous day. 

Your walk from your neighborhood to the market only took a couple minutes and you greeted the cashier at the front as you entered and grabbed a bright yellow shopping trolley. You wheeled your cart through the aisles, grabbing items from your list off the shelves and crossing them off as they landed in the basket. You had just turned into the cereal aisle when you stopped dead in your tracks.

Halfway down the aisle was Joshua. He was smiling as he handed a box from the top shelf to an elderly woman. You couldn’t see her face so you didn’t know which resident it was. You tried to back up and head for another aisle but in your haste, you bumped into the display next to you, knocking a few cans of beans off the shelves.

Joshua and the woman heard the commotion and looked in your direction. ‘Oh brilliant,’ you thought to yourself as you knelt down to pick up the stray cans that rolled across the tile. As you stood up, Joshua and the woman had parted ways and he was currently walking in your direction.

You turned away as he approached, setting up the cans and trying to mimic the display they’d been in before.

“Hey,” you heard Joshua say softly. You turned to face him, forcing a smile. “Hey,” you mimicked.

The two of you said nothing, instead standing awkwardly before one another, looking anywhere that wasn’t the other person. ‘Why is this so awkward? Why are you even still standing here? Just walk away!’ You cleared your throat and forced another smile, laughing awkwardly as you took the handle of your trolley. “Well, I gotta go,” you said, your voice much higher pitched than before.

Joshua’s eyebrows shot up as you started to turn your cart and push it past him. He was quick, grabbing your wrist and turning you to face him, backing you up against the shelf of canned beans. Your breath caught in your throat as Joshua looked at you, eyes studying your face.

You saw them briefly look down to your lips and back up. Finally he spoke.

“I’m sorry about last night,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know what came over me.” you shook your head quickly. “It’s fine,” you squeaked. “Alcohol does that sometimes,” you added after clearing your throat. Joshua nodded, eyes still fixated on your lips as you spoke. “It doesn’t have to mean anything,” you continued.

The shift in his expression was unmistakable but you couldn’t tell what emotion he was conveying. “It… doesn’t?” he asked softly. You shimmied out of his grip, straightening your coat as you heard voices enter the aisle you were currently standing in. “No,” you replied. “It doesn’t.”

Joshua opened his mouth to respond but you stopped him. “Don’t worry about it,” you added. “Let’s just forget it. I’ll see you on Monday.”

You didn’t let him speak as you hurried away, pushing your cart into the next aisle to finish your shopping. You were grateful he didn’t attempt to follow you and luckily you didn’t see him again, which allowed you to return to the cereal aisle and grab a box of your favorite brand.

After visiting the dairy section, you headed to the front to check out. The next stop was the butchershop where you grabbed your usual cuts of chicken, pork, and beef before heading home to stock your fridge as well as fold and put away your clean laundry.

The task took longer than you were expecting and by the time the last towel was neatly tucked and folded, you saw that it was getting close to dinner time. You sighed, glancing at your fridge upon realizing you hadn’t prepared anything you bought yet.

You got up and walked over to the fridge and opened the door, looking at the contents and settled on one of the flank steaks you’d bought earlier. You grabbed the package and pulled it from the fridge as well as a couple other items and started with rinsing the vegetables you selected.

As you set the items on the counter, the small kitten figure caught your eye. You’d yet to find it a home in your place and moved to pick it up. As you did, a small portion of the bottom fell off onto the counter with a soft clatter and you cursed under your breath. It seemed as if the statuette had a small seal on the bottom that had seemingly come loose.

You turned the figure upside down and your eye caught the end of something shoved into the tiny space inside the ceramic figure. You carefully removed what turned out to be a rolled up piece of paper and set the figure down to start unrolling the paper.

Blackish text written in what you could only assume was a dark red ink adorned one side of the paper. You weren’t sure what it said but you could tell it was a different language. Possibly latin. Your brows furrowed as you read the words in your head before trying to sound them out.

“Te invoco a profundus inferni,” you read off in what you could only assume was terrible latin. You studied the paper for a moment longer before shrugging and turning to your trash bin, crumbling up the paper and tossing it away.

‘Out of sight, out of mind.’

Once rinsed, you started to prepare the potatoes, slicing them thinly before adding them to a glass baking dish. You worked over the dish and the stove simultaneously, making a cream sauce to add to the potatoes before sprinkling some cheese and panko over the top and putting in the oven.

While that baked, you poured yourself a glass of wine and turned on some music on your phone. The bottle was a new one you picked up earlier. While sipping on the wine, you prepared the steak for cooking, seasoning both sides since you didn’t have time to marinate it.

Soft jazzy tunes floated through the air as you went about the kitchen, heating a skillet before adding the steak which started sizzling immediately. You sipped on some more wine as you waited to flip the steak over. Your mind wandered as you waited, wondering what Joshua was up to before you forced the thought out of your head.

‘Stop thinking about him!’

You continued to listen to the music as your steak cooked, sizzling again when you flipped it onto the uncooked side. Once the steak was cooked to your liking, you pulled it from the pan and set it aside to rest while you checked your potatoes and added the chopped veggies to the hot pan, drizzling them with some oil. It was something you learned from your mother.

Once you were sure your veggies were done, the timer for the oven went off and you made a plate for yourself, sitting down at the kitchen island to eat. You had a dining room but as you lived alone, you saw no point in using the table. You could just eat at the island instead.

Just as you were cutting into the steak, you heard the doorbell ring and turned to look at the front door which you could just see from your spot. You waited for a moment before it rang again and you got up quickly, moving to answer it.

Pushing the curtain covering the window beside the door aside, you peered out onto the front step but saw no one. You contemplated opening the door but decided against it and instead looked through the peephole.

Again, you saw no one standing on the other side.

You took a step back, staring at the door in confusion until your thoughts were interrupted by three sharp knocks. You stared at the door and moved quickly back to peer through the hole. Again, the front step was empty. You moved to peer through the curtain but still saw nothing. You turned the deadbolt and backed away from the door, staring at it for a few moments more.

When nothing happened, you turned to head back to the kitchen to finish your dinner.

Just as you crossed the threshold into the living room, three loud knocks rang out from the door, causing you to whip around and head back to the door. This time you unlocked and opened the wooden door, leaving the metal storm door securely closed and locked.

Outside, just as you suspected, was no one. The street was deserted as the sun set behind the trees, casting everything in a bluish glow. The twilight glow. You peered out at your front porch, looking from side to side but not opening the outside door.

Seeing no one, you stepped back and shut the door, locking it once more before stepping back and waiting to see if someone knocked again. You weren’t sure what you were expecting, you hadn’t seen anyone before so why would you see anyone this time?

As you were wondering, you heard something different. Loud, heavy footfalls on the steps outside, almost like someone stomping up the steps to your porch. Before you could move to throw open the door to confront the trickster, three loud pounds sounded at the door, the strength of it shaking the floor of your vestibule.

Your eyes widened, heart hammering in your chest as you backed away. Another three pounding slams sounded on the other side of your door. Followed by three more. You rushed to the door and as soon as your hand fell on the handle it all stopped.

You didn’t dare open the door this time. Instead, you made sure the front door was locked before going around the rest of the first floor to make sure all the doors and windows were secured and properly locked. When you were certain they were, you headed upstairs to check the windows and attic door.

Upon reaching the landing, you were horrified to see that the attic door was cracked open. Your breath caught in your throat as you stared at the door, unmoving. You felt a cold chill run up your spine. Although you couldn’t see anything, you knew someone was looking back at you from the darkness.

You watched in horror as the cracked attic door slowly shut on its own. You blew off your sweep of the second floor of your home before running downstairs and grabbing your phone to call the police. As you waited for the operator to pick up you felt a breeze and looked to see your back door was open.

‘I just locked that!’ You were certain you’d locked that before going upstairs. You’d even done the tug test on it. The line clicked and you were greeted with the sound of breathing.

“Hello?” you asked into the receiver frantically. When no one answered but the breathing started to turn into distorted voices and then a deep rumbling growl you hung up and dropped your phone onto the counter next to your plate.

The corners of your eyes burned as you wandered cautiously towards the open door. You peered out the door into the dark and in an instant, you could have sworn your heart stopped. Your breathing sped up as you tried in vain not to hyperventilate.

Standing outside your door, just beyond the reach of the back porch light was a dark figure. There were no distinguishing features, no eyes, nothing to tell you anything other than the fact that someone… or something, was standing outside your door.

Without thinking, you rushed the door and slammed it shut, turning the lock before backing away.

The shrill tone of your phone sounded out and you rushed to pick it up without checking the screen.

“Hello?” you all but shouted. “Ma’am this is [xxx]. We received a call from this number moments ago. Do you have an emergency?” relief flooded your body as you almost passed out from the stress.

“Yes!” you said quickly. “I think someone is in my attic,” you answered. No sooner than you said those words, you heard a loud crash from upstairs. “He might have left the attic and is in the house,” you whispered, your body starting to shake.

“Can you give me your address?” “It’s Y/N,” you said quickly before giving your address. The town was small and the police station wasn’t far from your home. You knew an officer would be by in no time. “Okay Y/N,” the dispatcher said. “I have two officers enroute. In the meantime, can you find a weapon and a place to hide?”

Your eyes landed on the huge knife you’d used to cut your steak earlier and grabbed it quickly. “I have a knife,” you announced softly to the dispatcher who commended you. “Now you need to find a place to hide. Can you do that?” he asked. You tiptoed softly towards your bedroom, keeping your eyes on the bottom of the stairs before finally reaching the threshold and closing your bedroom door.

You turned the lock and made for your closet, squeezing in and sliding the door shut.

“I’m in the closet in my bedroom,” you whispered to the dispatcher. “Where is your bedroom located?” he asked. “Ground floor, back of the house behind the kitchen,” you whispered back. “Please tell them to hurry!”

You listened as the sounds of slow heavy footsteps pounded across the floor above you, heading for the stairs. “I think they’re coming downstairs!” you hissed. “Okay, Y/N,” the dispatcher said calmly. “The officers are almost there. I’m going to stay on the line but you need to be quiet for me, can you do that?” 

You nodded and hummed in the affirmative as the heavy steps made their way down the stairs, one step at a time. Each slam had you jumping. You were shaking as you listened, keeping the knife ready to lash out. To your horror, the steps started to walk through the first floor and sounded like they were making a beeline for your room.

You tried to control your breathing as the steps stopped just outside your bedroom door.

You waited for there to be banging or for the door to fly open but neither happened. Instead, there was a rapid knocking at your front door followed by the sound of the front door opening and a voice calling out “police!” you waited for the bedroom door to open and the closet door to slide aside as a light was shown in. “I found her,” the holder of the light said as you held up your hands.

The knife was taken from you and the officer helped you up. After they escorted you out of the house, one officer spoke while another two searched the house bottom to top, clearing each room and even going up into the attic. While the officers searched your home, you gave your statement to the officer who wrote down everything you said.

“And you’re sure you locked all the doors?” he asked, looking up from the notepad. You nodded again. “It’s just that when we arrived, both front doors were unlocked,” he explained. You stared at him blankly. “That’s not possible,” you replied. “I know I locked that door. Multiple times,” you explained.

“Someone was ringing and then kept knocking but each time I checked, there was no one there. I thought it was just kids getting into the Halloween spirit and being a nuisance. Until the pounding,” you continued. The officer narrowed his eyes. “Pounding?” he asked. You nodded as the two officers exited you home.

“Y-yeah,” you answered. “It started as light knocking but when I refused to open the door or come out onto the porch, it turned into pounding. I heard loud stomping up the steps but when I checked, I still saw nothing.”

The officer nodded as he jotted that down while one of the two officers came over.

“We found no sign of forced entry,” she started to explain. “We found a stack of boxes in the attic had fallen over. That was probably the loud crash you heard,” she continued. “Your back door was also unlocked.” Your jaw dropped. “I know I locked that!” you exclaimed. When I came downstairs to call you, the back door was open and when I walked over, I saw someone standing outside-”

“You saw someone outside?” the officer originally taking your statement asked. You nodded quickly as he started writing down more notes. “What did they look like?” You sighed heavily. 

“I-I didn’t get a good look.” 

Both officers exchanged looks as you rushed to explain further. 

“They were standing just outside the light field,” you explained. “But they were tall. Maybe around 1.8 meters,” you explained. “Everything else was just black. There were no distinguishing features at all,” you added. The officers nodded. “Ma’am,” the woman started and you turned to her.

“We noticed an open bottle of wine in the fridge,” she stated and you knew where she was going. “I just opened it,” you explained. “I hadn’t even finished a glass yet,” you added. She nodded and the other officer quickly jotted that down as well. 

“Well, other than the boxes in the attic,” she started. “There are no signs of anyone inside the home. Since the points of entry were unlocked, they must have gone out that way before we got here.”

You shook your head silently. “I heard them walk up to the bedroom but I never heard footsteps leave.”

The officers exchanged looks before the woman spoke again. “We’ll have a patrol car in the area for the night and if anything else happens, call us immediately,” she explained as she pulled a card out of a little pouch on her belt. “You can call me directly,” she added. “I’m on duty all night.”

The female officer walked you to your door where you thanked her and watched as both cars pulled away and headed down the street. A chilly breeze blew through the front porch followed by a distant flash of lightning and you quickly retreated inside, making sure your doors were locked before heading to the back door to do the same.

Once you were fully satisfied your doors were locked, you returned to the kitchen to clean up your dinner, putting the uneaten portions in a glass container and putting it in the fridge. You downed the rest of your wine and started to rinse your dishes, placing them in the dishwasher before turning off the lights and heading upstairs to make sure all the lights were off, windows closed and locked.

Before heading back down, you turned back to look at the attic door which was firmly shut. You headed down the steps carefully, turning off the light at the bottom landing before heading to your bedroom where you checked your windows.

Once you were sure everything was secure, you changed and got ready for bed.

Climbing under the covers, you weren’t sure if you’d be able to sleep but exhaustion took over and you were out within minutes of crawling into bed.

You were in the midst of a really good dream when you were startled awake by a loud crash and sudden burst of wind. Sitting up, you looked around the dark room and saw one of your windows had sprang open. ‘How the hell did that open?’

You threw the covers off your legs and got up, moving around the bed ro quickly shut the window, clicking your tongue as you stepped in a wet puddle on the wood floor.

The crash you had heard was thunder and a full blown storm was raging outside. You groaned and turned back towards the room as a flash of lightning illuminated the space causing you to stop in your tracks. In the corner by the door stood a tall, dark shadow.

Your heart hammered in your chest, beating almost up into your throat as it closed, your ability to scream being ripped from you. ‘No,’ you thought. ‘This can’t be happening.’

You glanced at the door but knew deep in your heart that you’d never make it to the door, not with the shadow standing right beside it. Maybe you could climb out the window? Damn! You should have left it open! If only you’d seen the shadow before closing the window!

As you weighed your options, a deep, gravelly voice spoke.

“C̸̫͕̿̀̎̈́̈ͅȗ̶̠̳͉̽ṟ̴͖͛̈́̂̓͠ ̶̞͈̈́̌̄̋͂c̵̪̱̆͂̃u̵̡̪̜̠̣͗͒ř̵̤̠͕͈̉r̵̺̙͙͍̦͂̐i̸͈̜͕͙͐́̑̾t̸̨̩͖̣͖̀̑i̵̯͖̼̓͌͛̑s̴̭̐̍̚̚͠ ?”

You stared at the shadow in the corner. Did… did it just speak?

Uncertain if you heard correctly, you waited for it to speak again, although you had no idea what it said.

“M̶̳̞͖̓ͅỏ̷̮̲̯̚r̴̭̹̈͋̀̎t̶͓̩̪̟̿̉̒́̅a̴͓͐̽͊l̸̲̰̯͛͛͠e̴̝͝m̵͕̱̾͋ ̸̫̩̾͜t̸̪͚͔͋e̴͕̠̘̖̅̍͊ ̶̝̞̌i̵̯̺̯̋̉̄ͅn̶̺̳͚̟̟̊́͆̀t̵̫͗̌̎̕͝e̸̗̋̚ṝ̴̺͇̉͗͗͠r̸̺̭̫͈̖̅̉o̷̟͙̥̱͗͌-̴̮̇ ̷͓́g̷̰̪͋͛̕͝ā̸̙͊̍v̴̭̙̜͋̾̊̚i̶̦̟͌͋̈́͛ .”

Your lips parted as it addressed you, still in the same language.

“I-I don’t understand,” you whispered. The shadow didn’t move but instead, in the same gravelly voice it spoke again, this time in English. “I asked you why you keep running away from me.”

Your stomach nearly fell out of your ass. Whatever this was, it was sentient. “Wh-who are you?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. The shadow figure chuckled. Actually fucking chuckled. The sound was distorted and unsettling.

“I am Tarrunach,” it answered. Your brain tried to wrap around the name. It was unlike anything you’d heard before. “T-Tarrunach?” you repeated. The figure said nothing and stayed perfectly still, another flash of lightning illuminating the room but still the shadow stayed black, a stark contrast with its surroundings.

“What do you want?” you asked softly, shifting your weight as your hand slowly reached behind you for the window latch. The shadow figure tilted its head before speaking in its rough voice.

“You summoned me.”

Your eyebrows shot up. ‘Summoned?’

You shook your head, halting your movements. “N-no I didn’t,” you answered. There was another flash of light and a clap of thunder. As soon as darkness returned to the room, the shadow figure shifted. Eyes appeared and it took all your willpower not to scream in terror at the sight of glowing red eyes.

“Is that the game you want to play?” it asked, voice scratchy and low. “You summoned me. Do you not remember the incantation?”

As you opened your mouth to say no, a memory played in your head, almost like a movie reel. The cat figure with the roll of paper inside. The strange words written in dark red ink. 

‘Te invoco a profundus inferni,’ Your eyes widened as the realization hit you.

You knew it was latin but you didn’t know latin. Had you…

Had you accidentally summoned a demon?

You looked back up and noticed the shadow figure had moved and was now standing in front of the door. You leaned back against the window, fingers searching for the latch to open them. 

“I-” you trailed off. “I didn’t know that was an incantation,” you admitted. “I thought it was gibberish.”

The figure laughed again. “Are you in the practice of reciting gibberish often?”

You shook your head. “No,” you answered. “Not particularly. I don’t see gibberish very often.”

You were stalling but the figure was moving closer. The flat black shadowy figure had taken on a more corporeal look, instead of blurry appendages, you could make out a curve in the arms by its side. Your fingers brushed against the latch but didn’t manage to catch on.

Another bolt of lightning streaked across the sky, throwing your room in a cast of bright white allowing you to see the figure in full. Your eyes widened, a scream forming in your throat.

Before you stood a blackened figure. The skin looked almost charred. The red eyes looked back at you from a charred face, the lips pulled back into a menacing smile with rows of sharp teeth. The figure was slim and androgynous in appearance. You saw nothing that would distinguish it as either sexually male or female. It was like one of the Ken dolls you’d had as a child.

Before the scream building in your throat could escape, your fingers managed to grab hold of the window latch and you pulled, opening the window. Instantly the wind blew in, the sound of rain intensifying and blowing into the open space. You tried to turn and climb out the window but the figure moved at an impossible speed.

The window was shut, all wind gone as the figure slammed you against the wall beside the window, hand closed around your throat. “This isn’t a game,” it growled in your face, breath hot against your skin. “You summoned me, whether intentional or not,” it hissed. “And I’ve come to collect.”

‘Collect?’

Fear filled your senses, spreading throughout your body and to the tips of your fingers and toes.

“C-collect?” you gasped, clawing at the hand around your neck. “Yes,” the figure snapped. Without warning, it tossed you onto the bed easily and was on top of you as you bounced on the mattress.

“C-collect what?” you coughed. “My soul?”

The demon tilted its head again only this time much faster, so fast you barely registered it except for the cracking sound that accompanied it. “I don’t want your soul,” it growled. You winced as it leaned in, sniffing your cheek before you felt its warm, wet tongue lick a stripe up the side of your face. You tried to push it away but the demon was much stronger.

“You can’t fight me off,” he laughed cruelly.

You felt your throat close up, tears burning at the corners of your eyes as the monster pinned you against the bed. “Please,” you whimpered. “What do you want from me?”

The demon chuckled again, the sound just as jarring. “I want your energy,” it answered.

You turned your face to look up at it in the dark, it’s red eyes boring into yours. “Energ-gy?”

“Your sexual energy,” it added. Your stomach churned at the thought. ‘No way. Absolutely not.’

You shook your head in agreement with your thoughts. “No,” you said defiantly.

The demon laughed, caging you in with its arms against the mattress. “I figured you’d say that,” it said, taking your face in its clawed hand. You stared up, raw fear pumping in your veins as your eyes met. You watched in both shock and horror as the charred skin of the demon melted away to reveal an all too familiar face.

You managed to push the demon off you and scramble off the bed towards the window as the demon stood up. You cowered away, your back up against the wall. “J-Joshua?”

The figure standing in your bedroom smiled at you, flashing a pair of perfect teeth. “Wh-what the hell?”

The demon started to pace back and forth, keeping its eyes trained on you. “What do you think?” it asked. “Looks just like him, right?” You stared in awe. “Or would you believe me if I told you I am Joshua?”

You shook your head quickly. “That’s not possible,” you croaked, your voice hoarse. the demon laughed and instead of the cruel, jarring sound, it was Joshua’s laugh. The one you’d heard countless times in Pandora’s Box as you told him a joke. The smile was the same one he gave you when he caught you staring at him from across the shop.

The same knowing smirk.

You shook your head again. “You’re not Joshua,” you answered. “You’re just messing with me!”

The demon tilted its head again. “That’s where you’re wrong,” it said in a low, menacing tone.

“Let me show you something,” it said, raising one hand and with a snap of its fingers, the lamps in your room came on. You looked around quickly before your eyes landed back on the demon.

“Is that it?” you asked. “I thought you were going to like, snap us to the shop or something,” you added.

The demon’s smile fell and its eyes narrowed.

“You want to go to the shop?” it asked. You nodded. “That’s where he lives,” you said. “The real Joshua!”

The demon sighed and rolled its eyes before standing up straight. “Get dressed,” it said, moving towards the door. You hesitated as it opened the bedroom door. Sensing you weren’t going to move, the demon stopped. “Get dressed,” it ordered again. “I’ll prove it to you.”

You pulled on a pair of sweats and a hoodie before heading out of your bedroom. It was surreal to see the demon masquerading as Joshua in your living room. You slowed to a stop as it walked around, looking around your house. “Nice place,” it said with a smirk. “How come you’ve never invited me here before?” he asked with a mocking tone. You narrowed your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest.

Taking that as a cue you weren’t going to talk, the demon led the way to the door. “Shoes,” it said as it unlocked the deadbolt and looked at you. “We’re going to the shop.”

The walk down the deserted streets at night was eerie enough but the fact that a demon masquerading as your coworker was walking beside you as if nothing was wrong made it even more uncanny. The walk to the shop took no time at all and soon, you were walking up to the front door.

The demon produced a set identical to Joshua’s keys and unlocked the door. You led the way to the back where the door leading up to the steps was already open. You hurried up the steps to the top landing but before you could knock, the door opened and you fell into Joshua’s arms.

“Close the door!” you gasped, scrambling to shut the door behind you and lock it.

You looked up into the concerned brown eyes of your coworker. “Y/N,what’s wrong?” he asked. “It’s the middle of the night and it’s storming.” You glanced down to find your clothes were indeed wet but on your walk, you didn’t remember it raining. Though you did remember it raining when you were back in your bedroom.

“Here,” Joshua said, letting go of you and heading to the wardrobe that stood between the bathroom and the nightstand. “Let’s get you out of those wet clothes.”

You followed him, glancing around quickly. Nothing seemed out of place in the apartment. Joshua pulled out some clothes, holding up the large tee shirt. “This should fit,” he said softly. “It’s not my size.” He pulled out a pair or shorts as well, holding them up to inspect.

Once he’d found something that might fit, he handed them to you and directed you to the bathroom where you changed quickly. Out in the other room, Joshua was heating up a pot of water. He looked up as you approached. “Let me throw these in the dryer,” he offered, taking your clothes from you.

Once he put them in the dryer and poured you a hot cup of tea, you sat at the kitchen island, trying to come up with an explanation as to why you were there. What reason could you possibly have for coming to his place in the middle of the night.

‘I accidentally summoned a demon that wants to collect my sexual energy and it looks just like you.’

He’d call the cops faster than you could finish getting the words out.

Frustrated, you lowered your head and fought the urge to cry, your shoulders shaking. Joshua rounded the island and sat next to you, placing an arm around your shoulders. “Hey, hey,” he said softly. “It’s okay. You’re safe here.” You turned to face him, startling him.

“No one is safe,” you said softly. Joshua’s eyes searched your face. “What?” he said quietly.

“There’s…” your voice quivered as you hesitated. “There’s a demon.”

As soon as the words left your lips, the serious look on Joshua’s face morphed into a smile. “Oh Y/N, please,” he scoffed. “You know, you really are something,” he said, getting to his feet. You watched as he walked back around to his empty cup and moved to put it in the sink.

You got up and ran over to him. “Please, Joshua,” you pleaded. “I’m not messing around!”

When he didn’t respond, you tried to grab his hand. The moment your skin touched his you jerked back with a yelp. Almost like you’d been burned. ‘What the…’

You looked up from his hand to his profile. He slowly turned his head, eyes boring into yours. The brown eyes you’d looked into before were replaced with yellow irises, the sclera no longer white but red. The same eyes you’d seen in your bedroom. Your heart sank as Joshua slowly advanced on you.

“No,” you whimpered, a soft sob escaping you. You tried to run but the demon was quick, grabbing your arm and dragging you over to the counter, trapping you between its body and the kitchen island. “Stop!” you screamed, pushing against its hard chest. “Let me go!”

“I told you,” it said in the voice of Joshua. “I told you I am Joshua.”

You shook your head. “It’s not possible,” you sobbed, tears falling down your cheeks.

The demon took your face in both its hands gently. “I wasn’t lying. I am Joshua. Joshua is me.”

You glanced up to meet the fiery gaze once more. Behind the yellow and red eyes was a sincerity you hadn’t expected to see. The demon wasn’t trying to trick you. “H-how?” you hiccuped.

“How what?” he asked. “Did you not find it odd that I seemingly haunted every dream and waking thought of yours?” he asked. “Or how Mrs. Briggs didn’t recognize me?” You looked up at him. “Are you even related to Bill?” you asked softly. Joshua chuckled and shook his head. “Bill doesn’t have any siblings,” he answered.

“Why are you here?” you asked suddenly. “In this town. Why are you here?”

Joshua tilted his head. “Do you remember the night Bill passed away?” he asked, nodding when you shook your head. “It was a couple days before Halloween,” Joshua started to explain. “A couple of teenagers were out at the old covered bridge messing around with a ouija board.”

You listened as he told the story of the teens and how they inadvertently summoned him, bringing him to the town. That night, after they summoned the demon, they ran, leaving behind the Ouija board. Bill was driving home from the shop and had to cross that old wooden bridge. 

As he started to cross, Joshua explained how he appeared, causing Bill to swerve and plow through the side of the bridge and down into the ditch below. It wasn’t full but because there had been a lot of rain the past few nights, the ditch had been flooded more than usual and because Bill’s car landed upside down, he drowned.

As Joshua finished his tale, you covered your mouth in shock.

“And that little figure you took home,” he continued. “Why would I give you a random gift like that?” he asked. “I wanted you to have it. I wanted you to find the incantation. I wanted you to say it, knowing you were curious and had a proclivity for reading out random words you see,” he added.

Everything he was saying so far added up. Your dreams about him, your fantasies, your attraction, everything was caused by him. “Why did you need an incantation?” you asked suddenly, looking up to meet his gaze. “I wanted you before that.”

Joshua shook his head. “I’m a demon,” he explained. “I have rules and rituals to abide by.” 

The realization dawned on you. 

“That’s why you stopped the other night,” you said softly as it all fell into place. “Because you can’t just have sex with whoever you want?” Joshua nodded. “There has to be a binding incantation,” he explained. “Which is what you read off tonight.”

You swallowed thickly. “Which means…”

You felt one of his hands moved to your hip. “Which means, we have to have sex,” you continued.

Joshua nodded, leaning in and nuzzling your cheek. “Exactly,” he said in a low, husky voice. “But if we have sex,” you said suddenly, placing a hand on his chest and pushing him back. “Doesn’t that mean you have to leave?”

Joshua tilted his head questioningly. “Why would I leave?” he asked softly.

“When I have a shop to run.”

Without letting you say another word, Joshua took your lips in a searing kiss, his free hand moving up your back and pulling you into him. “I said that incantation binds me to you,” he murmured, lips ghosting over your skin. “I never said anything about having to leave. I’m bound to you now.”

Your knees almost buckled as you felt his teeth graze against the skin of your neck. “I’m yours,” he whispered, his breath hot against your skin. “And after tonight,” he continued, trailing kissing back up until his lips were against your ear. “You’ll be mine.”

You pulled him in for a heated kiss, leaning against the counter as one of your legs moved to wrap around his waist. Joshua leaned into the kiss, parting your lips and sliding his hot tongue into your mouth, muffling your moans.

You whined as he pulled away, slowly kissing down your neck to your collar before taking the hem of the shirt you were currently wearing and tugging it up, pulling the shirt off over your head. “Good girl,” he murmured, taking in your topless form. 

His hands were back on you in a second, lips trailing kisses down your collar and between your breasts. As he lowered himself to his knees, he made quick work of the shorts you were wearing, pulling them along with your panties down your legs before taking one of your thighs and lifting it over his shoulder.

You watched as he planted light kisses along the inside of your thigh, stopping just short of your aching heat. One of your hands braced yourself against the counter, the other moving down to tangle in his hair as he placed a kiss just above your clit before shifting between your thighs, pushing them further apart.

Your head fell back as you slipped to rest your forearm against the counter again as you felt Joshua’s tongue glide through your folds, brushing your clit lightly. Light teasing licks turned into heavy laps until he pulled back, his chin already covered in your essence. “Bed,” was the only word he uttered.

You were there faster than you could process, your head spinning with arousal as you leaned back against the sheets. Joshua had stripped himself of his shirt in the short distance from the kitchen to the bed and was lowering himself to kneel as you parted your thighs.

He fell onto the mattress, arms wrapping around your thighs and pulling your pussy closer to his face.

You moaned, head falling into the pillows as you felt his tongue back on your clit. He teased and toyed with the bud, not really falling into a rhythm. Instead he was merely taking his time and learning your body. Twice you felt the tip of his tongue dip down to your hole, pushing into it as his nose bumped against your clit. You felt the vibration of his groans against your sex, your walls tightening around the end of his tongue.

Just when you thought he was going to pull away, it was as if his tongue grew, entering you fully and filling your cunt. “Oh shit,” you cursed, fingers tightening in his hair as your free hand gripped the sheets beneath you tightly.

He only pushed his tongue into you a few times before pulling back. You raised your head wearily to see him licking his lips. “Already so fucked out?” he asked with a chuckle. He didn’t give you the opportunity to respond as he pushed two fingers into your cunt, watching your face as your lips parted in a silent moan.

Your eyes rolled back as he started to slowly pump his fingers in and out of you.

“That’s it,” he cooed as he curled his fingers, brushing against the soft spongy spot that had your toes curling. “You like that?” he asked, mildly amused by the response you were giving him despite him doing the bare minimum. “Yes!” you gasped as he continued to finger you. “F-fuck!” you swore. “Don’t stop!”

Joshua continued to watch your face as you writhed in pleasure under him. “Like that?” he asked, angling his hand so his fingers reached even further. “Yes! J-just like that!” Joshua leaned down, lips moving against yours, a mix of tongues, spit, and moans but you weren’t sure whose moans they were.

Joshua pulled away, keeping his eyes on your face as he sped up the pace. “Just like that?”

You nodded quickly, your body starting to shake as your orgasm approached but before it could crash over you, Joshua withdrew his hand. You whined at the loss of contact, making Joshua chuckle. “You’re falling asleep,” he noted. You pouted at him. “Don’t care,” you murmured.

Joshua tilted his head curiously. “Are you giving me permission to fuck you while you’re sleeping?” he asked. You nodded. It felt too good and you were so close you’d do just about anything to cum. “Yes,” you answered. “Feels s’good.”

Joshua chuckled against your skin, leaving feathery kisses against your cheek. “As you wish,” he said softly, gently rolling you onto your stomach. You felt his hands push your thighs apart and shuddered as you felt something hot and wet against your hole.

You assumed it was his tongue until it pushed into your cunt and you groaned into the pillows. It was most certainly not his tongue. “Wh-what’s that?” you murmured. You felt one of Joshua’s hands caress your cheek. “Shh, angel,” he said softly and you almost laughed at the irony of it.

A demon calling you angel.

You tried to lift your head to look back but it was too dark. “It’s okay,” you heard him purr in your ear. “Just go to sleep,” he added.

Your cheek fell back against the sheets as sleep started to take over your form. You felt whatever was inside you probing around and a sudden thought hit you. “Is that a tentacle?” you murmured, your voice partially muffled. Joshua chuckled, again in your ear as he leaned over you. “Yes,” he answered.

“It is.”

That snapped you awake. “Hng,” you grunted as the tentacle started to thrust in and out of you. “W-wait a second,” you whined. “I thought you…” you trailed off as Joshua halted his movement. “What’s wrong, baby?” he whispered. “I wanted your…” your words failed you again.

“You have to use complete sentences,” Joshua cooed in your ear. “I wanted your cock,” you finally whined. Joshua chuckled, the tentacle in you starting to slowly thrust. “Don’t worry sweetheart,” he replied. “You’ll get that, too.”

Your cheeks burned as the tentacle continued to pump into your pussy, gently bumping your cervix with each thrust. You felt another warm wet appendage against your ass and tried to reach behind you but Joshua managed to catch both hands and pin them to the bed.

“Shhh,” he murmured. “Just relax for me. Can you do that, angel?”

You moaned into the sheets as the second tentacle pushed into your ass, carefully stretching you open. Your fingers gripped the sheets tightly as the tentacle stopped, settling in your ass as the one in your pussy continued to move. The sensation was unlike anything you’d ever felt before.

“That’s my good girl,” Joshua whispered into your ear as the tentacle in your ass slowly started to move, setting an asynchronous pace to the first tentacle and soon both were thrusting into you. It wasn’t enough to build up an orgasm but it was enough to drive you insane.

You wanted more. You needed more.

You moaned into the pillows as the tentacles increased speed. “That’s it baby,” Joshua cooed. “You’re doing so well for me.” You were aware that the sheets were no doubt covered in your arousal and that a mess was being created between your thighs.

Joshua didn’t seem to mind. Without another word, the tentacles withdrew leaving you feeling empty. You let out a tiny yelp as Joshua wrapped an arm around your hips, pulling your ass up before taking one of the pillows and tucking it under your raised hips.

You moaned as he ran his hands over your ass, crying out when you felt him land a blow against the skin. He repeated this again, rubbing his hand over the spot each time. “Of course,” he murmured, more to himself than anything else. “Of course you’d like that, you little slut.”

You moaned at the degrading name, whimpering when you felt him push two fingers into your heat again. “I supposed you’re ready,” he added. Your body burned in anticipation as you felt the bed move. You had neither the energy or will to look and see what was happening but it didn’t matter.

As quickly as Joshua disappeared, he was back, kneeling behind you and spreading your cheeks with his hands. “Such a pretty little pussy,” he growled. “And it’s all mine.”

You moaned in response as he spit onto your waiting hole. The next thing you felt was the tip of his cock brushing against you. “I’m going to ruin this little pussy,” he growled in your ear. “Make it so mine is the only cock you can take.”

You whimpered as you felt his teeth dig into your shoulder before he straightened back up. You felt the head of his cock as it pushed slowly into you and suddenly, you knew why he prepped you with the tentacles beforehand.

Inch by inch, Joshua slid into you. Your body shook as your cunt stretched to accommodate his girth. As he bottomed out, you shuddered, walls clenching and unclenching around him. “So warm,” he breathed. “M’gonna wreck you,” he added, taking your hips in both hands before slowly drawing his cock out until just the tip was still inside you.

Without warning, he snapped his hips forward, making you scream into the pillows as he pushed all of his cock into you at once. The first few thrusts were the hardest but as he fell into a steady rhythm, the stinging pain was replaced with a dull ache. You could already feel your juices starting to roll down your thighs, no doubt mixed with sweat as Joshua pounded into you from behind.

You could feel the tip of his cock hit your cervix with each stroke. You cried out as he slammed into you.

He hovered over you, one hand on the mattress next to you and the other holding your hip. “You take cock so well, baby,” he growled. “It’s like you were made for this.”

You moaned loudly, tears and spit staining the pillow your face was currently buried in. Joshua grabbed the pillow and tossed it aside. “I want to hear you,” he rasped, hips hitting your ass as he thrust into you. “Wanna hear you scream for me and I split you open.”

Your cries filled the room with each slam of his hips, the sound of skin hitting skin the only other sound to be heard. Your fingers dug into the sheets, trying to ground yourself from the onslaught of his hips. “Mine,” you heard him growl. It was almost animalistic. As if to seal his claim, you cried out as you felt his teeth sink into your shoulder. The stinging pain of your shoulder combined with the feeling of his cock repeatedly dragging against your walls raw sent you over the edge and you came with a whimper, falling limp as he continued to fuck you.

More tears spilled as Joshua moved, his hips never faltering. “M’gonna fuck you so good,” he grunted. “Fuck you like you deserve. Fuck you until you’re full of nothing but my cum. Turn you into my own cum dumpster like the good little slut are.”

The sound of his almost angelic voice saying all those dirty things had your mind reeling as your second orgasm built up quickly, a low, deep moan escaping you as you came for a second time. “Such a good little girl,” he chuckled. His chest pressed against your back as he buried his cock fully inside you, pinning you to the mattress.

“You want that? You want me to fill you up? You want me to breed you?”

You moaned, hips pushing back against him, urging him to move again.

When he did it was fast and unforgiving. His thrusts were erratic. “Fuck,” he growled, his voice hitting a low you didn’t think possible. “Stay down,” he added, pinning you to the mattress as he pushed himself up with one hand. “Yeah,” he continued when you obeyed him. “Just like that.”

You felt his cock twitch and throb in your pussy, your walls fluttering around him as another orgasm washed over you. You’d lost count at this point how many you had but Joshua was nearing his own and you were left at his mercy as he chased his high, hips slamming into you as he growled and cursed in a language you didn’t understand.

As he finally started to come undone, he thrust once, twice, thrice more before burying his cock deep in your walls as he came, teeth sinking into your skin once more, marking you as thick ropes of his hot cum painted your walls and filled your cunt until it started to spill out.

You panted, breathing heavily against the sheets, ignoring the drool on your chin. Joshua shuddered as the last of his cum spilled into you. He let out one final groan before stilling completely. Your eyes fluttered shut as you heard him whisper into your ear but what he said you weren’t sure.

Everything faded to black.

You woke with a start and opened your eyes, sunlight filtering into your room and blinding you.

You groaned as you tried to roll over but your limbs were heavy and sore. It took more strength than usual to roll over. As you did, you caught sight of the alarm clock next to your bed but something was wrong.

It was on the opposite side. You lifted your head and stared at the alarm clock. The red numbers told you that it was just after nine in the morning. That was when you noticed the wall. It wasn’t your wall. You started to push yourself up, peering down at the sheets. They weren’t your sheets.

Just where the hell were you?

You sat up and looked around. This wasn’t your place.

Your gaze continued over the familiar surroundings but it wasn’t until it landed on a figure in the kitchen that everything clicked.

He smiled as he walked over carrying two plates and a mug of coffee.

You watched as he sat on the edge of bed, setting the coffee on the side table next to you before setting one of the plates in your lap. “Morning,” he said cheerfully, leaning in to kiss your cheek. “You seemed pretty tired last night,” he added. “So I let you sleep in.”

You looked around as you tried to process what waking up at his place meant. Did you two…?

Memories from the night before flashed before your eyes.

The demon in your room, showing up at Joshua’s place, the sex. You raised a hand up to your mouth as you realized what actually happened last night. You looked over at Joshua as he ate his own plate of pancakes. “Did we…?” you whispered looking up to meet his gaze. His eyes, which were brown, momentarily flashed red, and you knew instantly.

“We did indeed, doll,” he answered, returning his gaze to his plate.

“And you’re…?” Joshua nodded, looking up. “Yep. I’m a demon,” he answered nonchalantly.

“But I’m your demon,” he added. Your cheeks burned as he smirked at you.

“So I was thinking,” he continued to speak.

“Maybe we could move in together.”

You stared at him as he spoke. “I mean, since we’re bound to each other for eternity now, it just makes sense, you know?”

Your heart hammered in your chest, blood pounding in your ears. ‘Move in together?’

“And if we live together, we can have sex like every night.”

‘For eternity?’

“It would be perfect. It’s stupid for us to be apart anyway.”

You looked down at your plate as your pulse sped up.

‘What the hell have I done?’

ⓘ Graphics made by me. Content and support banners made using a template by cafekitsune. I do not allow reposts, translations, or continuations of my works. All writing and graphics are ©️ kwanisms.

[anantaru]

⚝ DAY 7 — MONSTERFUCKING/DRAGONCOCK

kinktober 2024. — masterlist | ao3

— including. — zhongli, neuvillette, capitano, childe

— warnings. — fem! reader, monsterfcking, size kink/size difference, oral (fem! receiving)

⚝ — ZHONGLI + dragon

across minds, there were scents of dust and gentle perfumes clashing together, with rough slaps and feisty grabs of flesh against zhongli's muscular hands as it only showed a fraction of what was going on between you two.

can you still call it love making though? be honest now, was it really something you'd consider to use the word love for?

because this, uh fuck, this was so much more fun and unrestrained, though you can barely feel yourself anymore despite really trying your best after round two, yet the man just didn't run out of stamina, even if he tried. his body was glowing, majestic and the connection he had to your body was profound— the flow of his hips moving through time and space, your body shivering and giving way to be held up by his bare arms and his pressure against you.

zhongli wanted this really badly, you know? he's been thinking about fucking your pretty pussy all day long that he even thought about fucking his hand for a little, however, while imagining it being your soft, wet cunt instead— well, you gotta understand him, okay? how dare you be so freaking busy all day, running around looking this fucking hot, no wonder his cock was fully meeting your insides now, moving almost in a dance as his tongue writhes with yours so tightly to his length fiecerly battering your walls.

a sense of overwhelming nakedness and lewdness cradle your skull as his expanded cock hits places within you, previously unknown, untouched yet now— he maked them his own, scraping across the skin, conquering, pounding you as the feeling of fullness brought pure elation to your soul.

⚝ — NEUVILLETTE + dragon

neuvillette's unparalleled beauty wasn't fully without warning, because he was a living embodiment of the sea's power— and wow, how he looks at you, touches and licks between your folds with his slicked tongue, truly outstanding.

it's long, flowing, as if he's motioning a deep wave of lust which resembled cascading waves, rippling with every subtle movement as you hump and smear your cunt across his lips, and his sharp, sharp yet graceful features— oh dear, you're in for it now, aren't you? not only that but they radiated an ethereal glow.

you feel yourself lusting for more of him, his erection to ram and destroy you, yet his monstrous tongue already felt as if it was too much— his wet muscle judging all with traces and filthy flicks that held the weight of oceans and storms against your skin and bones.

His presence was awe-inspiring, the air around your bodies seemingly shimmering of pheromones and sweat as if it couldn't quite contain the sheer majesty of his being. you let out a gasp upon holding his hair within your palm, yet you squirm again, all sprouting from a long, thick tongue grazing at your binding taste.

"oh, please, you’re right there," you whine, scream and cry, desperately bucking your hips against his tentacle like tongue, the pressure of his muscle still as insistent as ever. neuvillette continued to explore you with a reddened face, his usual stoic facade gone without a trace.

⚝ — CAPITANO + big monster

a big, scary monster, hm? you're so scared of capitano, yeah? oh no, don't be shy in admitting that you loved seeing him in this form, all scars on full display with your legs parted and waiting, pussy drenched in your juices and aching, yeah, aching to be fucked desperately until you cum all over him like the sweet n cute darling which you were to the harbinger.

he loved how you seemed so, hm, innocent in comparison to him which, well, wasn't that difficult to begin with, yet capitano went off on it— not only that but how you knew he was the strongest and that he was able to protect you from everything and anything, while also fucking your literal brains out every single night.

he fears any part of his cock leaving you, your warm, soft pussy and how well you fit around him.

you also try so hard all the time, attempting to fit all the inches at once while knowing fucking well you require some foreplay before he could even attempt to sink his tip inside. archons, you're close now, he can feel you shivering around his shaft, body quivering now with cold sweat, electric tingles on the insides of your thighs and too many sensations that you've ended up giving yourself to him entirely.

⚝ — CHILDE + foul legacy

childe flutters his gaze apart with his crimson eyes blazing with an intensity that matched the ferocity of his attacks in combat, the force of his hips not to be reckoned with as it resembled his fighting style— wild and unpredictable as your body was covered in thick waves of his cum, yet you didn’t want him to stop, and childe wouldn't want to reject anything his darling wanted, correct? you allowed him to fuck you harder, make it seen all over your face and neck and tits, your thumping chest and your shattering thighs grasping for tension.

it was an unbelievable sensation, without comparison, otherworldly and slimy and wet, but at the same time soft and gentle and comforting like he's wanting to make sure you remember he wouldn't hurt you, ever, not even with the sheer size in his pants.

the chaos he embraced in the bedroom left you out of breath with a staggering motion between your thighs as childe burned brightly, his big, strong arms holding you close with a passion that extended beyond the act. of course, there was no middle ground, not with him, not when he made you feel so alive and, well, unrestrained.

it was the confident in his thrusts, how he fucked you relentlessly with a big, fat grin on his face, yet when you let out a soft whine, wordlessly begging him to shove it deeper, much much deeper and stronger, he gives your nipples some attention at the very least before he decides to lick across one with his long, ripped tongue.

and well, would you look at that, how your body reacted to that was far more devious.

©2024 anantaru do not repost, copy, translate, modify

[stargirlygirl]

mated for life

werewolf!caleb x fem!reader

⭑.ᐟ 1k follower special

summary: tonight is a blood moon, the night when werewolves mate for life. back in your tiny town on break from college, you don't suspect anything to happen. but when the moon's mysterious glow draws you deep into the forest, you're in for a sharp-clawed treat.

contains: nsfw, smut, monsterfucking, knotting, unprotected sex (don't be like them!), p in v, oral (f!receiving), lowk primal kink, lowk dubcon (not really), about 8 pages of plot before porn (promise it's worth it), blood and biting, lowk yandere caleb, implied rutting, your bestie is a masc lesbian (and a werewolf), your dad died, caleb is also a mechanic, omegaverse-werewolf au fusion, sex on camera, 9.2k words

The buttery scent of pancakes wafts through the small house, luring you downstairs to the kitchen. Waltzing in, your mom is at the stove, flipping breakfast.

“Morning, Mom,” you say from behind her.

Turning around, she smiles at you warmly and responds, “Good morning, darling.” You set your tote bag down on the island bench.

“Need any help?” You offer.

She shakes her head and insists, “All good, baby. Take a seat. Breakfast will be ready soon.” Obedient, you pull out one of the bench’s stools, the legs scraping against the tiled floor. The sound makes you wince and sends chills spiralling throughout your system.

Sitting down, you prop your phone against the fruit bowl, turn on the camera, and start fixing your hair. But it refuses to be tamed. Ponytail, pigtails, half-up half-down, and you still look like you did when you were six. Grumbling, you decide on a low tail. Rat, it is today.

“Did you have a good sleep, love bug?” Your mother asks while plating the pancakes.

“Yeah, it was alright,” you say lazily while locking your phone and slipping it in your back pocket; the final syllable gets caught in a yawn. With a melodic chuckle, she sets down the steaming pancakes in front of you. They’re all funny-shaped, golden-brown and slathered in butter, making your cholesterol levels screech in terror. You’ve been so good lately, but a little treat won’t hurt, right?

The maple syrup clinks against the marble bench, alongside freshly cut strawberries and cookies and cream ice cream.

“Mom!” You exclaim as she dumps a spoonful of the cold creamy goodness on your plate.

“What?” She laughs. “You love ice cream and pancakes.”

“Mom,” you sigh. “You know, having this much sugar in the morning isn’t good for you. What if I crash out by midday?”

Filling the seat beside you and scooping out some ice cream for herself, she counters, “Consider it as your motivation for today.”

You grumble, “Fine,” while grabbing a handful of strawberry slices and dumping them on your pancakes; you’re confident they’ll make up for your lack of dietary discipline.

Your Mom has a mega sweet tooth. Always has and always will. She used to make you a breakfast like this almost every weekend when you were a kid. But as the years passed, life got busy, and so did she. The last time she went all out for you like this must have been a year ago, just before Dad died.

Ah, the ol’ man. You miss him. Not a day goes by that you don’t think of him, with his eccentric ways and big heart. You were always a daddy’s girl growing up. Every night, he would tell you a bedtime story. But instead of a fictional tale about glamorous princesses and heroic knights, he would tell you myths about werewolves.

But aren’t werewolves fictional? Your Dad sure didn’t think so. They were his life’s work. That’s why he moved here anyway, to your tiny town surrounded by dense woodland. He believed that they lurked amongst the townspeople and investigated several werewolf sightings and suspected activities during his career.

When he died, he left all of his precious journals and unfinished articles to you. He taught you everything you know about a supernatural entity you’re uncertain even exists. Mother says that Dad got too close to the source and was silenced, but you don’t believe that. It’s all some hokey-pokey bullshit to justify the death of a good man.

Mourning his loss brought you and Mom together, but it also tore you apart. And with the significance of tonight, the hairs on the back of your neck are standing up.

Her fork clinks against her plate as she says earnestly, “I want you to be careful when you go into town, alright? And especially when you come back tonight.”

“Mom, it’s just a blood moon,” you huff.

“Exactly. After your Dad died—”

“I know, I know. You can’t lose me. I can’t lose you either, okay?” You sigh, glancing over at her grim face. She stares at you, assessing the weight of your words before returning to her half-eaten pancakes. You do the same, gobbling them up, otherwise you’ll be late for your hangout.

Today, you’re seeing your best friend, Gwen, to get some footage for your film project due at the end of the summer holidays. You’re a year into your degree and have decided to take media production as a free elective this semester. And oh boy, what a mistake that was.

Don’t get me wrong, film-making, podcasting, and photography are cool. But you would rather have a thesis paper due then spend your time off filming shit and compiling it into a short piece.

Your theme is: the sublimity of the mundane. Not an enthralling choice, but you were not about to pick The cyclical nature of existence or The futility of infatuation. That second one, though, you could talk about. A little too much for your liking.

Licking your lips, you stand up and carry your plate to the sink. After quickly washing your hands and fixing your outfit, you grab your bag and run to the door.

“Bye, Mom!” You call as you lock the front door before hopping into your car and reversing out of the driveway.

You and Gwen meet at the heart of the town: the moon statue. The copper and bronze have long since oxidised, turning the monument a deep green. It’s a sight to behold, a wolf howling at the full moon. Pulling out your compact camera, you hit record and tape an eye-level shot of the statue. It’s mundane enough, right? Something beautiful that’s long since lost its shine. And yet, it possesses this magnetic quality.

Lowering your camera, your eyes are glued to the craters of the moon and the wolf’s curves. Unprompted, it calls to you, whispering incoherently in your ears. But you understand.

Do not turn away.

You can hear the wolf howling, its cry to the celestial body above. The pattering of paws on the soil, chasing unity as darkness consumes the land once more.

Mindlessly, you twirl the wolf pendant on your necklace between your fingers. It was given to you by your father on your 18th birthday— the age he said, when werewolves could discover their life-long mates and create everlasting bonds with them. You’d be lying if you said you’ve never thought about the guys your age in town who might be looking for their mate. And fantasised about someone specifically discovering that you’re theirs.

Your thoughts are interrupted by a poke to your shoulder. You gaze up and grin immediately.

“Gwen!” You throw yourself into her muscular arms, basking in her warmth. She giggles in your ear and hugs you tightly before drawing back.

Squeezing your upper arms, she grins, “Missed me, huh?” You shove her playfully, both of you laughing as you start walking along the main shopping strip.

“How’s college been?” She asks. You roll your eyes, making her laugh.

“Busy. But good. It’s just this assignment, you know? I’m actually cooked,” you admit.

She chuckles, “You’ll be fine, Y/n. Smartest girl I know.” You place your finger on your lips, shushing her as you narrowly avoid an elderly couple walking hand-in-hand.

“And you?” You prompt her. Gwen shrugs.

“Oh, come on! How’s your apprenticeship? How’s the shop?”

She huffs, “Same as always. Mr Ropen's car broke down last week—”

“Again?!” You ask in shock. She nods, smirking. You two veer into the local organic café.

Stepping inside, the AC blows cool air over you, providing sweet relief from the hot summer air. You whip out your camera and start recording the food display window and the staff at work.

Gwen stands behind you, sighing, “I told him to give up on it, but he’s a stubborn ol’ codger, ya know?”

You giggle, “I know.” The movement shakes the video a little, so you stop recording and slot your camera back in your pocket. You two waltz up to the counter and peruse the menu, only to order the exact same thing as always.

“A double espresso caramel frappé for me and an iced mocha for the lady,” Gwen winks at the worker on the till.

“Gwen,” you bemoan as she taps her card all cocky. The staff member doesn’t even bat an eyelash as your bestie wraps her arm around your shoulders and leads you over to the little table in the corner by the window; the one you two sit at whenever you come here.

She insists that you sit down while she attends to the drinks, walking away before you have time to protest. Sighing, you scoot closer to the little round table and gaze out the window.

The sun glints off car roofs and the jewellery of passersby. You see familiar faces, like your eighth-grade English teacher, and Gwen’s ex-girlfriend (one of them anyway), as well as unfamiliar faces. It’s been almost a year since you’ve been back here. The last time you returned, it was for your father’s funeral and to support your mother afterwards.

The cloudless sky hunts down your gloominess, vanquishing it as Gwen returns with your mocha in hand.

“Thanks, babe,” you say teasingly.

She grins across from you, “You're welcome, princess.” Taking a sip from your paper straw, you’re met with sugary bliss. You moan in pleasure, giving her twinkling eyes and paying compliments to the chef.

You two chat about life for a while: getting older, inflation, your latest obsessions. Your particularly animated speech about your latest TV show is interrupted by Gwen’s blaring ringtone.

“Sorry,” she apologises as she answers the call. On the other end, you make out that deep rumble you’ve been trying not to think about.

“Fuck off, Caleb. It’s my day off. I told you not to bother me,” your friend snaps.

The awkwardness sets in as you start looking around, attempting to give her some privacy but also yearning to hear Caleb’s voice. Pulling out your camera, you start filming your empty cups and pan to a view of the café.

All the while, Gwen spits out, “You’re not my alph— boss. You’re not my boss, Caleb, so get fucked.” Clearing your throat, you press the stop button and place your camera on the table. You prop it up and hope that the lens is focused on you before hitting record again.

“No! I don’t care if you told the client it would be done by tomorrow. I’m not coming in!” She abruptly stands up, and your eyes go wide seeing Gwen’s rapidly heaving chest. Her chair clanks on the floor, drawing the patrons’ curious eyes as she gives you a look before heading outside.

Several minutes pass before your best friend returns, and she seems positively peeved.

Plonking down in her chair (which you picked up while she was gone), she runs her hand down her face as she grumbles, “Sorry, babe. Caleb’s got a stick up his ass today. I gotta head to the shop ‘n finish up on an ignition coil change. D’you wanna come?”

“Will he be there?” You ask, nervous for her answer.

She groans, “’Course he will, fuckin’ prick.” Chuckling forcedly, you agree to accompany her to the shop.

It’s a quick walk back to your cars, and you tail her through the few streets of your small town. As Xia Automotive comes into view, you’re positive your soul has ascended. You should be thrilled to finally see him, the man you’ve had a crush on since you were 12 years old. Instead, dread pools in your tummy.

Entering the driveway, you park in the back corner. Cutting the engine, you throw your keys on the dash as you mentally prepare for what’s about to happen.

Allow me to clarify, nothing’s happened between you and Caleb.

And that’s the problem.

You’ve been in love with him for years now, but it’s always been one-sided (or so you think). Every time he’s ever acknowledged your presence (eleven times; every single one is recorded in your diary), it was in this older brother manner. And fair enough, he is a few years your senior. But you’re not a little girl anymore. You’re a young woman and you have womanly needs.

Leaving town for college wasn’t only about pursuing a career, but also about getting some breathing room from your parents and Caleb. Moving away gave you the chance to re-evaluate your feelings for him and release them. However, that wasn’t as effective as you were hoping it to be.

You’ve never met a man who rivals Caleb. To you, they merely lurk in his shadow. And it’s not just you. Much of the town’s young ladies loooooooovvve Caleb. He’s so charismatic and friendly. He has this way of making you feel like you’re the only one whenever you’re with him; it’s intoxicating. And obviously, he’s the most handsome hunk around.

There’s just one more problem: Caleb’s strictly celibate. You might be thinking, a man like that? There’s no way. But as far as you know, he’s never… been around, if you know what I mean. No dating, no girlfriends, no hook-ups, nothing. Not for a lack of admirers, but because he claims that he’s simply waiting for the right person.

Bullshit.

“Remember, Y/n. He’s gay,” you say to yourself with your eyes closed, hyping yourself up.

“He’s definitely gay. 110% gay, but in the closet. And he thinks you’re a weirdo.” You add that last part for a confidence boost. Opening your eyes, you gaze at yourself in the rearview mirror with renewed vigour.

“He’s gay,” you murmur with the finality of an affirmation.

Stepping out of your car, you walk over to the shop’s front and duck inside the garage. There are a couple of cars on hoists, while others are missing bumpers or car doors. Avoiding the myriad of tools and tyres, you find Gwen.

She’s in the cramped office, going off her nut at—

“You fuckin’ asshole!” She yells while slamming the door open. Storming over to you, she pulls you into her side and squishes your cheeks together. It’s too late to run now. Out walks Caleb. A furrow in his brow, sweat dripping down his soot-covered arms, black tank and straight cut jeans that cling to his meaty thighs.

You can’t stop your eyes from trailing over his delicious form as your bestie shouts, “Look who I was hanging out with! You interrupted our romantic date!”

Caleb scoffs, “Please, Gwen. Like you’re her type.” He folds his arms across his chest, muscles flexing as he grits his teeth (you almost drool). Those sleep-deprived eyes rest on you, drinking you in as much as you did him. You feel hot beneath his gaze, the blood rising to your cheeks despite your efforts to will it away. The last thing you want is to look like a red-faced loser in front of your crush!

Gwen almost growls, “I could be.”

“Gwen!” You squeak.

Her callused fingers press harder into your cheeks as she snickers, “Don’t forget, Caleb. We’re best friends. There’s nothing we don’t know about each other.” Leaning down, she nudges your temple with her nose, grinning widely. The sight makes the vein in Caleb’s jaw pop. He’s clenching his teeth so hard that you think for a moment you can hear them grating against each other.

“Gwen,” you whine. The sound is needy, erotic, almost. It makes Caleb’s eyes widen. Only he should be making you elicit those kinds of sounds—

“You proved your point, okay! You’re super hot!” Chuckling throatily, your best friend releases you. You stumble forward, but catch yourself quickly. The way Caleb steps closer reflexively doesn’t go unnoticed.

Gwen ruffles your hair as she beams, “Why don’t you tell Caleb about how we used to shower together?”

“Gwen!!” You shriek, certain that your face is so red you could tell people you just ran a marathon.

Caleb’s voice booms over the buzzing of drills and clattering of ratchets as he commands, “Go to your station, Gwendolyn.” Ouch.

“Tch. Whatever,” she grumbles, trudging off to a beat-up blue car nearby.

For a long moment, you avoid Caleb’s piercing gaze. He’s gay, he thinks you’re a weirdo, he’s gay, he thinks you’re a weirdo, you repeat in your mind.

You flinch as he says sternly, “Is that true?” Gazing up at him, you blink dumbly.

“What? Oh, uh, well, yeah. I mean, like, we um showered together when we were kids, yeah,” you reply sheepishly. If Caleb didn’t think you were a weirdo before this, he must think you’re one now.

He presses on with, “Just when you were kids?”

You laugh awkwardly, “Well, duh, like, we’re not… involved if that’s what you’re thinking.” Caleb nods, analysing your words while scrutinising your behaviour. How you shift uncomfortably on your feet and gnaw at your lower lip. That drives him up the wall, especially with the blood moon tonight. Finally, he huffs, his shoulders slumping and features relaxing as he draws closer to you.

He seems to be back to his usual self as he remarks, “I didn’t know you were back in town.”

“Yeah,” you mumble, rubbing your neck as you glance down at your feet.

“Miss me?” He jokes. But it’s not really a joke, neither to you nor to him.

“Of course I missed you,” you respond with a little too much sincerity. You hope it goes over his head (and unfortunately for you, it doesn’t).

Fidgeting with your wolf pendant, you say nervously, “I should, uh, let you get back to work. You seem really busy.” Caleb shakes his head, shifting even closer to you. There’s barely a hair’s breadth between your bodies now, making your heart race.

“You've been okay?” He asks, concerned. His hand raises, long fingers just touching a loose strand of your hair.

“You look a bit tired,” he states. Pulling back, you don’t miss the hurt flickering in his violet eyes.

You brush it off with, “I could say the same about you.” The crease in his brow returns as his hand drops to his side.

“What’s with the attitude?” He counters, an undercurrent of annoyance in his tone. You shake your head and avert your eyes to the office behind him. Pin board with paperwork, cluttered desk— Caleb moves to the side, blocking your view of the private room and filling it with himself instead.

You bluff, “There’s no attitude. I just don’t wanna bother you. Like, we’re not even friends, you know?”

“Can you even hear yourself right now?” He retorts, jaw tight.

Meeting his harsh gaze, you mumble, “What?”

“We’re not even friends? Is that what you think?” He reaches out and grabs your upper arm, squeezing the fat and muscle firmly in his rough palms.

“Caleb—”

“Forget it.” He lets go of you as quickly as he took hold of you and moves back, putting much-needed distance between you two.

He sighs, pissed off with himself, “I’m sorry, pips. Just had a hard day. Why don’t I order you some takeout? It’s already one.”

“Oh, no, that’s okay,” you try to convince him, waving your hands in a dismissive gesture. But it doesn’t get through as he whips out his phone and starts dialling your favourite noodle place (there’s only one in town). He orders your favourite, unprompted and recited from memory (one conversation you had when you were in ninth grade and were asking him to show you how to use chopsticks properly). Flashing you a captivating grin, he leaves you to your own devices as he resumes fitting a new car door.

You dart over to Gwen and scold her for making you two look like a couple in front of Caleb. But she doesn’t apologise. Instead, she rambles about how much of dick he is until your food arrives. The delivery driver drops it off by the front counter, and you pick it up from the receptionist.

Heading back over to your best friend, she grumbles, “How come you get to eat and I don’t?”

You giggle, “’Cause you’re working.”

“Mouthy shit.” That makes you laugh harder.

The rest of the afternoon goes by smoothly. After enjoying your takeout, you bid Gwen adieu and even stop briefly to say goodbye to Caleb and his Dad, who’s the head mechanic and owner of the shop. Next, you drive around town, stopping at all of the spots you think are worthy of being filmed for your project. You even snag a still of the sunset over the trees from a nearby lookout point.

By the time you return home, it’s dark out and you’re absolutely exhausted. Taking off your outside clothes, you flop down on your bed before groaning about showering.

The night is balmy, heat sticking to your freshly cleaned and moisturised skin as you pull on your sleep shorts and a tank top. You feel uncomfortable, suffocated, even as your ceiling fan cooks you like a chicken in a fan-forced oven.

As the sky gets even darker, the humidity shows no signs of letting up. It’s around 8pm when you decide to record an update for your short film. You turn your drawers inside out and search your day clothes anxiously for your camera. Sighing, you grab your car keys and make your way downstairs, reasoning that you must have left it in your car earlier. You slip on your slides before heading out.

Unlocking your car, it doesn’t take long to find your lost possession (it was in the glovebox). Straightening up, you lock your vehicle and start walking back to the house when you see it.

High in the sky, shimmering like a ruby… or a pearl dipped in blood. The moon, a total lunar eclipse. It takes your breath away. Magical. Your hands move on their own, pressing record and holding the camera up to capture the natural wonder gazing down upon you. It calls to you, something buried, primal.

Come closer, child.

You obey mindlessly, like an angel to God’s commands. Your feet carry you into the woods beside your house, through the shadowy shrubbery with no map. Your heart pounds in your chest, the rushing of blood deafeningly loud in your ears as you avoid trees and duck beneath branches.

Holding your camera steady, you film your journey into the wilderness. You seem to know the way; some ancient knowledge awakens and guides you to the moon. Time seems to stop as the woodland chatter surrounds you, the crickets’ croaking and occasional hoots not instilling the fear inside you that they should be.

Soon, you reach a small clearing. It’s not even a clearing, more like a small circle of unoccupied grass in the midst of thriving vegetation. You stand there, camera facing skyward as you zoom in on the celestial body above. The stars decorate the black sky, but their light is inferior to the central glowing beauty.

The animals’ buzz quietens, near silence rippling throughout your surroundings before you hear it. Twigs snapping and the violent rustling of shrubs. You have no time to react before it’s upon you.

Fur, brown fur, you make out in the dim moonlight. But such a discovery is marred by your screams as it slams into you, sending you to the ground as sharp teeth sink into your neck.

Blood, your blood, coating its muzzle as it rears back. In a frenzy, the creature bites you again and again. Its teeth carve its mark into your neck and collarbones before trailing down one arm. The woodland hum picks back up, loud but not loud enough to mask your cries of pain.

Rich, purple eyes lock on yours as it chomps on your bicep. Your very life force forms a ring around its gums and trickles down those sharp canines as it lets up.

“A-ah,” you groan, tears rolling down your cheek as it stares at you, long pink tongue lapping at your spilled blood.

It growls, like it’s defending its territory. Your sorrow obscures your vision, but make no mistake. It’s clear what creature has attacked you.

A werewolf.

Dipping its head, the wolf licks up your arm and décolletage, not letting one drop of blood go to waste. Pain throbs throughout your entire being, yet the repetitive lapping of your wounds is soothing, almost like it’s cleaning them. How considerate.

The creature paws at your tank top, sharp claws tearing it to shreds. You scream as the hot air hits your exposed skin, some of your most prized possessions on show. Your arms shoot up to your chest and cover your breasts, but the wolf doesn’t like that. It growls at you, teeth bared and red drool dripping from the corners of its mouth.

You shake your head frantically, but it doesn’t care. The werewolf nuzzles your crossed arms, eventually pushing them aside before licking your breasts. It laps at your nipples, switching from one tit to the other indecisively. You push at its broad shoulders, only to find a solid wall of muscle and soft fuzz.

“Please!” You cry out as it nips on the fat of your breast, drawing blood. Grabbing its head, you attempt to push it off, but to no avail. Those wild eyes gaze up at you, observing your every reaction.

Shifting to your other breast, it bites again, but more gently. Your breath catches in your throat, only a red mark left behind while crimson trickles down your other nipple. You wriggle beneath the werewolf’s large body, trying to escape. Noticing your efforts, the beast drops its weight onto you, keeping your legs and hips in place.

Its searing mouth closes around your small bud, and you scream, waiting for it to bite your nipple off. But instead, the werewolf rolls its tongue around it. And for a second, it almost feels… good.

In your anaemic daze, you’ve convinced yourself that this is pleasurable. Pathetic. But, as the creature sucks on your sensitive peak, a moan is torn from your throat. The sound echoes throughout the night, so breathy and desperate, you’re unsure if it was yours.

Right now, the ecstasy coursing through your veins feels pretty real.

Those razor-sharp claws scrape down the smooth skin of your tummy. The wolf is careful not to scratch you, the sensations instead adding to your growing panting and muffled whines. No longer are you pushing it off. Now, you’re pulling it closer, scratching beneath its pointed ears.

The creature pulls off your tit and shakes its head from side to side, like a dog does when it sneezes. The gesture makes you giggle a little.

All of the fear you’d been feeling is swiftly melting into liquid heat, swishing about your limbs and draining to your cunt. Again, you scratch its ears, making the werewolf purr. It’s a low, rumbling sound emanating from its chest. The hum puts you at ease while you stare into its galaxy eyes. Your body eases into the grass, and your breathing stabilises as a silly idea comes to mind.

The werewolf’s eyes are just like Caleb’s. Deep and dazzling. You’re curious what would happen if you called it his name. Would the creature know what you’re saying? How would it respond, if it responded at all? Does the creature already have a name?

It leans forward, its furry chest against your soft, bloodied one as it nuzzles your cheek. The werewolf’s purr resonates with your heart, the vibrations reverberating throughout your body. It licks your cheek, and you cup its muzzle as you laugh. Turning your head, it licks your lips.

“Did you just kiss me?” You ask it, not really expecting a response. But the wolf makes a noise, which you assume to mean ‘yes’ as it laps at your lips again.

You stroke its head, your fingers running through its mane. The wolf’s purr grows louder as it begins licking your neck again. You wince, fingertips pressing into its shoulder blades as its hot tongue makes contact with its bite marks.

Back down your body, the werewolf laps and carefully nibbles. Each time its teeth make contact with your delicate flesh, you cry out in pleasure, not pain. As the creature reaches your hips and rips off your shorts, you’ve never felt more self-conscious. Your thighs squish together, teddy bear panties not safe from the wolf’s hunger.

It grabs your knees and separates them, the power of its grasp demanding compliance. The werewolf lifts one of your legs and brings your calf to its snout. You’re expecting another cautious lap of its tongue, but instead, it bites down hard into your muscle. You scream, body recoiling, but its grip is vice-like, keeping you right there to satiate itself.

“Please stop! It hurts!” You wail, a new batch of tears welling in your eyes. It pulls off your flesh and licks the wound before travelling down to your inner thigh. There, it etches its teeth into your soft flesh again, but briefly this time. You sob as the wolf looks up at you. For a second, you think you see a crease in its brow, dissatisfaction on its face at your agony. It prods at your fat with its wet nose affectionately before reaching your most sensitive spot.

Moments pass as you stare at each other. Your heart thumps in your throat, and you wipe your eyes, but more tears come. You’re sure it didn’t mean any harm; it’s just marking what belongs to it. But still, the pain is insufferable.

The werewolf maintains eye contact as it leans down, damp nose on your cute cotton panties. It takes a whiff, pupils dilating slightly from your intoxicating scent. Shamelessly, the creature sniffs up and down your clothed cunt, nose tip pressing into the growing wet patch at your entrance.

You can’t help it! If you could, then you would, but once again, your anguish is transforming into burning desire.

The wolf licks up your panties, tasting your arousal through the flimsy fabric. Its tongue is so wet and spit spills from its mouth, ecstatic to be intimate with you; your underwear turns translucent. The werewolf is content to lap at your covered pussy for a short while… until it yearns for more.

You shudder as its claw cuts through the fabric. Pulling your ruined panties off, you gasp, your cunt bare to the creature. Your slick glistens beneath the blood moon, pussy so perfect in the glowing light. The werewolf gazes at you hungrily, eyes asking for consent. You nod, and that’s all it needs to dive in.

Your back arches as you scream, your hands flying down to grab at its long fur. The pleasure is unreal. Completely blinding, you can barely keep your eyes open as the wolf’s nose bumps your clit before it licks and sucks the little nub.

If someone told you three hours ago that you would be trusting your most private parts to a werewolf, you would have made fun of them for how insane they are. But now that you are, you wouldn’t have made any other choice. Do you belong in a mental asylum? Probably. But, do you belong here? Right now? Beneath this hungry beast devouring your cunt like it's the finest meal the creature has had in days? Absolutely.

Its tongue slips into your hole, and you swear you’re delusional. There is no way you’re not dreaming. But as your head lolls to the side, you catch a glimpse of your compact camera. That’s right! You must have dropped it when the werewolf body slammed into you.

Forcing your eyes to stay open for more than two seconds is no easy feat, but you manage to do so long enough to realise that the lens is facing you and the rather lewd undertakings you’re engaging in. Now, that’s two things you weren’t expecting to add to and cross off your bucket list. 1) Have sex with a werewolf and 2) record yourself having sex (with a werewolf). Your damn camera better be recording all of this or—

“F-fuck!” You moan, your hips bucking into the creature’s ravenous mouth. It doesn’t fatigue, too caught up in the bliss of consuming your slippery cunt.

The wolf keeps licking and sucking and fucking your hole with its tongue and repeating the entire cycle over and over until you’re screaming, “’M gonna cum! ‘M cumming!” And cum you do.

Never before have you experienced such an intense orgasm. The pleasure spasms throughout your body, making you shake on the werewolf’s tongue as you finish all over its face. It growls and groans into your fluttering pussy, licking up your juices like they’re the sweetest nectar. The wolf doesn’t stop until you’re begging it to from overstimulation.

“Please! Please, please, it’s too much,” you whimper, trying to scoot away from the beast. But it holds you steadily in place, not allowing you to move an inch away from its hungry tongue.

You cry out while pulling on its ears, “Please! Please! You’re hurting me.” The werewolf seems to sober up. It draws back, muzzle soaked in your slick and glancing up at you. You shiver as its tongue, the tongue that was just inside of you, darts across its snout to clean itself up.

The creature climbs back up your body, taking a moment to suck on your tits before nuzzling your jaw tenderly. You pat its head and scratch its ears lightly as a reward.

“That felt really good,” you pant, your noses bumping together. Its chest heaves, sticky-warm exhales fanning across your face. That heavenly tongue licks your lips, effectively distracting you from its paw pumping its canine cock. The other grabs at your thighs and hooks one leg over its hip. Your spine curves as a guttural moan is torn from your throat at the sensation of his tip running up your slit.

Wrapping one arm around its shoulders, you gaze down, your forehead bopping its snout. You can make out its girthy cock in the shadows, and promptly realise that the werewolf is not an ‘it’ but a ‘him’. He circles your swollen clit with his angular tip, making you whimper at the sensitivity. It’s painful, but addictive at the same time.

Lying back, you cup the creature’s face with your free hand and murmur, “I want this. I want you. Please.” You cry out as his head pushes inside your tight hole. He growls, the sound carnal as he slides further in. You can feel every vein and ridge rubbing against your gummy walls. The way his cock slims and then curves out takes you by surprise. Your moans are uncontrollable as you reach the fattest part, and then it tapers toward the base.

The werewolf nuzzles your temple with his nose, just like your friend did to you earlier today. Her affection was innocent, but his was claiming. It's a gentle gesture, but with how his cock keeps sliding in, it feels like he’s conquering your body and soul.

Bottoming out is a blessing, because if he was any longer, you would have been severely fucked. But oops, you’re still going to be. And you realise as much when he starts rutting into you. No buildup to the main event, he’s fucking you at a brutal pace with considerably brutal force. His hips force every breath out of your lungs. He pummels you into the grass, fucking you so hard you could dig yourselves into a hole.

Those twilight eyes stare at you, and the werewolf groans, “Sorry.” It’s barely comprehensible, the syllables slurred and rough, like it got stuck in his throat on the way out. But you understand just fine.

The squelching of your sex rings throughout the night, joining the choir of chirps and buzzing from all around you. Natural, that’s what this feels like.

Between your incoherent whines and moans, you register that not only are you fucking a werewolf, you’re fucking a werewolf during a blood moon. Meaning, you’re not only fucking, but you’re mating, for life. However, the werewolf is no stranger. He’s familiar and as warm as you always hoped he would be.

You gasp, “Caleb!” after a particularly rough thrust. Those violets widen, and he stops, his jaw slackening as he stares at you like a mad woman. Moaning, you wiggle your hips, desperate and proud of it for his cock. He shakes his head and licks your lips; a loving kiss.

You mewl, “Caleb, it’s okay. I… I want you to keep going.” He gazes at you for another moment, his cock throbbing inside your snug cunt. You moan, feeling his pre dripping into you.

“Please,” you whine. He drops his head and rests it in the bitten crook of your neck before resuming his back-breaking thrusts. Your legs tighten around his hips, ankle digging into the dimples above his ass to keep most of his length inside.

He grunts against your skin, claws digging into the ground beside your head and tearing up the shrubs. You’re sweating, his body insulating yours and making your skin all sticky. Your fingers tug at his soft brown fur, anchoring yourself to this plane of existence as your release nears. His pelvis knocks your clit, making you jolt in pleasure.

“Please, Caleb! Right there, baby,” you whimper, your body starting to shake from exertion and blood loss. He lifts up, one hand snaking down between your bodies to circle your needy bud. Even if Caleb can’t fuck you gently right now, he remains careful when rubbing your clit, ensuring his claws don’t snag on your delicate folds. It only takes a few more tight circles until you’re falling over the edge into sweet oblivion.

Screams and cries of pleasure pour forth from your pink lips, unrecognisable as yours but distinctively erotic. And as soon as you’re cumming, Caleb’s cumming, too.

His knot swells rapidly, locking your bodies together as he spills bucket loads of white hot release into you. It fills your womb, making it impossible for you not to get pregnant (or at least he hopes so). Growls rip out of his chest, interjecting a residual purr.

The moon bears witness to the consummation of your mate bond, sealing it in blood and cum (what a mix). The hot air sears your damp skin. You’re burning up beneath Caleb as he collapses on top of you, muscular arms tight around your smaller frame. His heart beats as rapidly as yours, together, in sync. It keeps you tethered through the ecstasy-induced delirium.

Your injuries are catching up to you. It’s clear like the obsidian sky above as Caleb feels your hold on him weakening. Driven by his own insatiable hunger, he wants to go again and again until sunrise. But you’re losing consciousness. And he can’t talk right now. So he chooses the next best option and licks your cheek.

You giggle quietly, the sound airy and concerning. He draws back, paws on either side of your face as he gazes at you worriedly. You’ve got this blissed out smile on your lips as you encircle his wrist with your fingers. His cock twitches inside of you, making you moan softly.

“I love you,” you sigh, your eyes closing from exhaustion. Oh, how he wishes he could return your words! But he can’t, not on a night like this, when his animal instincts are at an all-time high.

The last thing you hear is a hushed whimper from your werewolf. It pulls on your heartstrings, sparking a yearning within to kiss his pain better. Feeling heavy, you drift off into a dreamless slumber.

…˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚…

Warmth. Your hand is warm. No, your hand is hot; it’s **the rest of your body that is warm. The ground beneath you is soft, moulding to your curves, like a mattress. Birds chirp in the distance, and a pillow cushions your head. Your pillow, you can tell by the silk case.

Groaning, you roll onto your back; whatever was keeping your hand blazingly hot is absent now. There’s a dull ache spreading throughout your body, throbbing like you got hit by a truck. Or worse.

Memories of last night fill your mind. Fragments of the blood moon and the werewolf attacking you surface and morph into desperate, forbidden sex. It-it couldn’t be real. You’re in complete denial, despite the pain you’re in. Because there’s just no way you fucked a werewolf. AND there is certainly no way you fucked a werewolf who you thought was Caleb.

Fluttering your eyes open, you sincerely hope that all of that was a dream. But as you try to sit up, reality crashes down upon you.

“No, don’t move.” You groan in confusion as you’re gently pushed back down on the bed by your shoulders, a swathe of brown hair clouding your vision.

“Caleb,” you croak out. He cringes at how hoarse you sound. Pulling back slightly, you two stare at each other. His tired eyes swim with anguish and concern, while you’re certain yours are filled with confusion.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he murmurs, “How’re you feeling, pips?”

“Sore,” you admit. He nods, guilt weighing on his conscience. Leaning over, he grabs a cup of water from your nightstand and helps prop you up enough to drink it. The crystal liquid is cool; it soothes your parched vocal cords and replenishes some of your strength. He sets the cup down as you lie back and glance around your room. It looks exactly how it did when you left last night.

You ask confused, “What happened last night? Why’re you here?” Panic flickers across Caleb’s handsome face, but it’s long gone before you can mention it.

He clears his throat before answering with a question of his own, “How much do you remember?”

You laugh dryly, averting your eyes to the fluffy blankets covering your body, “Too much.”

Caleb commands you, “Tell me.” Your brow creases as you try to sit upright again, but he holds you down once more.

“Can’t you tell me like this?” His tone isn’t as harsh this time. You sigh, giving up on your futile attempt at autonomy. With one hand, you lift the cosy blanket just enough to see the bandages peeking out of your haphazardly thrown-on night gown. Last night really did happen then, huh?

“I, uh, got lost,” you say, avoiding his gaze.

Caleb scoffs, “You got lost?”

You grumble, “What’s it to you? And you didn’t even answer my initial question. Why are you here?” Side-eyeing him, you catch how he rolls his eyes and his shoulders tense up.

He sighs, “Are you always this stubborn?”

“Caleb,” you groan. You two have never fought before. There’s never been a cause to, unless you count the disagreement you had at the shop yesterday. But even this didn’t feel like a fight, more like you two dodging around something you both remember. But there’s no way he knows what you were up to. Or should I say who? That couldn’t have been him, could it?

The werewolf had responded fondly to the name, but… But what?

Recalling your mantra (he thinks you’re a weirdo), you gather up the confidence to ask, “Was that really you last night?” You two gaze at each other for a long moment, assessing whether to come out and say it or continue beating around the bush.

He gulps, “So you remember then? What happened between us?” You nod, rendered speechless as you process the very real fact that 1) Caleb is a werewolf and 2) you’re mated to him for life.

Before he can say anything else, you chime in, “But I don’t understand. Why did you bite me? Why did you… do that with me?” He shakes his head, elbows on his knees, as he looks away to compose himself. His father is going to skin him alive once he finds out what Caleb did with you last night. But it’s worth it, because now, Caleb’s golden girl belongs to him.

“You’re my mate, always have been,” he finally shrugs, still averting his eyes to the ‘bewitching’ carpet. A quiet descends upon the room as you wait for him to continue, but Caleb is hellbent on doing literally anything else.

You ask, “How long have you known?”

He chuckles, but there’s no real joy behind it, “I’ve always had a feeling, but I didn’t know until you turned 18.” Meeting your eyes again, he explains, “Both mates have to be 18 before the bond is recognised. It protects both parties in situations like ours.”

“Oh,” you mumble. But then—

“Why didn’t you say anything?” You frown.

“Say anything?!” Caleb echoes. “What was I supposed to say? ‘Hey honey, by the way, I’m a werewolf and we’re destined for each other’?”

“That’s not what I mean,” you mutter while shaking your head. “You could have gotten closer to me. Texted me or something to make it more reasonable.”

“Reasonable?! What? Is our bond not reasonable to you?” He counters angrily. He’s never acted like this with you before.

Your voice is small as you say, “It’s so sudden. I didn’t expect you to reciprocate my feelings, is all. You could have clued me in earlier, is what I’m trying to say.” Seeing the way you shrink into your blankets, his heart pangs. All of his frustration dissipates as he turns to face you, one hand reaching out to rest over your heart beneath the covers.

“I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t mean to scare you. I just… It’s just hard for me to control my emotions right now, okay?” He stares at you with puppy eyes, seconds away from getting down on his knees to beg for your forgiveness.

He continues in the same sorrowful tone, “But that’s not an excuse, I know. You’re right, I should have been more direct with you when I found out.”

“Why didn’t you? I mean, surely, you must know how I feel about you?” You pout. Caleb shifts closer, his hand on your chest now holding your cheek.

He explains, “I didn’t want to intrude on your life. You had so much going on at the time, with your Dad passing away and heading off to college.”

You accuse him, “So you let me suffer alone?”

“No! That’s not— Pipsqueak, I would never. You had Gwen. Throw me into the mix and it would have been too much.” Caleb’s breathing shallows, his heart thumping heavily in his chest.

He reassures you, “But I was always around, honey. Almost every night when you were still here, I was watching over you.” That seems to have the opposite effect of calming.

“You were watching me?!” You exclaim.

Caleb groans, hyper-aware of the hole he’s digging himself into, “No! Well, yes, but it was for your own safety.” More like for soothing his anxiety, but close enough, right? You stare at him, unsure of how to proceed with this new information.

“That’s how your father got into trouble,” he says earnestly.

“What? What does any of this have to do with my Dad?” You ask, pitch rising as your nerves do.

Shit! Caleb’s always been so good at concealing things, but now that you’re here, he’s incredibly awful at it.

He rubs the back of his neck with his free hand as he starts explaining, “He knew I was watching you. I knew he knew. And when I didn’t show on the blood moon, he came looking for me—” He stops abruptly, contemplating whether to continue telling this story.

You wrap your fingers around his wrist, just like you did last night, while gazing at him with serious eyes.

You say sombrely, “Please. If you know what happened to him, then please tell me.”

Your mate sighs, “Pips—”

“Please, Caleb! Please,” you insist.

His Adam’s apple bobs before he leans back and continues, “We were partway through a ritual when he stumbled upon us. I tried to reason with the elders, but they wouldn’t listen. The rumours surrounding our town are bad enough. If anyone found out about what we are, you can imagine the kind of damage it could do.”

“And, so you killed him,” you conclude, a lump forming in your throat.

Caleb’s eyes widen as he exclaims, “No! I mean, I didn’t kill him, no.”

“But, the elders. They decided his fate,” you choke out, tears bubbling along your waterline.

His shoulders slump as he murmurs, “Your dad was unshakeable once he got a lead, you know that, pips. If the elders didn’t do something, our secret would have been out by dawn. I don’t support their decision, but it’s justifiable.” You can’t hold back your cries any longer. They spew forth, ugly and burning hot.

“Honey,” your mate coos. He shifts forward, lying down beside you and embracing you tightly. You want to push him away, be angry at him for something, anything! But all you crave is his strong arms and broad chest as you mourn. It hurts, moving around, but you don’t care. It’s nothing compared to the pain your father must have felt in his final moments. To be killed by what he loved the most: werewolves.

And you’re mated to one of all things.

You sob, “A-are you goin-going to kil-kill me, too?”

Caleb shakes his head and mumbles in your matted hair, “’Course not, pips. You’re my mate.”

“How-how is t-that any dif-different?” You cry, but you already know the answer. Your Dad taught you just how sacred a werewolf’s mate is to them.

“You know just how different it is,” he remarks quietly. Drawing back, Caleb cups the back of your head and turns you to face him.

Staring into your bleary eyes, he says tenderly, “We’re going to be together forever. And as much as I’d like to keep secrets from you, I won’t be able to anymore.” Leaning forward, he kisses your forehead. The sensation of his lips on your skin calms you like no deep breathing ever has. It’s almost instant, the slowing of your cries into sniffles. You bury your face in his chest, basking in his woodsy-car grease scent, and was that a hint of—

“Apples?” You mumble, tears dripping onto your lips. Your mate gazes down at you, concerned.

“What was that, pips?”

“Apples,” you repeat. “You smell like apples.” A lazy grin spreads across his lips, and he tugs you even closer. You melt into his heat and security, confident that it was him holding your hand while you were sleeping.

After a few minutes, you’re feeling much better. The pain surrounding your father’s death is still very much there; it was an unfortunate situation no one wins in. But you feel capable of dealing with it.

Shifting in his arms, you tilt your head back and ask, “Where’s Mom?”

“I told her I’d take care of you, so she went to work,” he responds. Inching closer, he brushes his nose against yours. But it’s not all wet like last time. It's notably dry, and the gesture is soothing.

“Pips,” he almost whispers.

“Mhmm,” you hum, closing your eyes and just enjoying the feeling of being so intimate with someone you’ve had heart eyes for, for a long time.

“I’m sorry that I didn’t give you a choice last night. So I’m going to give you one now,” he says sincerely. You open your eyes and stare back at him, taking note of the anxiety pooling in his sunset eyes.

“Do you accept me as your mate?” The question hangs in the air for a few seconds. You don’t even need to think about your answer, but you wait momentarily to build suspense.

Giggling at the slight furrow in his brow, you nod, “I’ll always accept you, Caleb. Werewolf and all.” He almost tears up at your sweet words. That’s all he’s ever wanted to hear.

Unable to contain himself, your mate captures your unsuspecting lips in his. You squeal into his mouth as your eyes rival the size of saucers. It only takes a moment before you’re melting into his kiss, your hands tangling in his dishevelled locks while his bunch up the thin fabric covering your body. Lust poisons your veins, tempting you to take something so innocent further.

Angling your head, Caleb’s tongue slips between your parted lips and tastes every corner of your mouth. You return the favour, sucking on his tongue which makes him moan. Smirking, you break apart to catch your breath. Lips still brushing, spit connecting them in needy ropes, your exhale becomes his inhale and vice versa.

“Caleb,” you whine. In his embrace, your physical pain from last night is practically gone. Your thighs press together, the space between them craving to be filled with him.

He chuckles, “Up for round two already, honey?” You nod, oblivious to the logical side of you screaming about how you should be resting and taking it easy right now. It’s as if Caleb hears your raging thoughts because he just shakes his head and pulls you into his chest again.

“Maybe later, baby. When you’re all better,” he murmurs.

You grumble, “Seriously?” Your hand snakes down his body, so close to what you need most, when he grabs your wrist and tugs it up to his lips.

Leaving a searing kiss there, he mumbles into the flesh, “Don’t tempt me, pips. You need to rest.”

“Fine,” you groan, shifting to get comfortable in his grasp.

There’s a certain domesticity to this all, lying in the arms of your lover in the morning, traipsing along the edge of one more minute and it’s time to get up. It’s almost cinematic. Your camera!

Jolting up, you gaze over Caleb’s right-angled shoulders at your bedside table. And there it sits, your compact camera winking at you mischievously.

“You brought it with you?!” You exclaim, pointing to it. Your mate grumbles as he rolls over.

“That? Yeah, of course I did. You didn’t want me to leave our sex tape in the woods, did you?” He grins. You shove him cheekily, laughing as he gives you a pointed look.

You clarify, “So then, it was actually recording?” He nods, one hand trailing up your non-bandaged arm.

“Did you watch the footage?” You ask, your face reddening at the thought. Again, Caleb nods.

“I had a look after I bandaged you up.” His finger strokes your flushed cheeks, his cocky smile infuriating and embarrassing you at the same time. Huffing, you lie back down, but this time, you curl into his side while he shifts onto his back. With one beefy arm around your shoulders, your mate holds you tight. Your ear is pressed to his chest, listening to his heartbeat.

His voice is serious when he murmurs, “I didn’t get to tell you last night, but I love you. I love you with everything I have, pips. You’re irreplaceable to me.” Sighing into him, you tighten your grip on his black tank.

Quietly, you return his sentiment with, “I love you, too, Caleb.”

masterlist

1k special main menu

star girl's final words: thank you so much to everyone who voted! and thank you to every single one of my followers!!! you are all incredibly special to me and i appreciate all of your ongoing support. i hope you enjoyed this fic!

special thank you to my amazing mooties (few but overwhelmingly special to me): @bloomness, @cielito--lindo, @heartyluv, @starryeyed-apple, @tragicvictoriantears, @cuntphoric-main

[lovegasmic]

★ MONSTERFUCKING FT ZHONGLI

‘ fem!reader◞ big dick, husband, half dragon Zhongli calls himself your god and you call him Morax like twice◞ aphrodisiac◞ brief cervix fucking◞ matting cycles◞ breeding kink◞ knotting◞ oviposition ’ rewritten with my current style, my most loved fic from 2022 ( my baby )

amber. like the sunset rays going through the slightly yellow tinted windows, bathing you both in the golden light, like his eyes that devoured you whole, taking in every detail and expression of pleasure from you.

like the pair of horns that adorned his head, the support you’ve been using for a while now since there were times your husband liked to fuck hard, leaving you gasping for air and looking for any sort of support that wasn’t his back, sweat coated and filled with crescent marks of your nails, as your body jolted with each punishing thrust.

brown undertones, like the scales that adorned his body, extending over the length of his arms, neck, abdomen to finally reach the base of his cock, now wet and slippery from your slick as he continued to fuck your brains out.

like the long tail that thumped on the floor occasionally, thick on the base and slimmer in the tip, but still heavy enough to create a loud thud that matched your screams and the wet noise of skin slapping. spikes, scales, all glowing in the now dark room, just like the tips of Zhongli’s hair, rising in intensity as he was close to climax.

amber, thick and overly sweet like his words, like his praises, like the liquid that filled your mouth and dripped down your chin, drops that he was quick to lick with a serpent tongue, long and smooth, plunging inside your mouth to make you take it all.

“open your lips for me, my love” Zhongli mutters with his eyes glued on you, imponent frame towering above your body, making you feel smaller somehow, “it will help the pain” soothing, using his thumb to caress your bottom lip and help you part them further enough for the tip of the crystal clear bottle to drip it’s contents inside your waiting mouth.

watching you take the liquid at the same time the engorged tip of his cock pushed between your folds “...so, perfect”.

you whine his name, once, twice, wiggling your hips trying to get more friction from his sweet cock teasing your pussy, “stop, you will make a mess” your beloved husband whispers so sweetly, noticing how a few drops of sticky liquid slipped from your lips.

barely leaning forward to lick them, causing his cock to unintentionally slide inside your walls just lightly, just the tip stretching you apart, enough to make you whine, but not to satisfy, accustomed to his fat cock making your eyes roll, now unable to get off on your own, always waiting for your husband to keep you full.

“hah— Zhongli, please” yet another whine, hips bucking as the dual tips of his forked tongue traveled over the expanse of your neck and shoulders, fangs often scraping through the sensitive skin.

“I am here, my dear, let me take care of you” the way his husked words were spoken directly on your ear got your pussy clenching around the tip of his cock that was still nestled inside of your warm walls, stealing a loud grunt from Zhongli’s throat as his hips were now giving shallow thrusts, fucking you with his cockhead while his thumbs spread your pussy lips open, admiring the way you stretched and coated his thick grit with your slick, “oh, my beautiful wife..” starting to rub circles on your clit, fingertips wet from your fluids to make the motion easier, feeling your body shake so easily from his touch, “my mate”

and you cum just like that, trembling and panting on the bed with not even half of his grith inside, but the smirk on his face told you that was just the beginning, or perhaps, that the aphrodisiacs you drank were working already.

it wasn’t the first time you took the liquid either, it helped you to take your husband’s inhuman — quite literally — cock while on his matting cycles, normally it was huge, but on those days, he impressively grew larger and thicker.

bringing you back to the present with a little smirk and a muttered “pretty”, slipping a slick covered hand to your belly and pressing just sightly, taking advantage of your fucked out state to hold on your thighs and press them against his chest, his own body weight pushing you down further in the mattress while you bended in half in a tight matting press.

you yelp a little, “ungh fuck-” while his cock starts to sink deeper, Zhongli’s own groans growing louder as he tried to fit his massive length inside your too tight cunt, “too big—” now squeal, trying to squirm underneath him but unable to move from how tightly he held you down, only taking what he wanted to give you.

“you are taking it so well, my love, I will make you feel so good...” he says, leaning forward to kiss your lips with his long, wet tongue exploring the insides of mouth and swallowing your moans, making your whole focus on him as he moved in tiny thrusts sinking an inch deeper each time.

“you are absolutely perfect” the praise comes between needy kisses, “so good for me, my pretty wife”

small oh’s and choked out sobs where the only thing you could form while your husband filled your soaked pussy, tears threatening to fall at the intensity of everything, extremely thankful to the aphrodisiacs because otherwise, taking him to the base would have been impossible.

one last peck on your lips and Zhongli is kneeling on the mattress, with knees on each side of your thighs as his cock filled your wet hole, balls coming to rest on your ass, so fucking deep you swore you felt it in your throat.

and he wastes no time before pounding you mercilessly, his thrusts so hard and deep your body is bouncing on the mattress, mounting you almost like an animal, the wet squelching sounds from your pussy getting louder with each wave of arousal pooling in between your legs, and the knot at the base of his cock engorged starting to hit against your puffy pussy lips that eagerly waited for the moment he would bury it inside, his desire to knot you clouding his thoughts.

“a-ah, god” you moan, back arching against the mattress, sobbing out his name breathlessly.

“I am your god” he rasps out, holding your chin with a hand while the other moved to your ass, lifting you up to fuck you better, hitting on your g-spot each time, a small change on the angle and he would be fucking your cervix, “say it”

“ah, yes, yes!” you scream, pussy throbbing from the incoming orgasm “yes, yes my god, fuck— Morax!”

“that’s right, my love, your god is going to make you feel so good”

“so close” your cries music to his ears, and the sloppy picture you paint, drool slipping from the corner of your lips and pooling in your neck and pillow, making it hard to breath, hard to think, with his fat cock fucking you raw, with his handsome face twisted in pleasure and your name on his lips.

pussy clenching and throbbing as you came again without a warning, not a sound escaping your lips except for a small breathless gasp, toes curling and eyes rolling to the back of your head, not only after you have already babbled and convulsed that you manage to utter “M-morax, please...”

“what do you desire, my love?” watching your half lidded eyes with his own, glowing bright in adoration and lust.

“your cum— please, please, please, give it to me, fill me up” you choke out, the air getting knocked out of your lungs each time Zhongli’s hips smacked against your ass, hard, almost painfully.

“ah, yes, — I’m going to fill you, you’re going to carry my babies, is that what you want? to give me little adepti? to be filled with my cum until you get round and pregnant?”

you’ve always knew your husband was stunning, so handsome and composed, but there was something about him with disheveled damp hair, sweat dripping from his face down his neck and toned chest and abdomen, getting lost in the pleasure only you could bring him, mouth hanging open as he sank in your cunt and voiced his inner desires to knock you up. once again, getting lost in him so you nod your head with a squeaky “yes!”

“I am going to cum” his voice is rough, deep, a little unlike him, changing the angle to hit the entrance of your cervix with his cock and earning a high pitched “me too!” from you.

“give it to me, Zhongli, give me your cum, give me your knot, give me everything”

like electricity, his body curved forward, fucking his fat knot inside your tight cunt growing larger as it started to push his eggs inside of you, chest rumbling, the amber marks on his body glowing intensely like his eyes.

at least half dozen of eggs that left you sobbing and limp, pussy clenching and creaming after each egg pushed inside of your cervix, his balls clenching painfully before spurting a thick wave of cum right after all the eggs were resting inside your swollen belly. a hand coming to lay on the bump with a gentle smile on his lips leaning forward to kiss you again, petting your hair as he admired you with devotion, his cock still nestled between your folds trying to keep his cum inside of you as much as possible so his little eggs hatch.

[microtyalm13]

while im making a pretty big thingy for an anon ask have a. silly

[spikedfearn]

Bloodbound

one-shot

Remmick x fem!reader

summary: In Godthrone, Mississippi, salvation comes at a cost: one girl, every ten years. Bound beneath a blood moon to Remmick, you become more than offering. You become his. He tastes your terror like honey, drinks your arousal like wine, and marks you in ways no god could forgive. Through soul-binding magic and whispered vows carved into skin, you learn that some monsters don’t take—they tether. And once you're his, there's no such thing as free will.

Only desire. Only devotion. Only him.

wc: 15.3k

a/n: I don’t even know where to begin—I’m still trying to process the fact that Brittany Broski posted Mercy Made Flesh to her insta story like it was just another Saturday and not the coolest thing that's ever fucking happened to me 😭 I’ve been writing these aus with my whole heart, but I never expected the absolute avalanche of love and support these past couple of weeks. The comments, the reblogs, the screaming in the tags. It’s meant more than I can say, you have all helped me find the joy in writing again, I promise I’m just getting started <333 and an extra big thank you to Liz @fuckoffbard for swooping in and not only beta reading but posting the fic from my account with her laptop bc Tumblr mobile kept crashing on me every time I tried to edit it. Not all heroes wear capes

warnings: possessive vampire, blood kink, bite kink, soulbonding, dubcon elements, obsession, marking, monsterfucking, ritual sacrifice, forced proximity, loss of agency, manipulation, primal sex, size kink, somnophilia (implied), power imbalance, breeding kink (suggestive), Southern Gothic horror, emotional coercion, sacred corruption, body worship, predator/prey dynamics, fear kink, aftercare, blood drinking, religious overtones, stockholm syndrome elements

tags: @sweetheart2210, @seashelleseashellsbytheseashore, @cosmicneptune (comment if you wanna be added to the tag list)

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

They told you not to cry.

The priestess with the burnt fingertips and clinking bone necklace—she gripped your chin between cracked fingers this morning and said it soft, but firm: “He won’t choose the ones who cry. He likes a little fight.”

You didn’t ask who he was. Everyone knows. They say his name like the air around it might curdle. Remmick. No surname. No title. Just Remmick, the vampire king of the blighted woods, the monster who made your town a deal eighty years ago and never broke it.

Not once.

The sun rose slowly this morning, heavy with heat that made the back of your dress stick to your spine before you even got out the door. The August air tastes like rot and copper. You dressed in the church’s parlor room, with the other girls. Seventeen of you. All local. All barely women, but old enough for sacrifice. The law calls it The Binding, but everyone calls it what it is: Bloodbriding.

Your dress is cotton muslin, faded sky-blue with a high collar and puffed sleeves. You think it used to be a baptismal gown. It’s been worn before, passed from girl to girl, all of them marked and married off to the dead. It smells like dried lavender and fear. The buttons up your back had to be done by the priestess. You couldn’t stop trembling.

The town of Godthrone, Mississippi was dying even before the Great Depression turned fields to dust and fathers into ghosts. But they say things changed in 1853, when Remmick came up from the swamps with hunger in his eyes and a deal in his mouth. He would protect the town from sickness, starvation, and war. No one from Godthrone would suffer famine, plague, or enemy. In return, every ten years, a bride would be chosen.

One bride. One binding. One soul fed to the dark.

They tried sending soldiers once, back in 1891. Sixteen went into the woods. None came back whole. Some came back dead. Some came back wrong. One woman started speaking tongues until her mouth filled with spiders. After that, they stopped questioning the pact. Instead, they polished it, sanctified it. Made it a ceremony. A celebration.

Tonight, the Choosing will be held in the town square. You will be walked up barefoot, hair unbound, throat bare. They say the mark will bloom on the girl he wants. A burning, black sigil over the heart. Like a brand. Like a marriage license signed in blood.

Your fingers clutch the hem of your dress. Your name is somewhere on the roster. Somewhere between Eleanor Avery and Ruth Jameson, though it's hard to keep track when the names aren't arranged in alphabetical order.

You haven’t eaten since yesterday. You haven’t even had your first kiss and you’re ridiculously terrified. Because you’ve dreamt of serrated teeth in the dark for weeks now. Because your skin itches like something under it wants out. Because when you close your eyes, you swear you can feel someone watching. Someone already choosing.

And the sun is starting to go down.

They say only the pure get chosen. But that’s a lie. You’ve seen who’s been taken before.

Rebecca Sue, who slit her baby sister’s throat in a fever dream. Agnes Miller, who used to take men’s teeth as trophies.

None of them were pure. They were just...unlucky. Or pretty. Or strange enough that no one would miss them.

You’ve always known you were one of those girls. Born during a blood moon, baptized late because no one could find your daddy until spring thaw—when they fished him out of the river with his eyes missing and his hands gnawed to bone. Your mama didn’t cry. Just braided your hair tighter that morning and told you to never kiss a man with a gold chain or blue eyes. Said they never bring nothin’ but grief.

She died a year later. Something in her blood turned sour. The town doctor wouldn’t touch her. Said it was Remmick’s curse, passed down from when she laid with a man not her husband. Said that’s what happens when women sin.

You were seven when she died. You remember the flies buzzing in her throat. You remember how quiet the house got after. They moved you into the orphan house at the edge of the bog. You learned quickly not to cry at night. Crying brought the wrong kind of attention. So you got good at being quiet. Good at disappearing. Good at keeping secrets under your tongue until they turned bitter and black.

You never learned to curtsy right. You never kept your head bowed during sermons. But you were beautiful, and that was enough. Curious eyes, soft demeanor, a voice like river water. You didn’t want to be, but beauty in Godthrone is a death sentence wrapped in silk.

And now here you are.

Twenty-one and cursed with symmetry.

Chosen to stand under the sickle moon tonight, wearing a dead girl’s dress and nothing else beneath it. Your whole life leading to this—one slow march toward a monster’s mouth.

The town pretends this is holy. They hang garlands on the chapel door and sing hymns in minor chords. The mayor’s wife gave you perfume, lemon balm and sugar, and told you to “make the town proud.” Her eyes didn’t meet yours.

You think about running. You always think about running. But there’s nowhere to go. Not with that feeling in your chest. That strange pull. That sense of something waiting. Something with teeth.

And a name you never dared say out loud until last night. Whispered into your pillow like a prayer. Like a confession.

Remmick.

Your skin burns when you think about it now.

There are stories, of course. Every girl who grows up in Godthrone hears them. They start as whispers during thunderstorms—told under quilts with a candle burning low, shared like secrets between girls too young to know better and too scared not to listen.

“He walks on graves and doesn’t leave footprints.” “He drinks from animals and people, unless he’s claimed you.” “If he marks you, you’ll never want anyone else. Even if you try.”

But the worst ones are the quietest. The ones passed from dying lips to trembling ears. The ones that don’t sound like warnings—they sound like wishes.

“He touched me once. I haven’t known peace since.”

There was one girl—Celia Mott—who came back. Just once. Just long enough to be seen. The Binding year of 1911. She walked into the town square three years later, barefoot and smiling with red-stained teeth. Hair grown long and wild, white dress yellowed with age, eyes gone black. She didn’t speak. Not even once. Just walked right into the chapel and curled up on the altar like a dog. They found her there the next morning, hands folded on her chest, body cold as the river.

No one talks about Celia. But everyone remembers her. You remember her.

You were only thirteen, peeking through a knothole in the chapel wall. You watched as they wrapped her in burlap and buried her deep. You remember thinking she looked peaceful. You remember being jealous. That was the first time you ever said his name, whispered into the dirt above her grave. Not out of fear. Not even hate. Curiosity.

Because what kind of man makes a girl lie down and die smiling?

You used to wonder what he looked like. The other girls said he was monstrous, with claws for hands and eyes that burned like oil lamps in the dark. But that never sat right with you. You don’t think a creature that ancient would need to be grotesque to be feared. You think he’d be beautiful—awfully, unnaturally beautiful. The kind of beautiful that keeps you up at night, sick with craving.

And that’s the part that terrifies you most. Because somewhere in the dark part of you—the part that still dreams of blood-slick mouths and hands around your throat—you want it.

You want to know if he’ll kiss you first or just bite. You want to know what it feels like when the bond takes. You want to know if the mark will hurt as much as it’s supposed to. You want to know if you’ll scream.

You press your palm flat to your chest. Nothing yet. No mark. No burn. No claim. But you swear—you swear—you can feel something there. Like a match waiting to strike. Like teeth ghosting your skin. Like someone’s already touching you from the other side of the veil.

The sun is sinking lower. The bell will ring soon.

And then—the chapel doors open like a serpent unhinging its maw.

Wood creaks. Heat rushes in. And for a second, you don’t move. Then the priestess nods. Just once. That’s your cue.

You step forward on bare feet, feeling every splinter in the boards, every grain of dirt that clings to your soles as you pass the threshold and step into the sweltering dusk. The sky bleeds orange and purple, clouds dragging low like bruises. Somewhere, a cicada screams. And just like that—it begins.

The town square is only five blocks away, but the walk feels like miles. You don’t look at the people lined along the street—don’t dare. You can feel their eyes anyway. Heavy as wet cloth, pricking your skin like pins. Old women in rust-stained aprons. Young boys clutching their mothers' skirts. Men who won’t meet your gaze but still lean in for a better look.

It feels like being paraded through the gallows. Or the garden before slaughter.

The other girls walk ahead and behind you, a procession of blue and white and shaking, anxious limbs. No one speaks. Even the priestess has fallen silent. The only sound is the crunch of gravel underfoot, and the dry shush of cotton brushing thighs.

Your heart beats so loud it’s all you hear. It doesn’t sound like fear anymore. It sounds like an invocation.

The town square unfolds in front of the old courthouse, the brick stained dark from a fire no one talks about anymore. There’s a raised wooden platform at the center—built just for this, just for tonight. The gallows rope is still looped overhead, a relic from older rituals, back when Binding meant hanging the chosen until they gasped awake with his name on their lips.

Now it’s cleaner. More sacred.

They say he prefers it that way.

Gas lanterns flicker along the perimeter, casting warped shadows over the crowd. Wreaths of night jasmine hang from the eaves, their scent thick and cloying in the heat. Everything smells like smoke and sugar and sweat. It makes your stomach roll.

The girls are led to the platform and lined up—seventeen of you, barefoot on the warm planks, hands clasped at your waists like dolls posed for judgment. The crowd stares. Some murmur prayers. Some cry. And some just watch.

You keep your chin up. Not out of pride. But because you know he’s watching too. Somewhere. Behind the crowd. Behind the dusk. Behind the veil of what’s seen and what isn’t.

You can feel it. That tickle at the base of your spine. That breath against your collar. That heartbeat that doesn’t match your own.

The mayor steps forward. Fat and red-faced in a linen suit too tight for the heat. He clears his throat. The priestess lights the ceremonial flame in a basin of copper and bone. She whispers in a language that isn’t English, isn’t Latin, but makes your skin crawl all the same. The fire flares blue.

The bell tolls from the chapel behind you. One. Your pulse stutters. Every eye is on you. Two. You glance down. No mark. Just the flutter of your own chest, just the sickly thrill under your ribs. Three. You feel the wind change. Just slightly. Like something just arrived. Four. The bell keeps tolling, steady as a countdown. Or a death knell.

You don’t flinch, but your knees feel loose. Like they’re no longer yours. Like the wood beneath your feet is suddenly shifting grain, trying to swallow you whole.

The priestess raises both arms. Her voice, when it comes, isn’t loud, but it carries. Thin and sharp and dry as snakeskin. “By covenant sealed and blood remembered, we offer our daughters.”

The crowd murmurs the response: "May He spare the many, and take only the one."

Five. You keep your eyes straight ahead. The girl next to you, Ruth Jameson, is breathing so fast she sounds like a kettle about to boil. She’s a preacher’s daughter. Always wore gloves, even in the summer. Once slapped you for speaking during Sunday reading. You almost hope it’s her.

Let it be her. Or Eleanor Avery. Or Violet Price with the thick braid and expensive teeth. They’re prettier. Cleaner. More practiced in obedience. You’ve heard the whispers that the vampire favors grace, not sharp girls who talk too little and think too much.

Six.

You exhale slow through your nose. Try to imagine the town square without people in it. Try to remember how it looked in winter, dusted with sleet and full of silence. Try to picture yourself anywhere else. You can’t.

The priestess begins the litany. A string of old names, spoken in a dialect that feels like ash in your ears. “Ishari. Vael. Thorne. Kelrem. Narthyx…”

The words twist like vines around your ankles, tight and burning. They say the names are the True Ones. The old ones. The first vampires. Remmick’s forebears, or his victims, no one’s really sure. You doubt there’s a difference.

Seven.

The wind shifts again. This time, everyone feels it. A ripple goes through the crowd—silent, almost reverent. A little boy starts to cry and is shushed immediately. You don’t dare move. You feel it too. It’s like being brushed by something that isn’t there. A pressure. A pull. Like your body isn’t entirely your own anymore.

Still, no mark.

You wonder if you’ll even know when it comes. If it will be sudden. Sharp. Like lightning. Or if it’ll be slow. Like seduction. Like being kissed where no one else can see.

Eight.

The priestess’s eyes are closed now. The other girls tremble. Someone is crying. You’re not sure who. You dare a glance to your left. Eleanor’s lips are moving, silent prayer or quiet bargaining. She looks ready to faint. Her hands are shaking. You look to your right. Ruth’s eyes are squeezed shut, lashes wet. No one is looking at you.

Good. Let it be one of them. Let it not be you. Please.

Nine.

The priestess holds up a small obsidian dagger. Cuts the palm of her hand and lets the blood drip into the blue flame. It hisses, high-pitched and eager.

You smell it instantly.

Not like iron. Like something older. Like the scent of a crypt cracked open.

Ten.

The bell stops. The crowd holds its breath. The fire roars. The flame in the basin spits.

Blue arcs to white. The heat radiates across the platform, and the priestess steps back, blood dripping down her wrist like ink on a parchment soaked too long. Still no mark on your skin. Still no voice in your ear. Still no rush of fire behind your ribs.

You let your shoulders lower a fraction, just enough to feel the strain begin to ease. Just enough to believe—maybe—it’s not you.

Maybe you were only ever meant to stand here, to be one of the extras. The backdrop to someone else’s fate. One of the girls who’ll go home tonight, pale and trembling and untouched.

You could live with that. You could learn to breathe again.

You could get married someday to someone simple and safe. A man with kind eyes and a little farmland. You could forget this ever happened, could press it flat like a pressed flower between the pages of your life. You’re almost ready to believe it.

Until the silence begins to stretch. And stretch. And stretch. Too long. Too unnatural.

The crowd is still holding its breath. But now, they’re waiting. Expectant. The air isn’t quiet—it’s thick. Charged. Like a storm that hasn’t broken yet, a scream that hasn’t been released. You swear the ground hums.

Your skin itches.

Not with sweat. Not with fear. But with awareness.

The priestess’s head cocks slightly to the left. She doesn’t move otherwise. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t speak.

And then the lamps flicker. All at once.

Not a breeze. Not a draft. It’s something deeper. Something below.

A mother in the front row lets out a sob. Her child starts crying again. No one hushes him this time.

The flame gutters low.

You see your breath fog in front of you.

It’s August. The air should feel like soup. But all at once, it’s cold.

A cold that doesn’t touch your skin—it touches your soul. And that’s when you feel it.

Not a mark. Not yet. But the presence. The knowing. It’s here. And it’s looking at you.

You don’t see him at first. You feel him.

Like being plunged into deep water. That gut-punch plunge, that pressure in your ears, that moment of suspended breath where your body forgets how to float. The world narrows. The noise dulls. Every hair on your body rises like it’s been called to attention.

The flame sputters. The priestess lowers her head, and the entire crowd follows. All at once, the square is bowing. No one told you that would happen. The girls beside you drop their gazes. You remain upright.

Too stunned. Too still.

And then you hear it.

Bootsteps.

Slow. Measured.

Bootsteps on gravel, a sound far too ordinary for something this monstrous.

And still, you don’t look. You can’t.

Because your chest is burning.

It starts beneath your collarbone. A single point of heat, sharp as a blade, blossoming outward like ink in water. You gasp, clutch at your heart—but nothing’s there.

No wound. Just pain. Just…change. You look down and see it bloom.

A mark.

Black and bright and moving, like a tattoo drawn by something alive. Swirling patterns, sharp edges and curling lines that twist and wind down your chest. You hear someone cry out—a choked sound, like a girl breaking open—but you don’t realize it’s you until the priestess grips your arm to keep you from falling.

She’s smiling. “The chosen,” she whispers.

And that’s when he speaks.

Not loud. Not rushed.

But his voice cuts through the air like a blade through silk.

“Lift yer head.”

You don’t mean to obey. But your chin rises.

And there he is. At the base of the platform. Not monstrous. Not grotesque.

But broad and pale, dressed in black that doesn’t shine, hair slicked back like wet ink, and eyes the color of dried blood and dying embers. There’s no mistaking him. No imagining he might be a man. He is not a man.

He is the end of prayers. The promise of ruin. The reason the dark exists. Remmick. And he’s looking only at you.

Possession, raw and ravenous, carved into every angle of his face.

“C’mere, little bride,” he says, softly.

And when you step forward—shaking, burning, claimed—it’s not because they all told you to. It’s because you want to.

You step down from the platform one trembling foot at a time.

The crowd doesn’t make a sound. No cheers. No wails. Not even a rustle of skirts or a cough from the old men lining the back.

Just silence.

The kind that feels held—like a breath everyone’s too afraid to release.

Your bare feet meet the packed earth. It’s warm from the heat of the day but it may as well be ice. You can’t feel anything but the burn of the mark, pulsing like a second heart beneath your skin. Every beat of it syncs with something that doesn’t belong to you. Something older.

Remmick waits at the bottom step.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. He just watches you walk to him—like he knew you’d come, like the ceremony was nothing more than a formality. A ritual to dress up inevitability.

You stop just before him. Close enough to feel the wrongness that coils around him like smoke. It doesn’t repel you. It draws you. Makes your blood thrum, makes your mouth dry, makes your thighs clench in a way that shames you instantly. You pray he can’t tell.

Then he lifts a hand. And brushes his thumb lightly across the mark.

Your knees nearly give.

The touch is not cruel. It’s not even forceful. But it ignites something deep, something coiled and ancient inside you. The mark responds—flaring hotter, the lines shifting under his skin like they recognize him.

And then his eyes meet yours. That red glint beneath the dark, sharp and knowing.

“Felt ya long before this,” he murmurs. His voice isn’t deep. It’s smooth. Clear. Cold. “Y’cried my name in yer sleep last week.”

Your breath catches. You didn’t even remember dreaming. But he speaks it like truth. Like he was there.

“Almost took ya then,” he says, dragging his gaze down your body, slow and deliberate. “But this here's cleaner.”

He leans in. And you flinch.

He pauses—just a hair—and then his mouth is at your ear.

“Like when they tremble,” he whispers, voice full of something dark and warm and terrifyingly pleased. “But I like it more when they beg.”

Your breath hitches so violently it hurts. And then his nose drags along the line of your throat. He inhales. A shiver tears through you, sharp and helpless.

“Smell like mine.”

He says it like a promise. Like a curse. Like a man who doesn’t need to raise his voice to ruin you.

The mark burns.

And your body answers with something shameful and wet.

His hand slips to the back of your neck, cool fingers cradling the base of your skull. “I can feel ya now, little bride,” he says, voice softer. Hungrier. “Every shiver. Every ache. Every time yer thighs press together ‘cause yer thinkin’ of me.”

You want to say no. You want to say stop.

But your lips part— —and all that comes out is a broken, traitorous moan.

The crowd still doesn’t move. The priestess watches with her hands folded. And Remmick, smiling now, presses his lips to your jaw—not a kiss, not yet—and whispers:

“We begin tonight.”

They don't clap. No one dares.

The moment he speaks, the crowd begins to part like a body splitting open. Quietly. Obediently. As if on cue.

Remmick doesn't take your hand. He doesn’t have to. You follow him. You don't look back.

The crowd watches in total silence, as though afraid that one misstep, one murmur, might draw his attention. You feel their eyes on you—burning, curious, afraid. But none of them move to stop you. No one calls your name. No one tries to say goodbye.

And somehow that hurts worse than if they had.

The mark on your chest is still searing, like hot iron beneath your skin. But it’s not just pain anymore—it’s pull. With every step you take behind him, it feels stronger. Hungrier. You feel him through it now. A weight in your gut. A throb between your legs. An ache in the part of you that shouldn’t want this, but does.

You wonder if he feels it too. You don’t have to wait long to find out.

Halfway down the path, Remmick pauses, turns his head just slightly—not enough to see his whole face, just the ghost of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. “Stop squeezin’ yer thighs together like that,” he says without looking at you. “Ain’t polite.”

Your cheeks go hot. You hadn’t even noticed you were doing it. Instinct. Reflex. Shame flickers to life—but it doesn’t stay long. Not when he glances back, finally, and meets your eyes with something wicked and low in his voice.

“Though I do like it.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. You just keep walking.

Remmick’s estate lies on the edge of the woods, past the last row of homes where the gas lamps thin and the road turns to dirt. The air shifts the moment you cross the boundary—cooler, thicker. It feels like stepping into another world. A forgotten place. The trees here lean too close. The moss drips like old lace. You see stones sunk into the earth along the path, names long worn away. Grave markers, maybe. Or warnings.

The carriage is waiting for you.

Sleek, black, quiet. Not pulled by horses—those would never make it through these woods. Instead, it waits unnaturally still, shadows wrapping around its wheels, as if it simply appeared when called. Remmick holds the door open for you.

You pause.

Not because you’re afraid. But because everything in you wants to go in.

You hate how much you want it.

Inside, the cabin is too dark. Too cold. The seat cushions are velvet, the color of dried wine. There are no windows. Only candle sconces that haven’t been lit. You sit, carefully. Your thighs still sticky from earlier. You press your knees together and fold your hands in your lap like a good little bride.

Remmick follows. Closes the door behind him with a click.

You’re alone. Utterly, entirely alone.

And you feel the silence tighten around you like a glove.

Then he speaks. Low. Deliberate. “Take off the dress.”

You don’t move. You don’t breathe.

The words take off the dress still hang in the air—heavy, impossible to grasp, clinging to your skin in ways you can’t shake.

Your fingers twitch in your lap.

The candle sconces haven’t been lit, but you can see him anyway. The dark doesn’t seem to touch him, not really. His eyes are brighter in it. Redder. Watching you the way a wolf watches a trembling rabbit—not out of pity. Not out of malice, either. But with the certainty of hunger.

He leans back, legs spread, one arm resting along the velvet seat. Casual. Patient. Like he’s giving you a choice when you both know there isn’t one. “I won’t ask twice, sweetheart.”

The term of endearment doesn’t sound kind. It sounds dangerous.

Your breath comes shallow. You reach for the first button.

The collar is stiff, the thread old. You fumble. Your fingers feel clumsy, not from fear—but from how aware you are of his gaze. It traces every movement. Tracks the tremble in your hands. Watches your chest rise with every breath.

You get the first button undone. Then the second. The third.

The dress loosens across your shoulders. The mark, still searing hot and alive, seems to pulse brighter in the air between you. It aches when you drag the fabric down your arms, exposing more of it. The gown drops to your waist, then your hips. You shift to slide it lower.

Remmick still hasn’t moved.

But the air has. It feels denser now. Like you’ve stepped inside his lungs and forgotten how to breathe on your own.

When the dress slips past your thighs and pools at your feet, you’re left in nothing.

No underthings. No slip.

Just bare skin and that still-burning sigil over your heart.

Your hands twitch up to cover yourself—reflex, instinct, shame—but his voice stops you before they reach your chest.

“Don’t.” One word. Quiet. But it scalds.

You obey. Your arms drop.

He finally leans forward.

His palm drags over his jaw as he takes you in, slow and deliberate. You expect him to leer. To lick his lips or reach for you like you’re already his. But instead, he just looks.

Like he’s seeing something holy.

And then, softly—more to himself than to you—he says, “Fuckin’ beautiful.”

You bite your lip.

Something twists in your belly. Something hot and low and helpless.

He leans in, elbows resting on his knees, and murmurs: “Y’don’t even know what yer feelin’, do ya?”

You try to speak, but your throat’s too dry.

He tilts his head, watching the way your thighs inch together again. “That’s the bond, love. That ache? That throb in yer cunt? That heat sittin’ behind yer ribs like a sin waitin’ to be confessed?”

His voice drops even lower.

“That’s me.”

You shudder. The mark pulses.

And Remmick, grinning now—slow, sharp, possessive—reaches out, thumb brushing just under the curve of your breast, not quite touching the mark but close enough that it sparks again behind your ribs. “Y’feel me yet?” he asks.

You nod. Barely.

He laughs, soft and cruel and pleased. “Good. Then let’s make it permanent.”

Your breath stutters.

His thumb still lingers just below your breast, not quite touching the mark, but the heat from his skin radiates into yours like an ember pressed to parchment. You feel it coil low in your belly, tight and trembling.

And he sees it.

Of course he does.

“Look at that,” he murmurs, voice like smoke curling around your neck. “Already buzzin’ for me. And I haven’t even laid a proper hand on ya yet.”

He lets his fingers trail lightly down your sternum. Not rushed. Not greedy. It’s almost reverent—if reverence could be soaked in hunger. His fingertips drag over your ribs, then down to the soft dip between them, tracing lazy circles that never quite reach where you want.

The bond throbs between you like a living thing.

It doesn’t just burn. It pulls.

Each touch sends something electric singing across your nerves, as though your body’s not fully yours anymore—shared now, tied to something dark and breathing. Every sensation is heightened. The velvet seat beneath you feels too soft. The air feels too tight. And his touch?

His touch feels like command.

He leans closer. You feel his breath on your throat before you see his mouth. “Tell me where it hurts,” he whispers, and his tongue brushes the shell of your ear.

Your hips shift without permission. “Lower,” you manage, barely above a whisper.

Remmick hums. A dark, pleased sound. “Aye. Thought so.” He brings his hand to your thigh, palm broad and cool, fingers spreading to grip you firm. Not harsh. Not rough. But with purpose. Like he’s claiming the space. Like he already owns it. He pushes your legs apart slowly, and the bond sings when you don’t resist.

When you offer.

His gaze dips down.

And he groans—quiet, guttural. “Sweet fuckin’ Christ.”

You’re soaked.

Your body, treacherous and needy, has already given itself over. The mark glows faintly in the dark now, pulse-for-pulse with your heartbeat, lighting the curve of your breast and the sweat beading along your collar.

“You know what this is, don’t ya?” he says, dragging a finger up your inner thigh, stopping just shy of your center. “The bond’s settin’ in. Claimin’ ya. Makes every nerve scream for me. You’d let me do anything right now, wouldn’t ya?”

You want to say no. You really do. But your body says yes in a dozen ways. The way your breath shakes. The way your thighs tremble. The way your hips rock forward, desperate for any friction, even the ghost of it.

You meet his eyes. “Please,” you whisper. It slips out before you can stop it.

Remmick’s grin turns sharp. Triumphant. “Say it again.”

Your cheeks burn. But your body doesn’t hesitate. “Please.”

He moves then.

Not fast. Not rough. But with absolute, devastating intent.

He sinks to his knees in front of you. Not in worship. Not in submission. But in devouring anticipation.

His hands slide up your thighs, spreading them wider, and he presses a kiss just above your knee. Then another, higher. And another. Each one closer to the place that aches. The place he’s not touching.

Yet.

“You don’t even know what I’m about to do to ya,” he murmurs, mouth against your skin. “But yer body’s already beggin’.” He nips just above your hip, tongue soothing the sting. And finally, finally, his hand reaches the mark again—palm flat over your heart.

You jolt.

It feels like fire licking up your spine. Like something ancient waking up. Like something that says: Mine.

“Y’ready, little bride?” he asks, voice rough with hunger, reverent with power.

Because this is more than lust.

This is binding. This is belonging. And you’re about to be his—in every sense.

Your heart is a drum. A hammer. A hymn.

And Remmick holds it in his palm like he’s already broken it open and tasted what’s inside.

He watches you. Eyes dark, pupils wide, mouth parted—not in awe, not in shock, but in possession. Like a man handed his favorite weapon after years of war. Like he knows exactly how to use you. “Keep yer eyes on me,” he says softly.

You do. Because you can’t look away.

His thumb strokes over your mark, slow and possessive. The moment he presses down—just the lightest pressure—you gasp, full-body and shaking. It doesn’t hurt. It’s worse than that.

It undoes you.

Your back arches off the seat. A whimper slips past your lips, high and humiliating, and the fire under your skin blooms wider, deeper, lower.

“Good,” Remmick breathes, as if your body’s reaction is all the permission he needs. “Let it take ya.” He leans in again, lips brushing over the curve of your breast, just below the glowing sigil etched into your flesh. His mouth is soft. Cool. But where it touches, heat follows. Magic, maybe. Or something far filthier.

You shiver.

He trails his tongue in a slow, careful circle around the mark. Not kissing. Not biting. Just tasting.

You make a sound—something raw and helpless—and Remmick laughs, low in his throat. “Feel that?”

You nod, dazed.

He hums like he’s proud of you. Like he owns every breath you take now. “Bond’s startin’ to root,” he says against your skin. “It’s in the blood. In the muscle. Every heartbeat yer body makes now? It’s for me.”

His hand moves lower.

Fingers dragging down your belly, past your hip, settling between your thighs where you’re soaked and trembling and already spreading for him without thought. “You feel like sin,” he murmurs. “Gonna taste like salvation.” And then he finally, finally presses his mouth to the center of you.

You jerk. It’s too much. It’s not enough.

His tongue is slow at first, lazy, almost cruel in how lightly he licks. As if he’s savoring the fact that you’re shaking under him already. You try to move—try to rock against him—but his hands grip your thighs, holding you open, holding you still.

“This ain’t just fuckin’,” he rasps, voice muffled by your body. “This is the bind. This is me settin’ my claim.”

You moan. You whimper. And when his mouth closes over your clit and he sucks, your vision shatters.

It’s not just pleasure. It’s magic.

You feel it in your bones, in the roots of your teeth, in the back of your throat. You feel the bond snap into place like a tether. You feel him inside you—his hunger, his need, his desire—mirroring yours, amplifying it, turning you both into a single, burning thing.

You’re panting now. Desperate. Gone. “Remmick—” you gasp.

He groans like your voice alone could finish him.

You feel his tongue again—harder now, faster, coaxing your orgasm to the surface like a secret—and you give it to him. You give everything. You come with a cry, eyes wide, hips shaking, the mark on your chest glowing like fire in the dark. And Remmick?

He doesn’t stop.

Not until you’re slumped against the seat, legs still twitching, the bond humming under your skin like a satisfied beast. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Smirking.

“First part’s done,” he says, voice wrecked. “Now we finish it.”

He stands. Unbuckling his belt. Unbuttoning his trousers.

And between your thighs, your body begins to ache all over again.

You’re still trembling when he rises.

Remmick towers over you in the low flickering dark, the glow from your mark throwing soft gold light across the sharp bones of his face. He looks half-saint, half-devil—something carved out of hunger and patience, restraint and ruin.

He doesn’t touch you yet. Not again.

He just watches as you breathe, chest heaving, legs still slack and parted. And for a heartbeat, he says nothing. He simply drinks you in like a man parched. And then his voice cuts through the silence again—low, velvet-rough, intimate as a mouth pressed to your spine. “You’re takin’ it real pretty,” he murmurs, thumbing the buttons on his trousers loose one by one. “Didn’t think you’d fold that fast. But fuck, I felt it.”

Your body answers with a pulse.

You want to close your legs, to pull your dress back on, to shield yourself from how open he’s left you—but the bond won’t let you. It aches when you think about hiding. It pulls you back toward him, like a tide. Like gravity.

And he knows it.

He steps out of his slacks and lets his shirt hang open, chest pale and cut with the kind of lean strength you’ve only read about in books meant to be hidden under your mattress. His body is strong, scarred, real. A monument to the centuries he’s outlived.

Your eyes drop lower. And—god.

You freeze.

He’s hard already, thick and flushed, hanging heavy between his thighs, and for the first time since the mark bloomed, you feel a new kind of fear coil in your gut.

He’s going to ruin you.

And you want it so badly you could cry.

Remmick sees the way your gaze lingers. “‘S alright,” he says, stepping closer. “I’ll go slow. First time’s meant to sting a little.” His hand drags down your cheek, thumb brushing your lips. “But y’won’t be scared of the pain. Not when I’m the one givin’ it to ya.”

You make a sound in your throat—something small, breathless, wanting.

He strokes your jaw, then cups the back of your neck, guiding you gently down, down, until you’re laid out across the velvet bench seat. He doesn’t climb on top of you right away. He kneels beside the bench, one hand splayed wide across your ribs, the other pressing just above the mark on your chest.

The weight of it grounds you.

“Last chance, little bride,” he says softly, and there’s something raw beneath the teasing now. “After this, there ain’t no undoing it.”

You look up at him. And despite everything—despite the fear, the heat, the bond that feels like it’s branded your soul from the inside out—

You nod.

Remmick’s smile is slow. Tender. Like a secret finally answered.

“Atta girl.”

He leans down.And when his mouth presses over the mark—soft, sure, claiming—you swear your body catches fire all over again. His mouth seals over the mark, and it’s like being opened. Not physically—not yet—but inside. Beneath your ribs. Somewhere sacred.

You feel it the way thunder rolls over land—first a hush, then a tremble, then a crack that splits you straight down the middle. His lips part just enough for his tongue to drag across the sigil, and something ancient stirs to life.

The mark glows white-hot.

Your back bows off the seat. Your fingers clutch at velvet, at air, at him. A gasp tears from your throat, raw and keening.

Remmick moans against your chest. “There she is,” he rasps, mouth dragging lower, down the slope of your breast. “Fuck, yer soul’s singin’ for me now. Y’feel that? That little ache in the base of yer spine?”

You nod, frantic.

“It’s me,” he says, hand sliding back between your thighs. “That’s me growin’ roots in ya.” His fingers tease your slick folds, feather-light, not giving what you need, just promising.

You whimper.

Remmick watches you writhe, his cock hard and leaking, resting heavy against his thigh. “Spread ‘em wider, sweetheart. That’s it. Just like that. Let me in.”

You do as you’re told. You’d do anything he asks right now. Not because he’s taken your will. But because he’s claimed your want.

He climbs over you slowly, one knee pressing between your thighs, his body blanketing yours with terrible warmth. The feel of his skin against yours makes your mark pulse like it’s alive. He lines himself up, dragging the head of his cock against your soaked entrance, letting it slip through your folds, slicking himself in you.

You gasp.

“Remmick—”

He cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek, voice low and hoarse. “I’ve got ya. Gonna go slow.” He pushes in.

God.

It’s thick. It stretches. It burns in the best, most ruinous way. You clutch his shoulders, nails biting into his skin as he inches deeper—slow, agonizing, precise. Every breath is a plea. Every heartbeat is his. You feel the bond knot tighter, pulling you to him with every inch he sinks into your body. Halfway in, and you’re already fluttering around him, body shaking, eyes wet.

Remmick groans, low and wrecked. “Fuckin’ hell,” he grits out. “You’re tight as a fist. Grip me like you were made for it.” He rolls his hips forward, just a little deeper.

You cry out—more overwhelmed than hurt. Pleasure is coiling inside you like a scream wound too tight to release.

“‘S alright,” he murmurs. “Yer takin’ me so well. Gonna have all of me soon.”

He kisses your temple. Then your cheek. Then your jaw.

“Y’wanna say it?” he asks.

You blink up at him, dazed.

He smiles against your throat. “Say yer mine.”

The words curl on your tongue, fever-warm. “I’m yours.”

His hips snap forward, burying himself in you to the hilt.

You shatter.

You can’t breathe. Not properly.

Not with him buried that deep inside you—thick and unyielding, pressing against something that makes your vision go white around the edges. The stretch burns and soothes all at once, every nerve pulled taut, every inch of your body drawn to his like a tide to the moon.

Remmick doesn’t move right away. He just holds himself there. Letting you feel the full weight of what he’s done.

What he is doing. What you’ll never come back from.

You whimper, your hips twitching, the pressure too much and not enough and perfect. And all he does is lean in close, his voice curling against your ear like the heat of a candle’s flame.

“There it is,” he murmurs. “Feel me in ya? That ache in your belly? That’s me settin’ in, stretchin’ ya out, makin’ room.” His hand cups your jaw, gentle but firm, tilting your face toward his. He watches you—hungry and soft all at once, like a man who’s both starving and reverent. “Y’wanna know somethin’, sweetheart?” he asks, hips giving one slow, rolling thrust.

You gasp, back arching, lips parting in a helpless cry.

He groans, deep in his throat, and stills again. “You’ll never forget this feelin’,” he says. “No matter what happens after. No matter where you run. This right here?” He shifts inside you, not pulling out, just moving deep. “This bond’ll hunger until I feed it.”

You can’t speak. Your body is writhing under him, hips tilting instinctively, needing more, needing movement. The bond is humming now—hot, thick, vibrating under your skin like a wire ready to snap.

And then he starts to move.

Slow. So slow it feels lethal.

He pulls out an inch. Pushes back in. Again. And again.

Each thrust is a deliberate claiming—grinding against the deepest part of you, igniting something wild and ancient in your blood. You moan with every slide, and his name slips out of your mouth between gasps like a prayer, like a curse, like you don’t care who hears.

“R-Remmick—”

He shudders above you, burying his face against your throat.

“Fuck, say it again.”

You do. You can’t stop. “Remmick. Remmick—” Your fingers dig into his back, pulling him closer, urging him to move faster, harder, deeper.

But he won’t. Not yet.

He keeps the pace slow, grinding into you with the kind of restraint that hurts, like he wants to ruin you one slow breath at a time.

You’re sobbing now. From pleasure. From pressure. From the overwhelming rightness of being filled by him.

He kisses the corner of your mouth. Then your jaw. Then the spot where your pulse pounds like a war drum. “Let it take ya,” he whispers. “Let me in. All the way.”

You don't have to let it take you. It's already happening.

Every roll of his hips, every grinding thrust, buries him deeper—not just into your body, but into your very being. You feel him threading through your blood, knotting himself into the soft, wet, secret places no one else has ever touched. You feel him becoming part of you.

And it’s bliss. It’s agony. It’s everything you never dared want.

Remmick groans into your throat, the sound rough and ragged, and you realize—he’s shaking. His arms bracket your head, muscles tense, as if he’s holding himself back with the last threads of a fraying leash. "Fuckin’ hell," he rasps against your skin. "You don’t even know what yer doin’ to me, do ya?"

You moan when his hips shift again, a slow, brutal grind that rubs against something deep inside, sending another crack through your already crumbling self.

"You’re burnin’ me up from the inside," he breathes. "Claimin’ me right back without even tryin'." He thrusts again, a little harder this time.

Your nails rake down his back, and he hisses, the sound sharp and desperate.

"Y’hear that, little bride?" he pants. "The bond’s snappin' shut. Lockin’ us together. Ain’t no prayers that can undo it now."

You whimper under him, nodding frantically because words are gone. Lost. All you can do is feel. All you can do is take him. The magic between you stretches taut—white-hot and endless—pulling tighter with every slow, deep stroke.

Remmick lifts his head. Looks at you. Really looks at you.

And something raw, something wild flashes through his crimson eyes.

Not cruelty. Not hunger. But devotion. The kind of devotion that ruins. That razes. That rebuilds.

And his voice—Christ, his voice—comes soft and reverent, like a prayer said in a burning church. "Mine." He pulls almost all the way out.

Your body cries for him.

And when he slams back in, burying himself to the hilt, the bond explodes.

You barely have time to scream. It rips out of you as Remmick drives back into your body with a force that shatters something deep inside—not bone, not muscle, but something older. Something tied to the very breath in your lungs and the heat in your blood.

The bond snaps tight. It doesn’t just settle between you—it erupts.

A wave of heat crashes through you, stealing your sight, your breath, your thoughts. The air around you blurs and sharpens all at once, everything too bright, too loud, too much. You feel him in every corner of your being—his hunger, his lust, his need crashing against yours in a brutal, endless tide.

Remmick groans low in his throat, a broken sound, like he’s barely holding himself together. "That's it, love," he pants, thrusting deep and sure now, fucking you through the bond’s collapse. "Feel it. Feel me." Each thrust drives him deeper than flesh, branding his presence into you so thoroughly you don't know where you end and he begins.

Your fingers scrabble at his back, nails dragging across his spine. You clutch at him like drowning, like if you let go you’ll be ripped apart.

And maybe you would.

"Yer mine now," he growls against your neck, voice shaking with the force of it. "Every heartbeat. Every breath. Every fuckin’ drop of blood in that sweet body—mine."

You sob beneath him, helpless.

Because it’s true. It’s so true it hurts.

He fucks you harder, hips slamming into yours, the slick sound of your bodies joining filling the dark carriage. Every inch of you aches for him now, craves him. The pleasure is brutal, endless, washing over you in thick, consuming waves that blur the edges of the world. "Say it," he snarls. "Say who owns ya."

You can barely get the words out, your voice broken and gasping between thrusts. "You—Remmick—I'm yours, I'm yours—"

He groans, loud and wrecked, driving himself deeper. "Again."

"I'm yours!" you cry, clinging to him, legs wrapping around his waist without thought. "I'm yours!"

The bond screams its satisfaction, magic sealing tighter, brighter, a perfect, eternal tether. Remmick’s rhythm falters—just for a heartbeat—and then he lets go completely. He fucks you harder, faster, rougher now, as if trying to stamp himself into every molecule of your body. As if the bond isn’t enough, as if he needs your body to remember what your soul already knows.

You’re close again. Closer than before.

Tears leak from the corners of your eyes, not from pain—but from the overwhelming rightness of it. The way your body, your magic, your very soul sings under him.

"That's it," he grits out, teeth scraping against your jaw, your throat. "Gimme one more, sweetheart. One more, and I'll fill ya. Mark ya up proper."

You sob something desperate and broken against his shoulder.

And then you fall apart.

Your body breaks first. You cry out, a sharp, ragged sound, thighs locking around Remmick’s hips as your climax rips through you like a flood that’s been dammed too long. It’s blinding—so much more than pleasure. It's surrender. It's consummation.

The bond erupts under your skin, a wildfire racing from your chest outward—your limbs, your heart, your mind all filled with him, only him.

Remmick snarls low in his throat when he feels it—feels you milking his cock, spasming around him, clutching him so tightly you might tear him apart if he were anything less than what he is. "Fuckin’ hell, there’s my girl," he growls, voice thick, shaking, barely human. "God, yer perfect—perfect for me."

You barely hear him over the rush of blood in your ears, the way your heart stutters and kicks under the strain of the bond locking into place. You feel like you’re dying, being reborn, consumed.

And then—

His hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back to bare your throat.

You don’t resist. You can’t.

You offer it to him. Begging without words.

Needing it. Needing him.

Remmick’s breath sears against your pulse, a guttural sound of want breaking free from his chest. "Mine," he rasps, and then— He sinks his fangs into your throat.

You scream—not from pain. From release. From completion.

The moment his teeth pierce your skin, it’s over. The bond seals so violently you swear you feel the whole world lurch.

You feel his cock throb inside you as he spills himself deep, hips jerking hard against yours as he empties everything into you—claiming you, breeding you, binding you. His moan vibrates against your throat, a filthy, possessive sound, full of ancient, ruinous satisfaction.

You convulse around him, helpless, drowning in the force of it—your orgasm crashing into his, a tangled knot of pleasure and magic and hunger so overwhelming you stop knowing where you end and he begins.

Everything collapses into him. His taste. His scent.

His voice murmuring ragged, half-spoken promises against your bleeding throat.

"Never lettin’ ya go." "Made ya for me." "Gonna fuckin’ ruin anyone who tries to take ya." "My sweet girl. My bride."

The world fades to black around the edges.

Not death. Not fear. Just him. Only him.

You don't know how long you stay like that. Him buried deep inside you, teeth still sunk into your throat, body trembling with the aftershocks of the bond and the brutal, gorgeous wreckage he’s left behind.

When he finally pulls his fangs free, you whimper at the loss—but he shushes you gently, lapping at the puncture marks with slow, lazy strokes of his tongue. Sealing the wound. Marking you further.

His hand cups the side of your face, thumb stroking the corner of your mouth like he's calming a horse that’s been run too hard. "There she is," he murmurs, voice low and thick with satisfaction. "My little bride."

You blink up at him, dazed, boneless, ruined.

He smiles.

It’s not kind. It’s not soft. It’s something far worse. Worship.

"You feel it, don't ya?" he whispers. "That ache behind yer ribs? That’s me sittin’ in yer soul now."

You nod weakly. You can still feel him inside you—hot and sticky, filling you in every way a man can. The bond thrums between you like a heartbeat shared.

And he’s not done.

You see it in his eyes. That hunger. That certainty.

He presses a kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then your mouth—slow, claiming kisses, each one staking a piece of you deeper than the last. "You’ll never want anyone else again," he promises, voice almost tender. "Yer mine now. Body, blood, soul."

And somehow, impossibly—

You don't fear it. You crave it. You crave him. Forever.

The carriage rocks gently as it moves, but you barely notice. You’re sprawled across the velvet seat, bare and boneless, your limbs too heavy to lift, your skin humming with the aftershocks of what just happened.

Of what you are now. Of what he made you.

The mark on your chest still glows faintly, a soft pulse in the dark, echoing your heartbeat—and his. It thrums in your veins, in the tender ache between your thighs where he spilled himself so deep you can still feel the heat of it. You don’t know where your body ends and his begins anymore.

Maybe there’s no difference. Maybe there never was.

Remmick sits at the far end of the carriage now, leaned back lazily against the seat, trousers still open, hair a mussed halo around his head like he’s been through a war and came out smiling.

He watches you. God, he watches you.

Eyes dark and glittering, hungry and satisfied all at once, a predator marveling at the way his prey still twitches even after the final blow.

He’s in no rush. He’s got you now.

Forever.

And you feel it—the first thread of it tightening low in your belly.

A throb. A pulse.

Your body responds instantly to his gaze, hips shifting, thighs pressing together, nipples tightening in the cool air. You bite your lip, trying to smother the shameful rush of heat flooding you again, but it's impossible.

Because now—

Now he feels it too.

A low, wicked chuckle rumbles from his chest. "Aw, sweetheart," he drawls, the accent thick and syrupy, heavy with cruel affection. "Already missin’ me inside ya?"

Your face burns. You shake your head, a weak, pitiful denial—but the bond betrays you.

He tilts his head, the smile on his lips turning downright vicious. "Don’t lie to me," he says, voice dropping low and rough. "Not now. Not when I can feel every twitch of that sweet little cunt clenchin’ on nothin’."

You whimper, curling in on yourself without thinking.

But he doesn’t let you hide for long.

In a blink, he’s across the carriage, hands bracketing your hips, dragging you back flat against the seat. He crowds over you without even touching you fully, his presence alone suffocating, his body heat pouring into you like a second, darker sun.

"You’re open to me now," he murmurs, brushing your hair from your face with almost obscene tenderness. "Every want. Every ache. Every filthy little thought—" He presses the flat of his palm to the mark. You jerk under him, helpless "—I feel ‘em all."

His thumb strokes slow, lazy circles over the mark, and each touch sends new ripples of need spiraling outward—your body trembling, your thighs wet and slick all over again. "You’re gonna learn real quick, love," he says, grinning as you whimper, as you arch into his touch without meaning to. "Ain’t no hidin’ from me now."

He leans down, mouth brushing your ear. "Every time you ache, I’ll know."

"Every time you touch yerself, I’ll feel it." "Every time you think about me splittin’ you open again—"

He rocks his hips against you, not entering, just letting you feel the thick, hot weight of him. "—I’ll be right there, cock hard, ready to remind ya who you fuckin’ belong to."

You sob, overwhelmed.

And his voice goes velvet-soft, coaxing. "Beg me, little bride," he whispers, lips dragging down your throat, over your mark, down the trembling plane of your belly. "Beg me to fuck ya again. Right here. Right now. Fill ya ‘til there’s nothin’ left but me."

You’re already halfway there. The bond shudders and pulls tight, a perfect, beautiful noose.

And you know— You’ll never be free again.

You’ll never want to be.

You don’t even realize you’re begging at first. It’s not words—

It’s sounds.

Soft, desperate little whimpers that slip from your mouth without permission, without shame. Your hips rock up toward him, seeking friction, seeking him, even though there’s no chance of satisfaction without his mercy.

Remmick smiles down at you, all lazy, wicked patience. His thumb strokes your mark again, and your whole body jolts, back arching beautifully off the velvet, nipples peaked, thighs slick. “C’mon, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and rich. “Know you can do better’n that. Gimme what I want.” His other hand slides between your legs, fingers ghosting over the soaked, swollen mess he’s made of you.

Barely touching. Barely giving.

You sob out a broken little sound, your hips chasing his hand, your body betraying how desperately you need him to touch, to fill, to take.

Remmick chuckles, a dark, filthy sound that rumbles deep in his chest. “You’re already cryin’ for it, aren’t ya?” he says, tapping your clit lightly with two fingers just to hear the whimper it wrings out of you. “Poor thing. Poor messy little bride. All knotted up and nowhere to go.”

You bite your lip, trembling.

And finally, finally, you find your voice. “Please,” you gasp. “Please, Remmick—please, I need you—”

His breath hitches. He feels it through the bond.

Your honesty. Your surrender. Your helpless, soaking, wrecked want.

His hand fists in your hair, tugging your head back to make you look at him. “Say it proper,” he growls, eyes glowing deep red in the dark. “Say what you want.”

You sob again, blinking up at him, undone and aching. “Please fuck me,” you whisper. “Please—fill me up—make me yours—” You don’t even know what you’re saying anymore.

You just mean it. You mean every breathless, desperate word.

Remmick’s whole body shudders. “Fuckin’ hell, you’re perfect.” He doesn’t make you wait after that. He grabs your hips, hauling you down the seat, lining himself up again with ruthless, hungry precision.

You feel the head of his cock slide against your entrance, hot and heavy and inevitable. You whimper, trying to push down onto him, but he holds you still.

“Easy, love,” he murmurs, voice thick and rough. “Gonna give it to ya. Gonna fuck ya slow. Deep. Like you deserve.”

You cry out, nails digging into the velvet, the anticipation unbearable. And then—

He pushes inside. All the way.

Inch by inch, deliberate and slow, stretching you open, filling you so completely you can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t be anything but his. Your head tips back, mouth open in a soundless moan, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes.

Remmick groans like he’s dying. “Christ, yer fuckin’ perfect inside,” he pants, hips rolling slow, deep, dragging against every tender, swollen place he touched before. “Tight little thing. Made to take me.”

You whimper under him, arms thrown around his shoulders, legs locked around his waist, pulling him deeper, begging without words for more, more, more—

“Shhh, I got ya,” he soothes, kissing the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your throat where his bite still aches. “Gonna take care of ya, little bride. Gonna fuck ya full. Keep ya full. Never gonna let ya go.”

The bond hums louder. Hotter.

Closer.

You can feel yourself already climbing again, your body desperate to fall with him, for him, because of him.

And Remmick—

Remmick feels it too. Feels it through the bond, through your trembling body, through the desperate clench of your cunt around his cock. “That's it,” he groans, pace picking up, thrusts slow but brutal, deep enough you swear you feel him in your throat. “Milk me, love. Show me who ya belong to.” You don’t realize you’re crying again until his thumb brushes the tear slipping down your cheek.

Not hard. Not cruel.

Gentle. Tender.

Like he’s savoring it. Like he’s proud.

“Look at ya,” Remmick murmurs, still grinding deep inside you, the head of his cock dragging over that sensitive, aching place that makes your toes curl and your thighs shake. “Cryin’ so sweet for me.”

He kisses the tear away. Slow.

Lingering.

And then he pulls back just enough to watch your face as he thrusts deep again—slow and rough and devastating—the velvet seat creaking under you both.

You sob, hips rolling to meet him without even thinking, chasing the friction, the fullness, the ownership.

“That’s it,” he pants, voice ragged with pleasure. “Good girl. Good fuckin’ girl. Always knew you’d take me so pretty.”

You cling to him now—arms thrown around his neck, nails raking down his back, legs locked around his hips like your body’s trying to weld itself to his. The bond thrums, vibrating louder, hotter, tighter, until there’s nothing in the world but him—his cock splitting you open, his hands anchoring you down, his mouth whispering filthy worship against your throat.

“Yer built for me,” he growls, teeth scraping lightly against your skin. “Every inch of ya. Every little flutter of this sweet cunt—made to squeeze the life outta me.”

You keen high in your throat, mindless.

Gone.

And Remmick knows it. Knows he’s breaking you. Knows he’s ruining you.

And he loves it.

“You ain’t ever gonna want anyone else,” he murmurs, slowing his thrusts even more, dragging them out until each one feels like a lifetime. “Ain’t ever gonna even think about lettin’ another man touch ya. Not when I’ve already marked ya this deep.”

You whimper, nodding desperately, nails digging into his shoulders.

“Say it, love,” he urges, voice rough and sweet and brutal all at once. “Say yer mine.”

“I’m yours,” you sob, clenching around him so tight he curses under his breath. “I’m yours—I’m yours—only yours—”

He thrusts deeper, harder, driving you up the seat. “Good girl,” he growls, voice wrecked. “Fuck, you’re perfect.”

Your climax builds again—fast and brutal—pleasure knotting behind your ribs, behind your spine, the bond squeezing tighter, ready to snap.

And he feels it. His hand slides between your bodies, finding your clit with ruthless precision, thumb circling it in time with his deep, devastating thrusts. “Gimme another one, sweetheart,” he pants, hips snapping harder now, cock hitting so deep you swear you feel him in your fucking soul. “Wanna feel you fall apart around me. Wanna drown in it.”

You moan—high and desperate—and the pleasure crashes over you without warning.

You shatter. You scream.

Your body locks up tight, clamping around him, pulsing, milking, owning him as much as he owns you.

Remmick roars against your throat, hips jerking wildly, and then he’s spilling inside you again—hot and endless, filling you so deep you swear you can feel it leaking out around where you’re still clenching him tight.

He bites your shoulder this time—not hard enough to break skin, just hard enough to mark—and the bond howls in satisfaction, sealing it even deeper.

He doesn’t pull out. He doesn’t move.

He just lays there, trembling over you, cock still twitching inside your soaked, fluttering cunt, breath ragged against your skin.

“Mine,” he whispers again.

A vow. A sentence. A promise.

And you—You cling to him like you’ll never let go.

Because you won’t. Because you can’t. Because you’re his. Forever.

You wake in his bed.

You don't remember how you got there.

One moment, you were in the carriage, trembling and wrecked in his arms. The next, you were here—on soft linen sheets, the scent of smoke and leather and Remmick sinking into your skin with every breath you take.

It’s still dark outside. Still heavy.

Still thick with the weight of what’s been done.

The mark over your heart burns dully now, a steady throb like a brand set into your flesh. Not painful. Not exactly.

But constant.

A reminder. A tether.

You reach for him instinctively, seeking the heat of his body against yours—but find only cool sheets where he should be. You sit up, heart stuttering, chest tightening so fast and sharp it’s like you’ve been punched.

Because he’s gone.

He’s not in the bed. Not in the room.

And the bond—The bond screams.

The ache blooms under your ribs, a sick, gnawing hunger that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with absence.

You feel wrong without him. Empty. Fractured.

You clutch the sheet to your chest, trembling. “Remmick?” you whisper into the dark.

No answer. Just the slow crackle of the fireplace across the room.

Your thighs are sticky with the remnants of him. Your body aches in places you didn’t know could ache. And still—it’s not enough.

Your body wants him back. Needs him back.

You bite your lip, rocking slightly where you sit, trying to soothe the gnawing ache, the gnashing hunger spiraling tighter inside you.

And then—

You feel him.

Not physically. Psychically.

A thread tugging between you.

You squeeze your thighs together, trying to suppress the fresh wave of heat pooling low in your belly—but it’s no use. The mark flares hot.

You whimper.

Somewhere—wherever he is—you know he feels it too.

Because a voice curls into your mind. Low. Rough. Amused. "Miss me already, little bride?"

You gasp, hands flying to your chest, clutching the mark like it might stop the flood building under your skin. “Remmick,” you whisper, voice breaking.

His laugh—low and dangerous—echoes in your mind. "Can feel ya squirm from here."

You shudder violently.

He's not even touching you—and still, he unravels you with nothing but the bond. With nothing but his voice.

"Bet yer soaked again already." "Bet yer clenchin’ that sweet cunt, achin’ for me." "Bet you’d beg real nice if I told ya to."

You whimper, rocking helplessly on the bed, the sheet sliding down your body, baring your breasts to the cold night air. You squeeze your thighs tighter—but it only makes it worse. The bond thrums between your legs like a second heartbeat, cruel and constant.

And Remmick—

Remmick drinks it in.

"Touch yerself," he murmurs in your mind, voice thick with heat and wickedness. "C’mon, sweetheart. Let me feel it."

You shake your head, trembling.

You don’t want to. You can’t. But your hand is already sliding down your belly, shaking, betraying you.

The bond rejoices.

Your fingers trail lower. Soft. Tentative. Shaking.

You’re not thinking anymore. You’re feeling.

Feeling the mark pulsing hot against your ribs, feeling the bond pulling you forward like a hook in your chest, feeling Remmick’s presence wrapped around your mind like smoke.

You part your thighs slowly, the sheet falling away completely. The cool air brushes your skin.

Your slick heat clings to your thighs. You’re already soaked for him.

And he knows it.

"Tha’s it," he drawls into your mind, voice rich with wicked satisfaction. "Good girl. Show me how much ya miss me."

Your fingers slip between your folds, gathering the mess he left inside you.

You whimper. Just from the first touch.

It’s almost too much—too raw, too sensitive—but you can’t stop. Your body won’t let you. Not when the bond is throbbing so hard it feels like a second heartbeat inside your cunt.

You circle your clit with slow, trembling motions. Your back arches. Your breath shudders. “Remmick,” you moan into the empty room, thighs trembling. You swear you can feel him groan from wherever he is—like the sound of your pleasure punches through the bond and wrecks him too.

"Sound so fuckin’ sweet when ya moan for me," he murmurs, rough and reverent. "Could listen to ya all night, little bride."

Your fingers move faster, hips lifting off the bed, chasing the friction, chasing the edge. But it’s not enough.

You whimper helplessly, frustrated tears welling in your eyes. You need him. You need more.

And he feels your desperation.

"Poor thing," he croons. "Can’t even make yerself come without me now, can ya?"

You sob out a broken little “no.”

Because it’s true. The bond won't let you. You’re too tightly strung, too deeply tethered to him. You’re trapped in a pleasure you can’t finish without his touch. Without his voice coaxing you over the edge.

And Remmick? He sounds delighted.

"Good," he growls. "You shouldn’t be able to. Yer mine now, body and soul. Only come when I say so. Only break when I make ya."

Your fingers tremble between your legs, still circling, still trying.

And then—

His voice drops into a low, filthy purr.

"Tell me what you need, sweetheart." "Tell me what you’re beggin’ for."

You choke on a sob, panting. “I—I need you,” you cry. “Please, Remmick—I need you—inside me—on me—anything—please—”

The bond tightens, wrapping around you like iron and silk all at once.

And then you feel him move.

Not just through the tether. Physically.

Heavy, sure footsteps across the wooden floorboards.

You twist on the bed, gasping, heart hammering—

And there he is. Leaning against the doorframe.

Shirtless.

Trousers unbuttoned and slung low on his hips.

Eyes glowing deep red.

Cock already hard, leaking, ready.

He licks his lips slowly, predatorily, as he watches you spread out on his bed, hand between your thighs, body trembling with the need he’s been feeding from a distance. “Aw, sweetheart," he says out loud now, voice thick with hunger, accent curling around every syllable. "Look atcha. Fallin’ apart without me."

You shudder violently, reaching out toward him, tears spilling over.

“Please.”

Remmick’s grin turns sharp. Dark.

Triumphant.

“Don’t worry, love," he purrs, crossing the room in three slow, deliberate steps. "I’m gonna take real good care of ya.” The mattress dips under his weight as Remmick climbs onto the bed.

You tremble, thighs still parted, hand still slick and shaking where he caught you mid-plea, mid-fall. But the second his body covers yours—solid, hot, real—you sob with relief.

The bond sings. Bright and brutal.

Tightening like a velvet noose around your heart, your spine, your slick aching cunt.

He hovers over you for a moment, just looking—eyes burning, mouth parted, chest rising and falling with wrecked, hungry breaths. “So fuckin’ pretty when ya beg," he murmurs, voice low and gravelly, all wicked affection. "Could watch ya cry for my cock all night."

You arch up without thinking, hands grabbing at his hips, desperate for him to move, to fill, to own you again—

But Remmick just chuckles. Slow. Dark. Cruel.

"Nuh-uh," he says, catching your wrists easily in one hand and pinning them above your head. "You wanted me, little bride. Now you’re gonna take it."

You gasp, blinking up at him, helpless under the steady weight of his body, the heat of his cock dragging against your dripping folds, heavy and leaking and so close.

He shifts his hips, just enough to tease you—rubbing the head of his cock along your slick entrance, sliding through the mess he already made of you, pressing against your clit with maddening, lazy circles.

You cry out, hips jerking.

But he doesn’t give you what you need. Not yet.

He leans down, nose brushing yours, lips ghosting over your mouth. "Patience," he murmurs, soft and deadly. "Gonna make ya feel it."

And then he moves. Slow. Devastating.

He presses inside an inch. Then stops.

You sob under him, back arching, cunt fluttering helplessly around the stretch.

Remmick groans low in his chest, forehead pressing to yours. "Christ, love," he pants. "Yer still so fuckin’ tight for me."

He pushes deeper. Another inch. Another.

Your legs wrap around his waist automatically, desperate to pull him closer, to drag him deeper, but he only smirks against your skin.

"Greedy little thing," he murmurs. "Can feel it. The way yer suckin’ me in."

You whimper, blinking up at him through a haze of need and tears. "Please," you whisper, broken.

He kisses your forehead. Then your nose. Then your trembling mouth.

"Beg prettier," he growls against your lips.

You cry out, the bond pulling tighter, demanding. "Please, Remmick," you sob. "I—I need you—need all of you—please, please, fill me up—"

And that’s what does it.

His patience breaks. With a low, snarling groan, he slams the rest of the way inside you—burying himself to the hilt in one brutal, perfect thrust.

You scream—high and raw and wrecked—as he stretches you open all over again, thick and deep and claiming.

The bond flares.

Brighter. Hotter. Tighter.

You feel him everywhere.

And he doesn’t move at first—just holds you there, trembling around him, stuffed so full you swear you can feel his heartbeat through the walls of your cunt. "That’s it," he pants against your throat. "Take it. Take all of it."

You sob, clenching around him, desperate for more, for anything, for everything.

And Remmick—Remmick fucking smiles.

"Good girl," he breathes. "My good little bride."

He holds still for just a moment longer.

Lets you feel it. The stretch. The fullness. The way your cunt pulses helplessly around him, like your body’s already trying to keep him, even before he’s started moving.

Remmick’s breath fans hot across your cheek. “You feel that, sweetheart?” he whispers, voice low, reverent. “That’s what it means to be bound.”

You moan beneath him, tears slipping down your temples into your hairline as your fingers tighten around his arms—his name clinging to your tongue like prayer, like poison, like you’d die without it.

He begins to move. Slow.

Deep.

Each thrust rolls through you like thunder, like ritual, like a man grinding his soul into yours one inch at a time. He pulls back until only the tip remains inside—then sinks in again, long and devastating, pressing into every tender spot he’s already mapped with hands, teeth, and magic.

You cry out.

The sound is wrecked. Raw.

Remmick groans into your neck. “Fuck, you sound like heaven,” he pants, thrusting again—deeper, harder, making the bed creak beneath you both. “Takin’ me so fuckin’ good. Like you were made for this.”

You nod—wild, desperate.

Because you were. Because that’s what it feels like.

You were made for him.

The bond throbs between you, singing at every point where your skin meets his—breast to chest, hips to hips, heart to heart. It doesn’t just tether. It entwines.

You feel him inside you in ways that have nothing to do with flesh—his hunger, his need, his worship burning through the tether like fire licking silk.

“Never lettin’ you go,” he murmurs, fucking you deeper now, his rhythm building. “Gonna keep you right here—under me, around me—'til you can’t remember what breathin’ feels like without my cock inside ya.”

You sob—moaning, wrecked, grateful.

He lifts your leg over his shoulder without asking, pressing deeper, grinding his hips down to fill every inch of you, dragging another scream from your throat. “That’s it,” he growls. “Squeeze me, love. Just like that. Milk me dry.”

His hand slides between your bodies, thumb circling your clit with perfect, devastating pressure, like he’s already memorized how to tear you apart.

Your back arches, vision blurring.

You’re close. So close.

Remmick feels it. Through the bond. In your body. In the way your cunt flutters, begging to break again. “Come for me,” he rasps. “Come with me inside you. Let the whole fuckin’ world know who you belong to.”

You can’t stop it. You don’t even try.

You break.

Harder than before—clenching around him, crying out his name, the bond lighting up like a wildfire behind your eyes.

Remmick groans loud and possessive above you, hips snapping hard, fast, until he’s burying himself one last time and spilling into you with a sound you’ll never forget. “Mine,” he chokes out. “Fuck—mine. Mine—”

You don’t know who’s shaking more.

Your hands. His voice. The world.

He stays inside you. Doesn’t pull out.

Just holds you. Breathes you.

Like he needs to.

The bond simmers between you, satisfied and sealed, humming like a beast at rest. You reach up, hands trembling, and cup his face.

He leans into your touch like it hurts not to. “Y’feel it now?” he whispers, barely audible. “That ache when I’m gone?”

You nod, eyes wet.

“Good,” he says. “Because I fuckin’ feel it too.”

You wake up sore.

Sweetly. Brutally. Deep in the muscles of your thighs, between your ribs, in the soft swell of your cunt—filled and used and claimed. You shift under the heavy quilt, blinking into the low golden light of the fire across the room.

There’s birdsong. Faint. And the low simmering hum of the bond still thrumming in your chest like a second heartbeat.

It’s quiet here. Peaceful, almost.

Except for the ache between your legs and the warm, terrifying weight of him behind you.

Remmick.

He’s still there.

One arm curled heavy over your waist, bare chest pressed to your spine. You feel the slow, lazy drag of his breath against your shoulder—calm and even, like a man who’s slept deeply. Like he’s sated.

He doesn’t stir when you shift slightly.

But the bond does. It tightens, warm and low, like a pulse at the base of your spine. Like a hand slipping between your thighs. Like a warning.

Don’t move. Don’t leave. You’re his.

You lie there, heart pounding quietly under his hand.

And then—

His voice. Low. Rough with sleep. Slipping against your skin like silk over a bruise. “Where d’you think yer goin’, little bride?”

You freeze.

His fingers flex over your belly, lazy but firm, tugging you back against his chest until you feel the unmistakable weight of his cock, already thick and half-hard between your thighs. He presses his face into the crook of your neck, breathing you in like he’s starving again.

“I wasn’t,” you whisper. “I wasn’t going anywhere.”

A soft, dangerous hum in your ear. “Good.”

You stay still.

The silence stretches, warm and weighted, as his hand strokes lazy circles over your stomach. He’s not trying to arouse you—not yet. Just remind you. That he’s here. That he feels you. That he owns every flutter of your heartbeat before you even register it.

“You dream last night?” he murmurs.

You swallow hard. You had.

Dreamt of him. Of his hands. His mouth. The way your legs shook when he told you to beg. The way you liked it.

“I don’t remember,” you lie softly.

Remmick laughs against your throat, lips brushing the skin he bit just hours ago. “Liar.”

His hand slides lower. But slower now. Less demanding. More like he’s testing something. Watching how your body answers to his. How the bond hums in response to every breath between you.

“You’re thinkin’ too loud,” he says, nuzzling behind your ear. “I can feel it.”

You tense. Just slightly.

His hand stills over your hips. Then his voice, softer this time. “You scared of me, love?”

The question sinks into your ribs like a needle. You’re not sure how to answer.

Yes.

And no.

And not enough.

You don't answer right away. How could you?

Your throat is tight. Your body too sore, too raw. The ache between your legs still pulses in time with the bond, and Remmick’s presence behind you—his breath on your neck, his cock hardening slowly between your thighs—makes it worse.

Makes it better. Makes it everything.

And still, that question hangs in the air like smoke:

“You scared of me, love?”

He doesn’t say it cruelly. He doesn’t laugh after. He just waits.

His hand stills on your belly, fingers splayed wide over the skin he’s already touched with tongue and teeth and blood.

You swallow hard, voice soft, barely audible.

“Yes.”

Remmick doesn’t tense. He doesn’t growl. He doesn’t punish you.

He exhales slowly through his nose, like the answer had been expected. Maybe even hoped for. “Good,” he murmurs. “Y’should be.”

You blink—heart thudding once, hard, behind your glowing mark.

His thumb strokes your stomach, just above your navel. “You should be scared,” he says again, slower this time. “I’m not a man, sweetheart. I ain’t some boy who’ll kiss your hand and promise forever under a moon I don’t get to stand under.”

He kisses your shoulder instead. Soft. Lingering.

A contradiction to the words in his mouth.

“I’m what waits under the bed,” he breathes. “What knocks at the door when you pray it won’t. What takes instead of asks.”

You shiver. Not from cold.

From the way your body doesn’t recoil.

From the way your hips push back against him without thinking.

Remmick hums against your skin. “Scared of me,” he repeats, voice lowering to a hush, “but still so wet for me you’re stickin’ to my sheets.”

You whimper, cheeks burning.

And still—he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t rut into you. Doesn’t force.

He just holds you tighter. Because this is worse than violence. Worse than taking.

This is knowing.

He feels everything. Not just your body.

Your shame. Your desire. Your ache for him.

And he loves it.

“You think I don’t feel what that fear does to ya?” he murmurs. “How it curls low in your belly, how it sweetens the way you clench when I talk like this?”

His teeth graze your throat again. Gently this time. Carefully. “You’re scared,” he says, “and still, you’d let me put a baby in you if I told you to.”

Your breath catches.

Your body answers before your voice ever could—heat surging between your legs, thighs squeezing together around nothing, cunt fluttering at the idea of it.

He feels that too.

“Ohhh,” he groans, laughing low and pleased. “There she is.”

He doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t flip you over. Doesn’t tear you open.

Doesn’t bare his teeth and fuck you through the mattress, even though you can feel how badly he wants to.

Instead—Remmick slips down your body slowly.

The quilt is pulled aside with a lazy flick of his wrist, exposing your bare skin to the cold air and to him. You shiver, more from anticipation than chill.

He kneels at the edge of the bed, dragging your hips to the edge like you’re something soft and sacred he’s about to set on fire. The bond buzzes between you, a hot, pulsing wire strung from your cunt to his mouth, taut and trembling.

You bite your lip. And you don’t dare move.

Because the look in his eyes—

Low. Hungry. Worshipful.

It pins you to the sheets like a hand to the throat.

“Still scared?” he murmurs, kissing the inside of your knee.

You nod. Barely.

He smiles. Slow. Honest. “Good. Don’t stop bein’.”

He kisses higher. The curve of your thigh. Then the crease.

Then—

Close.

Not touching. Not yet.

But watching you twitch. Watching your hips roll up in a silent, shameful plea.

Remmick groans softly. “You think that fear makes me less gentle?” he asks, voice hushed, like confession. “Nah, sweetheart. Makes me tender. Makes me want to ruin you slow.”

You gasp as he finally presses a kiss to your cunt.

Soft. Closed-mouth.

More reverent than filthy.

It’s worse than teasing. It’s adoration.

He parts you with careful fingers, breath ghosting over you until your legs shake from the not-touching, the almost, the please.

And then his tongue finds your clit.

Just once. A soft drag.

Then again. Slower. Wetter. More precise.

Your back arches off the bed.

Your hands reach for something to hold—sheets, the edge of the headboard, the carved wood posts—but Remmick grabs your thighs and holds you down.

“Mmm-mm,” he hums, tongue circling slowly. “Don’t run.”

You moan—loud, needy—and he groans in response, mouthing at you deeper, filthier, gentler.

“You taste scared,” he mutters between licks. “And it’s makin’ me hard enough to fuckin’ kill for it.”

Your legs twitch.

You’re soaked. He’s drinking you in. Taking his time, tongue slow and firm, lips wrapping around your clit like he’s savoring your fear, your sweetness, your surrender.

And still—

No rush. No cruelty. Just… devotion.

Monster-shaped.

Blood-warm.

Endless.

“You’re mine,” he murmurs against your cunt, voice almost broken. “Even when you’re shakin’. Even when you flinch. Even when you don’t fuckin’ understand what I’ve turned you into yet.”

You sob.

Because he’s right. You’re his.

Even in the fear.

Especially in the fear.

And when he sucks your clit slow and deep, the pressure spiraling out from your spine in white-hot coils, you don’t try to hide the tears.

You don’t want to anymore.

You break the second time he moans. Not from the sound alone—though it’s low and thick and filthy, vibrating through your cunt like a prayer that never belonged to God—but from the way he presses his tongue flat, dragging it slow and steady through your slick folds like he’s starving and you’re the only thing that’s ever tasted like salvation.

Your thighs tremble around his head.

You try to close them. He doesn’t let you.

Strong hands pin your legs open, thumbs digging into the meat of your thighs as he devours you—hungry, tender, relentless.

You sob. Tears spill freely now. Not from pain. Not even from overstimulation.

But from the unbearable, overwhelming worship.

He licks you like you’re sacred. He sucks your clit like it’s a rosary bead caught between his lips.

“Please—” you gasp, voice catching. “Please, I—I can’t—”

But you can. He knows you can.

“Y’can,” he growls into your cunt, mouth soaked, voice wrecked. “Y’will.”

His tongue flicks faster now, swirling pressure tight and perfect, designed to drag you toward the edge.

“Gonna come for me, little bride,” he murmurs, biting your inner thigh. “Gonna give it to me. Right fuckin’ now.”

And you do. You shatter.

The orgasm tears through you like lightning—white-hot, blinding, burning you open from the inside out. You scream his name, thighs locking around his head, body writhing, breaking.

Remmick groans like your pleasure’s feeding him, like it’s going to his head, to his cock, to the thing in him that isn’t human and never pretended to be.

You’re still shaking when he moves.

Rising up over you. Dragging his cock along your twitching folds, hard and slick and soaked with the mess you just made.

“You’re still scared,” he says, watching you with eyes too dark and too red to be anything but wrong.

You nod.

Because it’s true. Because it always will be.

And he smiles.

Soft. Loving. Terrifying.

“But you want me anyway,” he whispers, lining himself up.

Your lip trembles. “Yes.”

He kisses you.

Then pushes inside.

Not hard. Not brutal.

Just deep.

He sheaths himself in your still-pulsing cunt like he belongs there. Like the bond’s waiting to welcome him back.

You cry out, arms wrapping around his shoulders, clinging to him like you might fall through the bed otherwise.

Remmick groans, low and aching, forehead pressed to yours. “That’s my girl,” he breathes. “Takin’ me even when you’re scared. Clenchin’ like you don’t ever wanna let go.”

He starts to move.

Slow. Rhythmic. Ruinous.

And you sob against his mouth—not because it hurts. But because you’ve never felt so full of something you’ll never understand.

“Say it,” he pants, each thrust dragging a cry from your throat. “Say the fear don’t matter. Not if it’s me.”

You nod, dizzy and wrecked, tears slipping down your cheeks.

“It doesn’t,” you whisper. “Not if it’s you.”

Remmick groans, fucking into you harder now, the bond singing through your bones. “That’s it,” he growls. “That’s mine. All of it. All of you.”

You nod again.

You don’t fight. You don’t flinch. You give in.

You don’t know how long he stays inside you.

Could be minutes. Could be hours. Could be forever.

Time doesn’t work the same anymore. Not when your body is bonded to his. Not when your soul is stitched to something ancient and starving.

He holds you through every aftershock. His hands stroke your skin as if memorizing the shape of you, the feel of you, the way your body softened under his until it didn’t know where it ended and he began. Eventually, he moves—slowly, gently, as if reluctant to leave the heat of you even for a moment.

You expect him to pull out and clean you, maybe carry you to a bath, maybe tuck you against his chest again and fall into that peaceful quiet you’d been drifting in before.

But instead—He kneels between your thighs.

Again.

Eyes glowing in the low firelight. Expression unreadable. Mouth blood-red and reverent.

“Remmick?” you whisper.

And then you see it.

His knife.

The blade is old. Dark. Iron and bone. Etched with something that moves if you look too long.

He doesn’t raise it. Not yet.

He looks at you with the kind of stillness that makes you forget how to breathe. “I need to finish it,” he says.

You blink. “I thought we already did.”

He tilts his head, eyes trailing down your sweat-slick body, pausing at the faint glow of the mark over your heart. “Nah, love,” he says quietly. “We did the binding. The claiming. The taking.”

He presses the knife to his palm.

“But not the keeping.”

He slices. Clean. No flinch. Blood wells thick and slow from the cut, dark and rich and wrong.

You sit up slightly, heart pounding.

He holds his hand out to you. “Drink,” he says.

You stare. Then whisper, “Why?”

His voice doesn’t shake. It never does.

“Because this world don’t care what I’ve claimed.” “Because someone’ll try to take you from me.” “Because I need them to know you’re mine before they even open their mouth.”

Your breath catches. “Remmick…”

“They’ll smell it on ya. Feel it in your blood. The burn of me, buried under your skin. It’ll make ‘em hesitate. Make ‘em hurt when they touch you.”

You swallow hard.

Your legs are still trembling from his last claiming. You can feel his seed still dripping from you. You can feel his breath in your lungs, the bond in your spine, his mark over your heart.

And still—he wants more.

You crawl toward him. Hands shaking. And press your lips to his palm.

The taste is sharp. Sweet. Thick with something that isn’t just blood.

Power.

Magic.

Hunger older than this country, older than the woods, older than God.

Remmick groans low in his throat, watching you lap at the wound like you’re starved for it.

Maybe you are. Maybe you always have been.

When you’ve had your fill, he pulls you up into his lap, cradling you there like a bride carried across a threshold made of ash and bone. His mouth finds your throat again. Kisses it. “I’ll kill for you,” he whispers. “I’ll burn for you.”

You press your forehead to his. “I know.”

“I’ll never let you go.”

“I don’t want you to.”

His arms tighten around you. One hand slides over your belly. The mark is glowing again. Dimmer, but pulsing steady. “You’ll carry my blood now,” he says, voice soft and ruined. “One day you’ll carry more.”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to.

The bond answers for you.

You are his.

Forever.

Not because he took. But because you gave.

Because when the dark came knocking—when it whispered promises of pleasure and fear and ruin—

You opened the door. You bared your throat.

You said yes.

And now, when they speak of the bloodbound bride of the most dangerous vampire in the Delta, they won’t whisper in pity.

They’ll whisper in awe.

Because you didn’t run. You didn’t cry. You stayed.

And when they ask you why—if you’re ever foolish enough to speak to mortals again—you’ll say the only truth that matters anymore.

“I was scared.”

And then, with a smile, with teeth, with Remmick’s fire burning behind your ribs—

“But I loved him more.”

[hatethysinner]

ᴍᴀɴ ᴛᴜʀɴꜱ ᴀɴɪᴍᴀʟ

ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ x ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ!ꜰᴇᴍ!ᴀᴄᴄᴏᴍᴘʟɪᴄᴇ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: He loved you too much to share. So he took everything else. Your friends, your family, your freedom, all slowly melted away. Now it's just him, the house, and you. And he promises that's all you'll ever need.

ᴡᴄ: 15.2k

ᴀ/ɴ: title taken directly from this incredible song. i loved and hated every second of writing this but i just NEEDED to get it out of my system. while i don't think i particularly delved into anything dd:dne (PLEASE MIND THE WARNINGS AND DNI IF DARK FICS AREN'T YOUR CUP OF TEA <3), i definitely channeled my most unhinged ao3 reads for this. this'll probably be the only time i write a full fic of dark!remmick, but if this really blows up i may actually consider doing more. as always, white girls i promise you can have your fun with this too ❤️. enjoy reading divas! i don't do taglists personally, so just follow me if you want to be updated when i post c:

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: unapologetically dark fic(!!!), exposition dump, obsession, murder, body disposal, vampirism, biting, blood, bloodplay, dark!remmick on steroids, lovebombing, manipulation, isolation, toxic relationship (somewhat established), emotionally/mentally abusive behavior (!!!), threats of violence, codepency, lowkey unreliable narrator, extremely dubious consent (!!!), noncon (!!!), heavily abused power imbalance, dom!remmick, sub!reader, reader is going through it, remmick loves tormenting her, angst, praise kink, light degradation kink, breeding kink, proper use of a gold chain during sex, babytrapping (!!!), p in v, cunnilingus, fingering, overstimulation, dacryphilia, biting, sadism, monsterfucking, religious mentions, loss of virginity, no happy ending, divider usage, written on demon time

You were the kind of girl folks counted on.

Always had been.

Ran your daddy’s general store with a steady hand and a sharp head for numbers. Never late to open, never short on change. You knew what folks needed before they asked. Darning needles, cane syrup, extra tobacco for the older men who swore they were quitting but never really tried. Folks came in more for you than the goods, if they were honest. You smiled easy. Listened well. Learned their names, their kids’ names, and how they liked their goods bagged.

You had a tight circle of friends, girls you’d known since church bonnets and petticoats. Played games on the porch after Sunday school and swapped lipstick behind the store when your daddy wasn’t looking. They called you the smart one. The grounded one. The kind that could hold a whole household together with one hand while balancing the day’s receipts in the other. They said if any of them were gonna marry a good man, it’d be you.

But somehow, that wasn’t the way the road bent.

You were always the one they leaned on. The one who helped fix their hems and cooled their heartbreaks and made sure they got home safe. But when they talked about love, the soft parts, the burning ones, the kind of hunger that made your hands tremble, they never looked at you.

You weren’t the girl men chased after. Just the one who made things easier.

And still, somehow, you were the one he chose.

He came in on a Tuesday.

Dead of night, just before closing. Long shadows bleeding in through the windows, sun already tucked behind the treeline, store mostly empty save for the sound of your broom brushing across the floorboards. You’d flipped the sign but hadn’t locked up yet. Wasn’t late enough to feel nervous.

Not until the bell over the door chimed, and he stepped through.

A white man.

Tall. Pale. Not from around here. And not the type of man who came this far across town, not without a reason. He didn’t belong on your side of the county line. Not unless he was lost. Not unless he meant trouble.

But if he was aware of how out of place he looked, he didn’t show it. He walked in easy. Calm. Hands in his coat pockets and a smile that curved slow and deliberate. He looked right at you, only you, and said,

“Evenin’, miss.”

Polite. Warm. Like this was a place, a side of town, he frequented.

He asked for flour. Then matches. Then something sweet. Said he had a long road ahead of him, but never said where it led. Moved like he had all the time in the world. Studied the shelves like they held more than goods. Like he was trying to learn something about you in the way you stocked your soap and stacked your salt.

His accent was Southern, but different. Smooth, syrupy, with a twist to his vowels, like every word had traveled through someplace older, foreign, before landing in his mouth. He didn’t speak like a man passing through. Spoke like a man digging roots. And when he left, he touched two fingers to the brim of a hat he didn’t wear, like tipping it to you was instinct.

You locked the door behind him. Stood for a moment, broom still in hand, wondering what to make of it.

Then he came back the next night.

And the next.

Always right before closing. Always alone.

He brought little things each time. His name, Remmick, the second time around. An odd name, you thought.

A ribbon he said reminded him of your favorite dress, even though you hadn’t told him which one it was. A book of poems with pages marked and underlined, left at the counter with a quiet “Thought ya might like this one.” A jar of thick, dark honey that looked more like molasses, wrapped in cloth and twine like a gift.

Remmick never lingered too long. Never pushed for more than you were willing to give. Just watched. Listened. Laid compliments at your feet like offerings. Not greasy or crude, but precise. Gentle. Like he meant every word and had studied you long enough to know they’d land.

Said you had a voice that sounded like morning.

Said you were the only person in town worth a real conversation.

Said you smiled like it meant something.

You rolled your eyes. Called him too much.

But you didn’t tell him to stop.

No one had ever looked at you like that before.

Like you were worth slowing down for.

And piece by piece, the walls you’d built without knowing cracked beneath the weight of his gaze.

And slowly, your world started to tilt.

Not all at once.

Just by degrees.

Like a house shifting its weight before the foundation gives.

Your friends never met him. Not once. But they could tell something had changed. The way you smiled at nothing when they were mid-sentence. The way your gaze would drift toward the door, or to the windows, or to some place in your head they couldn’t reach. You weren’t sharing like you used to. Not your stories, not your time.

Still, they were happy for you. At first. Said it must be something special, if you were keeping it close. But even then, there was a pause in their voices when they said it. A little squint in the eyes. A little too much emphasis on the word special.

They’d always said you were the one who’d settle down first. The one with the good head. The one who’d choose someone kind and steady, someone who knew what it meant to take care of a woman like you.

But you never gave them a name.

Never said what he looked like, what he did, where he came from.

And eventually, they stopped asking.

Your parents noticed the shift too.

Your mama stopped by more often. Just to check in, she'd say. But her voice always started a little high-pitched when she'd talk. Like she could see something in you she didn’t have the words for. Your daddy didn’t say much at all, but you could feel his silence stretching between you every time he stopped by the shop and found you humming without noticing, sorting flour bags with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

You told them everything was fine.

Told yourself the same.

And it was. He said it was.

Remmick always had a way of making the world sound simpler than it was.

He made you feel beautiful. Sharp. Like the only person in the room worth speaking to.

Like his person.

And the things he said. God, the things he said.

Said you had the kind of soul people wrote songs about. That no one else had ever understood you the way he did. That all your life, people had been trying to water you down. Make you smaller, quieter, more convenient.

But he saw you.

And you believed him.

Of course you did.

He didn’t like your friends, though. Said they talked too much. Said they didn’t get you. Said you always came back from seeing them with your shoulders a little tighter, your voice a little more unsure. That they didn’t want you to grow. That they only loved you when you stayed the version of yourself they could manage.

He said it so sweetly, like it hurt him to say it.

Like it was breaking his heart.

And when he asked, gently, softly, with his fingers stroking the inside of your wrist, if you could spend a little less time with them, it didn’t feel like control.

It felt like care.

He missed you, after all.

He needed you.

And you wanted to be needed.

God help you, you did.

So you let them drift.

One by one.

Until their names felt strange on your tongue.

He said your parents were too involved. Too nosy. Said you were grown now. Said their worries weren’t yours to carry. And when you stopped accepting your mama's visits, when you quit your job at your daddy's general store despite the heartbroken look on his face, it didn’t feel like abandonment. Not then.

It felt like love.

Like a cocoon being spun around something precious.

When he asked you to come stay with him, it didn’t feel like a decision.

Just the next step in the story he was writing for you both.

The manor was beautiful. Isolated. A pristine, white-columned thing hidden deep in the Delta, so far from town it didn’t even register on some maps. Every plank of wood polished. Every curtain soft and silent in the breeze. The kind of place where your voice echoed even when you whispered. Where the sky stretched endless above you, dark and wide and brimming with stars you hadn’t seen in years.

He said it would be safer this way. Quieter. Easier to breathe.

You believed him.

You believed everything he said.

And he rewarded that belief.

The room he gave you was sun-soaked and clean, decorated with strange antiques and velvet-upholstered chairs that looked too expensive to sit in but felt right under you. He stocked the closet with dresses in your size before you ever mentioned needing new clothes. Or giving him your measurements. Set your favorite tea on the windowsill beside a stack of your favorite books.

“Just figured ya’d need some comfort, darlin’,” he said, planting featherlight kisses on your hands. “A woman like you deserves softness.”

You told yourself it was kind. Thoughtful.

You didn’t think to ask how he knew what you liked.

Not until later.

By then, it had already begun.

The soft steps outside your door at night.

The feeling of being watched. Not cruelly. Not even threateningly. But deliberately. Like the world outside had narrowed down to two hearts and one house, and all of it was his.

He made sure you loved him. Or at least that you needed him too badly to leave.

And if someone asked you when the line was crossed,

You couldn’t say.

You never even saw it pass beneath your feet.

Until the night he came home with blood on his shirt.

Not a smear. Not a spot.

Soaked.

Dark and wet and clinging, like the cotton had drunk its fill and was still greedy. His cuffs were stiff with it. His collar painted red. There were flecks on his throat, droplets drying like freckles, and his hands dripped steadily onto the hardwood, drawing crimson lines in a path that led straight to you.

He didn’t speak right away.

Just stood there in the doorway of the sitting room, chest rising slow. Watching you.

There was no panic in his eyes. No guilt. Just a feverish gleam, like he’d returned from something holy and wasn’t quite ready to step down from the altar.

You froze where you were. Half-curled on the sofa, book in hand, mouth parting without sound.

He stepped inside and told you the man's name. Simply. As if announcing the weather.

You blinked.

He smiled. Small. Serene.

“Didn’t suffer long.”

You screamed.

Loud. Unfiltered. Scrambled back until your spine hit the armrest, and the book hit the floor with a thud that didn’t register beneath the roar of your pulse.

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t apologize.

Just watched you with that same slow-burning affection he always wore, like this was something you would come to understand in time. Like it was natural. Expected. A truth you’d learn to live inside.

When your voice cracked from shouting no, when your sobs doubled over into heaves, he knelt.

Right there. Blood and all.

He didn’t bother to wash his hands first. Didn’t even take off his coat. He just knelt at your feet like a knight returning from battle, like something ancient and humbled and sure of its place.

“Don’t cry, sugar,” he hummed, reaching for you.

You pulled back.

Didn’t matter.

He closed the gap gently, slowly, as if calming a startled animal.

“Wasn’t for no reason,” he said, voice low and honey-thick. “Ya believe that, don’t ya?”

You shook your head. Weak.

And still, when his bloodied hand cupped your face, you didn’t pull away fast enough.

“There’s things ya don’t know,” he whispered. “Things I can’t tell ya yet. But ya don’t need to know them to be mine.”

You tried to twist free. Failed. His grip was firm, but not cruel.

He pressed his forehead to yours.

The wet heat of him radiated through your clothes as he leaned in close, shoulders still trembling with leftover adrenaline. You could smell it. Copper and something else. Something rich. Like old rust and soil and bone. Like the breath of something deep in the earth that hadn’t surfaced in a long, long time.

He exhaled slow.

“I ain’t want to scare ya,” he said. “But I had to show ya.”

You didn’t speak.

You couldn’t.

“Because this is me,” he continued. “This is what I am. And if ya love me, if ya mean what y’said, then ya have to see all of me.”

“I never said I loved you,” you almost answered.

But the words didn’t come.

Because his hand moved then.

Not to your neck. Not to hurt.

But to your collar.

He brushed the fabric aside, dragging the edge of his sleeve across your skin.

And the blood marked you.

He wiped it deliberately. Across your jaw. The hollow of your throat. The slope of your collarbone.

You gasped, jerking instinctively, but he only shushed you like he was soothing a frightened child.

“Shh,” he cooed. “Just want ya to wear a little of me. That’s all.”

His voice was trembling now. With restraint. With something else.

“I’m not angry,” he added, and it was true. “I’d never hurt ya. Not ever. You’re the only thing in this world I couldn’t break if I tried.”

And you believed him.

That was the worst part.

He leaned back finally, just enough to look you full in the face.

You were streaked in red.

Your cheeks damp with tears.

And he smiled.

Not wide.

Not cruel.

Just soft.

Like it was all going to be okay.

“Y’don’t have to help,” he said. “Not tonight.”

You didn’t answer.

He rose, slow and deliberate, and walked to the kitchen to wash. You sat frozen. Couldn’t bring yourself to look down at your hands.

When the water ran, you heard him humming again. That same lullaby cadence he always used when he thought you were asleep. And when he called your name, voice gentle, it wasn’t a summons.

It was a question.

And you answered.

You stepped into the kitchen on legs that didn’t feel like yours, and you helped him mop the floor. Scrub the blood from the baseboards. You didn’t ask what he did with the body.

You didn’t want to know.

But you watched the way he scrubbed his nails clean, the way his eyes softened whenever he looked at you.

And you didn’t leave.

Not that night.

Not the next.

Now, months later, the blood doesn’t shock you like it used to. You don’t ask who. You don’t ask why. You just wait by the door with towels and vinegar and steady hands.

You still don’t watch him do it. Never have.

But he always leaves the door cracked open.

Just a little.

Just in case.

The house is quiet now. Filled with the sound of dripping water, your own heartbeat, and the hushed, weary creak of the manor’s bones.

He doesn’t pretend to be human anymore.

Not around you.

He lets the teeth stay long, the nails a little sharper. Lets you see the red light behind his eyes when the moonlight hits right.

And still, he kisses you goodnight.

Brushes your curls back from your face.

Tells you you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

And when he says it, you believe him.

You are the best thing he’s ever had.

And he’s made damn sure you’ll never leave.

You woke to the feeling of being watched.

Not the vague kind. Not a creeping hunch. No. This was the real kind. Deep and certain, rooted in the marrow of your bones like an old warning. It had shape now, weight. You knew it as easily as breath.

And sure enough, when your lashes parted and the room slowly unblurred, there he was.

Remmick stood over you like some towering monument carved out of shadow, tall and still and all but glowing in the thin streak of dawnlight filtering in through the curtain seam. His shirt hung half-open, pale chest streaked faintly with water. He must’ve bathed again before slipping in. His hair, dark and heavy, was still damp at the ends, dripping in slow intervals down the edge of his throat.

His jaw was slightly parted. And at the corner of his mouth, just barely catching the light, sat a thick bead of drool.

Not blood.

Just spit.

But too much of it. An unnatural amount.

Like he’d been watching you sleep for a long, long while and hadn’t once closed his mouth.

Sizing you up.

You didn’t flinch.

Not anymore.

Instead, you shifted slowly beneath the blankets, tucking your arms beneath your cheek. Your voice was low, rough with sleep. “You been there long?”

His eyes lit like someone had sparked a fuse. And then that crooked grin curled across his face, proud and toothy. Too many teeth for such a soft expression.

“Couldn’t help it,” he drawled, voice slow and lazy at the edges. “Ya look so pretty when you sleep.”

You huffed quietly. It wasn’t really a laugh, but it wasn’t a complaint either. You didn’t pull the blankets higher. Didn’t hide. Just turned your face into the pillow to block the light.

Behind you, the mattress dipped under his weight.

He climbed in slow, but sure. As he always did, never asking if you needed the space. You felt the heat of him even before he touched you. Always too cold when he wasn’t holding you, always too much when he was.

One arm slipped under your waist. The other folded over your middle. And then he was there, wrapped around you like a vise, breath ghosting against your neck, chest rising and falling in sync with your own. You could feel the edge of his belt buckle press into your lower back, the weight of his thigh hooked over yours, the solidness of his body where it pressed along every inch of you.

You should’ve felt caged.

Sometimes you did.

But this morning, you just felt still. Heavy. Grounded.

He kissed the back of your shoulder. Once. Then again, slower.

You closed your eyes and listened.

“Made breakfast,” he murmured against your skin. “Berries. Biscuits. Got that jam ya like. And tea. Not the bitter one. The kind with the hibiscus.”

You didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t move either.

Just lay there with the weight of him curled around your body, his words threading through the fog in your mind. Your limbs felt like wet cotton, and your heart… well, it didn’t race anymore when he held you like this. It just kept time. Careful. Steady.

Some mornings were like this.

Gentle. Sweet. The world in perfect balance, even if it was only for a breath.

Others weren’t.

There were days where something in him just… shifted.

No warning. No clear offense. Just a quiet closing of the door between you. A change in the air.

He wouldn’t look at you.

Wouldn’t speak.

You’d move through the house like a ghost in your own skin, tiptoeing around the silence. You'd replay every moment from the days before in your head like a broken record, trying to pinpoint the crack. The wrong word. The wrong breath. You whispered his name sometimes, just to see if he’d flinch.

He never did.

And the longer it lasted, the more desperate you got.

You’d sit at the edge of the bed, fingers clenched in your lap, watching the door anxiously. Or trail behind him through the house, trying to make yourself useful. Fixing his tea, folding the blankets, laying out the towels just the way he liked them. Hoping he’d notice. Hoping it’d be enough.

It never was.

Sometimes you cried.

Most of the time, you did.

Not loud. Just soft and constant, curled into a corner of the couch, the fabric beneath you growing damp from the weight of it all. You didn’t ask him to come back. You just wanted him to see.

And eventually, once the sun had vanished and the stars were out, once you were past the tears and into the shaking, silent part of grief, he would return.

Not from outside.

Just from wherever he’d gone inside himself.

He’d find you there, face raw, eyes swollen, mouth trembling with all the things you couldn’t say.

And he’d kneel.

Press his hands to your knees. Pull your face up to his.

He used to wipe your tears, once. With the pads of his thumbs. Gentle. Sweet.

But not anymore.

Now he licked them.

Dragged his tongue across your cheeks, pleased sounds always escaping his mouth as if he was tasting a delicacy.

“Ain’t mean it,” he’d whisper. “Ain’t mean to go so cold, darlin’.”

You never asked why he did it.

You just nodded.

And let the licks turn into kisses.

You tried not to think too hard on those days.

Because when he was good to you?

He was perfect.

Like now.

You felt his fingers shift under your nightdress, splaying wide over your stomach like he was anchoring himself with the shape of you.

“Ya smell like sunlight,” he whispered, almost in awe. “Like warmth. Like somethin’ I wanna keep forever.”

He didn’t say it to get a rise out of you.

He meant it.

He always meant it.

You could feel the edge of a smile pull at your mouth, but it didn’t quite reach the surface. It never did on mornings like this. You couldn’t tell if it was dread or hope that kept it from blooming fully.

He kissed your hair.

“Ya awake?”

You gave the smallest nod.

He chuckled, breath warm and steady against your ear.

“Come eat, baby. Gotta keep ya strong.”

You nodded again.

And let him pull you out of bed.

Because that’s what you did on good days.

You let yourself be loved.

He led you down to the kitchen like you were the only woman in the world who’d ever deserved to be walked anywhere.

His palm rested against the small of your back, guiding, not pushing, and he moved with slow, deliberate steps like each one was part of some silent ceremony only he knew the meaning of. You didn’t rush. You never did, not with him. It didn’t feel right to.

The kitchen was already warm with sunlight slanting through the curtains, soft and hazy, painting the wooden floorboards gold. The stove clicked gently as the kettle cooled. Something citrusy hung in the air alongside the hibiscus. Orange peel or lemon zest, maybe. It was always hard to tell with him. He had a way of combining scents until they no longer smelled like anything but home.

He pulled your chair out for you.

Waited for you to sit.

Then served your plate himself.

He’d made the biscuits from scratch. Just the way you liked them, topped with honey and butter. A few berries had burst open on the side of the pan, their juices bleeding into the crust like bruises, and he placed those pieces carefully at the edge of your plate, like he knew you’d want them last.

There were eggs, too. Soft-scrambled, barely set. And jam. The good kind, dark and smooth and homemade.

He didn’t eat, of course. He never did.

But he sat across from you, arms folded on the table, chin resting on one hand as he watched.

Not like a man waiting for praise.

Like a man watching a miracle.

You didn’t feel self-conscious anymore. Not the way you used to. Not even when he studied the curve of your fingers or the way your mouth parted slightly with each bite. Not when his eyes lingered on the bridge of your nose, the full shape of your lips, the high frame of your cheekbones. Features that other men overlooked, or worse, tried to make smaller. Not when he traced your every movement like he was trying to memorize it.

Just warm.

Maybe a little shy.

But warm.

“You’re gonna spoil me,” you said after a few moments, tone light and quiet.

His mouth curved. “Good.”

You raised a brow, chewing. “That all you gonna say?”

He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table. “What else is there? A woman like ya’s worth spoilin’. Worth feedin’. Worth watchin’. I get more outta sittin’ across from ya than most men get in a lifetime.”

Your breath caught.

You didn’t mean for it to. You knew he liked that kind of reaction. Thrived off it. But still, it happened. He had a way of saying things that left you undone. Like he meant them. Like there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that it was true.

You swallowed and looked down at your plate.

Let yourself smile.

Just a little.

That was the danger of mornings like this. The sweetness. The calm.

You’d forget, just for a moment, what he was.

Let your guard slip.

And he’d let you. That was the worst part.

He never forced it.

Never had to.

“I’ll be headin’ out later,” he said, finally breaking the stillness. “Just before sundown.”

You glanced up. “Errands?”

He nodded. “Might be a while.”

You waited, hoping he’d elaborate.

He didn’t.

You didn’t press.

Not because you trusted him, not completely, but because you wanted to. Needed to. Trust was a gift, and he treated it like one. Collected it. Stroked it. Cradled it in his arms like something he’d stolen.

He reached across the table and brushed his knuckles down the side of your face.

You leaned into it.

Didn’t mean to.

But you didn’t pull away either.

He tilted his head. Studied you.

“I’ll bring ya back somethin’ nice,” he said. “New necklace, maybe. Somethin’ that'll bring out that pretty mouth of yours.”

You blinked. “You don’t have to-”

“I want to.” His hand slid down your arm, resting over your wrist. “Ya always act like ya ain’t allowed to be treated soft. But I told ya already, anybody that didn’t see your worth before me was blind.”

You didn’t respond.

You didn’t have to.

He leaned in and kissed your forehead. Soft. Gentle. Reverent.

And for a second, everything felt so normal.

So painfully, heartbreakingly normal.

Like this was just a house.

Like he was just a man.

Like you were just a girl in love, waiting for the evening to fall.

You let yourself stay in the moment a little longer.

Finished your tea in slow sips.

Let him watch you.

And prayed that the quiet wouldn’t turn. That tomorrow wouldn’t shift. That tonight, God willing, tonight would still be kind.

You knew better than to believe in quiet mornings.

Not here. Not with him.

Still, the stillness of the day had tricked you. It had crept in through the floorboards and settled into your chest, soft as fog, convincing you that peace might last. That today would stay gentle. Safe.

He’d been kind all morning. Sweet, even. Kissed your shoulder while you dressed. Detangled your hair with slow, worshipful hands. Called you baby in that voice like melted sugar as he danced with you to a jazz record. It had been so easy to believe in the calm, to believe he meant it.

But peace, in this house, was never given.

Only loaned.

You’d spent the day in the parlor, patching a hem that didn’t really need fixing, listening to the wind scratch against the shutters. He passed through every hour or so, always with something to say.

“Ya look so soft in this light.”

“That color’s real pretty on ya.”

Always with a kiss to your hairline. A graze of his fingers at your elbow. And you let him.

You let him.

Because it was a good day.

Until it wasn’t.

Remmick lit the lamps earlier than usual. Shadows hadn’t even grown long across the floor yet, but he moved like he couldn’t stand the dim. A low, strange hum sat under his breath. His movements were slow but measured, pressing the collar of his shirt, combing his hair with surgical care. He changed into a dark button-up, freshly pressed, the fabric stiff and lined with faint charcoal pinstripes. He didn’t fasten the top button. Let his collarbone show. The buttons themselves were a pale ivory, too round and too polished to be anything but bone.

He didn’t speak while he dressed.

Didn’t look at you, either.

But when he passed you near the kitchen door, he paused. Tilted your chin up. Kissed your forehead like a benediction. His lips were too warm, too careful.

“Be good while I’m gone,” he said.

And that was all.

The door opened hours later, at a time when you had long retired to your bedroom.

Not with a knock. Not with warning.

Just the quiet creak of the front door swinging open.

You didn’t recognize the man who entered. Not at first.

Older. White. Expensive. That was the word that came to mind first. Expensive. The coat, the cane, the posture. He moved like he owned everything he looked at, and when his eyes slid over the staircase where you watched from just out of view, he barely registered you at all.

He smelled of clean money and fragrant cologne. His voice, when he spoke, had a practiced warmth. Used to making deals, used to being obeyed.

Remmick welcomed him like an old friend. No introductions. Just a nod, and a hand at the man’s back as he ushered him toward the parlor, the two of them murmuring low between each other. You didn’t catch what was said. Didn’t want to.

You slowly closed your door.

But that didn’t stop your heart from picking up.

Didn’t stop the feeling crawling into your bones. The kind that knew this was punishment, even if you didn’t know what for.

You hadn’t said anything wrong today. Hadn’t wandered too far. Hadn’t said no.

He’d kissed your forehead. Cooked for you. Danced with you.

So why?

Why this?

You sat on the edge of your bed, hands pressed to your thighs, jaw clenched until it ached. You wanted to pace, but you knew better. He hated when you fidgeted.

Time bled slowly by. A drip of unease with every second.

Then the parlor door clicked shut.

You couldn’t hear much. Just muffled voices beneath the hum of the hallway light. At first, it was civil. Calm. Two men talking. Glasses clinking. Something poured.

You stared out your window.

And then, a sound.

It didn’t come as a cry at first. Just a thump, low and heavy.

Then another.

And then it began in earnest.

The screaming didn’t start with words. It started with breath. Ragged, sharp, begging. Then the voice rose. Screamed so hard it cracked, pleaded, cursed. The sound of it ricocheted through the walls like thunder. One drawn-out, blood-curdled no, followed by a scream that didn’t end, just collapsed.

You covered your ears.

Pressed your palms so tight it made your head ring.

But nothing could drown it out.

Your whole body trembled.

Not from shock.

From knowing this was intentional.

Because he didn’t need for you to hear it.

He wanted you to.

This was never about the man in the parlor. Not really.

It was about you.

What you’d said. Or done. Or failed to do.

You didn’t know what you were being punished for.

But you felt it, in your gut.

Your punishment had a heartbeat, a voice, a body now. And it was breaking somewhere below your feet.

The screaming stopped eventually.

But the silence that followed was worse.

Because silence didn’t end anything in this house.

It only marked the beginning of the next thing.

You waited.

Not just for the screaming to stop. Not just for the silence to settle. But long after.

You waited until the walls stopped humming with sound. Until the floorboards cooled beneath your feet. Until even the wind outside held its breath.

And then,

You heard it.

The soft groan of the parlor door unlatching. A low creak. A shift in weight across the boards.

His footsteps were quiet.

Measured.

Too soft for a man who’d just done what he’d done. Like he was walking through a church. Or a dream.

You didn’t move. Stayed curled in on yourself at the edge of your bed, arms locked around your knees, eyes fixed on the door like it might rattle open any second. It didn’t.

Not yet.

You heard the stairs instead.

One. By one.

Each step slow and steady, deliberate. Like he was giving you time.

Time to compose yourself.

Time to prepare.

Time to realize nothing was going to stop him from reaching you.

The knob turned.

You hadn’t even realized your door was unlocked.

It opened with a click and a hush, and there he was.

Standing in the threshold like a vision from a fever.

Blood soaked the front of his shirt. Thick and wet in some places, half-dried and flaking in others. It clung to his throat, painted his collarbone, pooled beneath his nails. His sleeves were still rolled, but the pale skin of his forearms was nearly lost beneath the spatter. There were streaks along his jaw where he’d tried to wipe his mouth clean. Too late. Too messy. A smear of it curved across his cheekbone like a smile.

And his claws, long, edged, still drawn, glinted in the low light of your bedside lamp.

But what knocked the breath out of your chest was his face.

Calm.

Completely, terrifyingly calm.

His eyes, those strange, shifting, ancient things, shone soft in the dim. Not wild. Not frenzied.

Just… peaceful.

“Darlin’,” he said, soft as a sigh. “Can ya come here?”

His voice sounded like the morning.

Like nothing had happened at all.

You didn’t answer.

But your body moved.

You hated it. How your limbs betrayed you. How your feet swung over the edge of the bed and touched the floor. How you stepped closer to him, one foot, then another, then another, drawn toward him like gravity had chosen sides.

He didn’t move to meet you.

Just waited.

Like he knew you would come.

And when you reached the doorway, when your bare feet kissed the hallway light, that’s when he touched you.

Both hands to your face. Fingers gentle, claws grazing soft against your cheeks.

Blood smeared warm across your skin.

You flinched.

But didn’t pull away.

His thumbs brushed just beneath your eyes. Not to wipe your tears, there weren’t any yet, but to cup the place where they would be. Where he knew they would be.

“Ya did somethin’ wrong,” he whispered. “Ain’t ya?”

That broke you.

“No,” you whispered, voice breaking.

The tears came all at once. Thick. Hot. Your chest heaved and you shook your head, hands flying up to press against his wrists. “No, please- Remmick, please, I didn’t- I can’t-”

“I know,” he said.

But his grip didn’t loosen.

Your knees nearly gave. Your breath hitched.

And he leaned in close, lips almost brushing yours.

“I’m scared,” you sobbed. “Please don’t make me-”

That’s when he said it.

Soft. Sweet.

Final.

“Y’ain’t got a choice.”

The words weren’t cruel.

Weren’t laced with threat.

They sounded like a lullaby.

And then, he kissed you.

Slow. Deep. Full of pride.

The blood on his mouth smeared onto yours, warm and metallic and thick enough to make you shudder. You didn’t kiss him back. Couldn’t. But your lips parted. And that was enough.

He made a sound, something like a purr, and pulled back, smiling like you’d just said I love you.

“There ya go,” he whispered.

Then, lower: “C’mon, now. Just a little bit of help.”

You shook your head, tears streaking your cheeks.

His thumbs smeared them. Not away. Just… further. Down your face. Into your mouth. Into the collar of your nightdress.

“Remmick, please-”

“Ya can,” he said again, voice even gentler this time. “Ya will.”

And when he kissed your forehead, it didn’t feel like comfort.

It felt like surrender.

He led you to the rear hall.

Step by step.

The floorboards creaked beneath your feet, slow and drawn out like they knew what was coming. The air back here always felt colder. Damper, too. Like the walls remembered every secret ever whispered against them.

One clawed hand pressed low to your back. Not shoving. Not dragging. Just guiding. A lover’s touch, if you ignored the sharp curve of his nails and the way they caught on the cotton of your dress.

The other hand gripped something heavy. Bundled tight in a canvas sheet. Edges stiff with dried blood. You didn’t need to ask what it was.

You didn’t want to know how long it had been wrapped like that.

You didn’t want to know anything.

“Take the feet, darlin’,” he said. Soft. Encouraging. “That’s it. There ya go.”

You hesitated.

Stared at the length of fabric that formed the shape of shins, then ankles, then shoes that had once gleamed polished and proud beneath the parlor light.

The man’s feet were cold.

You flinched as your fingers made contact. Felt the stiffness through the layers. The weight of it settled like stone in your stomach.

You choked.

Your knees bent beneath you, buckling under the weight of it, legs shaking, arms burning.

“That’s alright,” Remmick said quickly, already crouched beside you again. “You’re strong. Stronger than ya think.”

He didn’t offer to take it from you.

Didn’t let you drop it either.

Just walked backward, slow and steady, leading you through the back door as the hinges groaned open.

Outside, the air hit sharp.

You breathed it in too fast. Coughed once. The scent of blood clung to your face, your hair, your hands. And beneath it, rot. Curling at the edges of the canvas like the world had already started reclaiming him.

You swallowed hard.

Walked blind behind Remmick.

The trees pressed in around you, branches brittle with late summer’s death. Moonlight pierced the canopy in sharp slivers. The path was narrow. Familiar. You’d taken it before, but never like this.

Never carrying someone.

Remmick hummed as he walked.

Low and tuneless, like it was something he didn’t know he was doing. A sound of habit. Of focus. Of ritual.

You didn’t ask how he knew where to dig.

You didn’t ask how many times he’d done this before.

You just stood there, trembling, as he knelt in the clearing and began to carve the earth apart with his hands.

Not with a shovel.

With his claws.

They split the dirt like butter, curling soil and root alike with mechanical ease. He worked fast. Efficient. With a kind of composure, almost, like he was preparing a bed, not a grave.

You stayed frozen until he glanced up at you, face slick with sweat and moonlight.

“Almost done,” he said. “Just a little more, sugar.”

He stood.

Wiped his brow with the back of one hand, smearing dirt and blood across his temple.

Then he turned to you, lips stretched into a smile.

“C’mon,” he said gently. “Let’s lay him down.”

The canvas landed with a heavy thud.

You flinched again.

He unwrapped the top half. Not all the way. Just enough for the face to show. Slack-jawed, eyes glazed, neck at the wrong angle.

Your stomach turned.

Remmick crouched again, slipped his arms beneath the man’s shoulders.

He looked up at you. Expectant.

“Go on,” he said, nodding toward the legs.

You hesitated.

“Remmick-”

Your breath caught.

“I said, go on.”

So you did.

You took a deep breath, grasped the ankles again, and followed his count.

One, two, three.

You heaved.

He lifted.

And together, you laid him in the earth.

It wasn’t graceful.

It wasn’t clean.

You gagged once and turned away, bile stinging your throat. He didn’t chastise you. Didn’t rush you. Just stood there in the moonlight, waiting, the grave yawning at his feet.

When you finally turned back, your face pale and your hands filthy, he pressed a kiss to your temple.

“Almost done.”

The dirt came next.

Heavy, clumpy, wet.

It stuck to your fingers and your wrists, coated your forearms, gathered beneath your nails like it wanted to crawl inside you.

Remmick packed the final mound himself.

Then stood.

Brushed his hands together with a soft clap.

And turned toward you.

Smiling.

Like you’d just exchanged vows.

Like something had been sealed tonight, sacred and unbreakable.

His eyes shone in the dark, wide and wild and glowing faintly red.

He cupped your face again, blood dried into the creases of his knuckles.

“Ya did good,” he whispered. “So good f’me.”

And you didn’t correct him.

Didn’t move. Couldn't.

He reached into his coat.

The gesture was slow, deliberate. Like everything with him. He could’ve pulled out anything. A blade, a scrap of skin, a love letter scrawled in someone else’s blood, and part of you would’ve just watched, quiet and ready.

But instead, his hand came back gloved in shadow and something glinting beneath a soaked cloth.

He held it out to you. Waiting.

“I brought ya a gift,” he said, voice low and soft, almost shy. Like he was offering you a bouquet.

You didn’t answer.

Just stared.

The fabric, silk, maybe, once cream, was red now. Mottled. It clung wetly to whatever was wrapped inside, dark lines seeping into the seams.

He unwrapped it slowly.

Bit by bit.

Like unveiling something sacred.

A necklace.

Sapphire, deep and cold, surrounded by a constellation of diamonds so small and fine they looked like frozen tears. The pendant caught the moonlight, sparkled like a drop of river water in the sun.

But the chain, thin and gold, was streaked with blood. Still tacky. Still warm.

He held it up between both hands, letting the pendant sway gently between you.

“Belonged to his wife,” he said.

His eyes never left your face.

“Don’t worry. She didn’t put up much of a fight.”

Your breath hitched.

He said it like a kindness.

Like a mercy.

You didn’t ask what he meant. Not exactly. Didn’t ask if that meant she begged. Or wept. Or just stood there, quiet, waiting for her turn.

You didn’t want to know.

You never did.

He stepped closer.

The necklace still dangling in his hand, catching on his fingers. Blood smeared his palm now. Streaked down his wrist. You didn’t move as he reached up, lifted the chain, heavy and wet, and looped it behind your neck.

His fingers were careful.

Precise.

He fastened it with a soft click, the clasp brushing the nape of your neck, cold as a knife.

Then he stepped back. Just a little.

“There,” he whispered, his voice nearly trembling. “Look at ya. My beautiful girl.”

You didn’t look down.

Didn’t touch it.

You felt the weight of it though. The cold metal against your chest. The stick of half-dried blood just beneath your collarbone.

He kissed your cheek next.

Then your jaw.

Then your mouth.

Soft. Tender.

Loving.

Like a reward.

Like a promise.

You didn’t kiss him back.

Didn’t turn your face away, either.

You stood there like a statue. A monument to something twisted and holy. Let him praise you. Let him touch you. Let him cover you in devotion and blood and the sweetness of a love that could burn down a world if it meant keeping you in the ashes.

You weren’t sure what you were anymore.

Not a prisoner.

Not exactly.

Not a partner.

Not fully.

Not a killer.

Not yet.

But his hands, slick and reverent, cradled your face like you were sacred. Like you were his altar. His salvation.

Because you were.

You could see it in his eyes.

He’d ruin himself for you. Had already ruined others. And he’d drown you in that same ruin, over and over again, if it meant keeping you his.

He kissed you once more.

And whispered your name like a hymn.

His girl.

His gift.

His only.

The morning was red.

Not pink. Not gold.

Red.

The kind of light that made the dust in the air look like something alive, like smoke rising off a battlefield no one ever won. It filtered through the bedroom curtains in streaks, bleeding across the wooden floorboards, catching on corners like dried rust.

You stood in front of the mirror with your fingers curled around the edge of the sink, knuckles white, wrists aching from how tightly you gripped. The weight of the necklace still hung heavy on your collarbone. It hadn’t come off. Not when you undressed. Not when you bathed. Not even when you’d scrubbed at it with a rag soaked in rosewater, trying, foolishly, desperately, to pretend that was all it was. A speck. A blemish. A piece of someone else's story, not yours.

But it was yours now.

All of it.

And it wasn’t just blood that had soaked in.

It was his voice, still echoing. The way he whispered encouragements as you dropped that man’s arm into the grave. The way his smile widened when you didn’t run.

The way the man’s eyes stared up from the dirt in your dreams.

You hadn’t slept. Not really. You’d closed your eyes and drifted just long enough for the screaming to follow you in. His scream. Ragged. Human. Then the wet sound of Remmick tearing into him. Again and again and again. It kept looping, each time more vivid than the last.

You looked at your own face now, and all you could see was that man’s.

Mouth open. Arms limp. That flash of horror when he realized he wouldn’t make it out of this house.

Your breath hitched, low in your throat.

Tears stung your eyes.

You blinked them back.

You didn’t hear him come in.

You never did. That was the trouble. He moved through space like something meant to haunt. Silent, smooth, inescapable. The door didn’t creak. The floor didn’t shift.

But you knew.

Your body always knew before your eyes did. The hairs on your arms rose. The air cooled. The stillness deepened into something you could taste.

“Y’ain’t even touched your tea,” he said gently from the doorway, voice all breath and softness. “I kept it warm for ya.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just stared at yourself in the glass, hands trembling against the porcelain. You tried to draw a breath that wouldn’t shake.

Behind you, he stepped closer.

“I’m not mad,” he added. “If that’s what you’re wonderin’. ’Bout last night.”

The words landed like stones on water.

You didn’t respond.

His reflection didn’t show in the mirror.

It never did.

But you didn’t need it to. His voice wrapped around your waist like a second pair of arms, like silk stretched over barbed wire.

“Y’did so good. Did exactly what I needed.” He stepped closer. Slow. Deliberate. “That ain’t small, y’know. What I asked of you. It was big. It meant somethin’.”

You blinked hard, but the tears still clung stubborn at the corners. You clenched the sink edge tighter, like maybe it could tether you. Anchor you. Stop you from suffocating in what you’d done.

“I didn’t want it to mean anything,” you said.

But it cracked when it came out.

Your voice. Your face. Your control.

It cracked all the way down.

You pressed your lips together to keep from making a sound, but your shoulders betrayed you, shuddering once, sharp and tight.

You felt him move in behind you, his presence stretching out like a shadow cast by firelight.

“I know, darlin’,” he comforted. “I know.”

But he didn’t say sorry.

Not once.

And the necklace stayed right where it was. Cool against your skin, glittering like something beautiful, something earned.

Something permanent.

He was behind you now.

You didn’t hear him move. Not a creak of floorboard, not a shift of breath. But suddenly, his arms were around your waist. Strong, steady, certain. Like they’d always been there. Like they belonged there.

You startled, just a little.

But he only pulled you closer, pressing his body to your back with the kind of patience that wasn’t really patience at all. Just control. You could feel the way he held himself, as if something inside him had to be kept still. Contained.

His breath ghosted over your shoulder, cool and damp like a lingering mist. He smelled like clove. And sage. And copper. Always copper.

He rested his chin near your temple, nose nudging lightly into your hair.

“I can take it off,” he offered, voice low and humming. “The necklace. If it’s too much.”

You didn’t answer.

His fingers brushed lightly over the jewels. A whisper of a touch, reverent and slow. He let it linger.

“But I hoped ya’d keep it.”

Your eyes stayed locked on the mirror. On the glinting sapphires. The dried blood now fully gone but not forgotten. You swallowed hard.

“Why?” you asked, barely above a breath.

He leaned in.

Close enough that his lips brushed your neck this time, not your temple. A soft, trailing kiss pressed just beneath your ear. Not hungry. Not rough. But not gentle either.

His voice sank into your skin.

“Because it looks right on ya.”

The words were quiet, but they landed like a hand on your throat.

You didn’t flinch. Not outwardly. Your face stayed calm in the mirror. Your shoulders held.

But inside?

Something gave.

A small, buckling thing. Like a part of you that still wanted to believe you could carry this without changing shape.

He kissed your cheek once, slower now, mouth warm and oddly careful for someone so often careless with your breath.

Then he stepped back.

“I’m headin’ out,” he said, already turning toward the door. “Won’t be long. Won’t go far. Just need to stretch my legs.”

You nodded once.

Didn’t meet his eyes.

You heard his boots on the stairs.

The front door creaked open.

And like always, he left it ajar.

Just enough.

Not enough to invite the wind in. But enough to make a point.

You’re not locked in.

You’re free to go.

But you never did. Not because you couldn’t.

Because he’d folded himself into your bones. Threaded his voice through your thoughts. Left kisses on your pulse like warnings.

Before the door closed behind him, his voice drifted back up the stairs. Just loud enough to reach you.

“I love ya.”

The words sat heavy on the floorboards.

You didn’t say it back.

And you knew he’d remember that.

Would carry it like a splinter under his skin.

Would mention it again someday.

Long after you’d forgotten it.

Long after you’d wished you hadn’t.

You drifted to the garden.

The one Remmick had planted for you, despite his disdain for sunlight. He never called it a gift. Never made a show of it. Just started tending the earth one day, sleeves rolled, mouth quiet, movements deliberate. No shovel. Just his hands. Just his claws, raking slow furrows into the dirt and patting them soft again like he was taking care of something fragile.

You’d watched from the balcony that day, unsure if it was kindness or authority. Maybe both. With him, it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began.

It was overgrown now.

But beautiful. Wild.

The vines curled over the trellis like they were reaching for something they’d never touch. Lavender bloomed in thick patches near the roots. Moonflowers tilted their faces upward, shy but greedy. He must’ve come through while you were sleeping, added new things. Nightshade, maybe, or something less honest. Plants you didn’t recognize, but that hummed with some secret you weren’t sure you wanted to know.

You crouched beside a clump of jasmine. Ran your fingers along a bloom. Soft, white, too perfect for this place. You et your breath shudder out.

This was what he did.

He gave you things. He built them into your days. Little comforts, stitched between the horrors.

And they worked.

He loved you.

In his way.

It was obsessive. Demanding. It carved pieces out of you, asked for silence when you wanted to scream and closeness when you needed distance. But it wrapped around you, too. Warmed your tea. Laid your slippers out. Whispered your name like a prayer in the middle of the night.

And you.

You didn’t know what you felt.

Not entirely.

But it was real.

Not soft. Not easy. But real.

Real enough to stay.

Real enough to clean up bodies.

Real enough to wear the necklace. Still cool against your skin. Still shining in the light.

You traced the petal again. It trembled slightly beneath your fingertip.

You stood there until the sun dipped low again, until the cicadas started to hum and the air went thick with evening. That slow, syrupy hush that pressed against the back of your throat like a warning. The garden dimmed into blue shadows. The wind stopped moving.

You didn’t need to look at the sky to know it was time.

You went inside.

Back through the back door. Back into the red quiet. The warmth that never left the floorboards. The smell of sugar and copper that clung to the curtains like an old friend. The faint creak of the stairwell. The clock ticking too slow, or maybe just loud.

Back into his house.

Your house.

Home.

And there, waiting for you by the parlor door, was a new pair of shoes.

Sapphire blue.

The exact shade of the necklace.

They didn’t look expensive. Not flashy. Just thoughtful. Too thoughtful. A little too perfect. The soles hadn’t touched ground. The leather looked like cream. Soft enough to bend, strong enough to last.

They were still wrapped in tissue paper. Still perfect.

And on top, a note. Folded twice, edges crisp.

For when you feel like walkin’. But only if I’m with you.

You didn’t cry.

Didn’t smile, either.

You just sat down in the chair beside the box, touched the ribbon. It gave under your fingers, like it had been tied gently. Like it had been placed there just moments before.

And maybe it had.

Maybe he was watching.

Maybe he never stopped.

You looked around the room once. Let your eyes pass over the mantle, the mirror, the empty hallway. Then back to the shoes.

Blue as blood in moonlight.

He wanted you to wear them. To remember him every time you moved. To know you weren’t alone.

That you’d never be alone again.

Even if you wanted to be.

You rested your hands in your lap. Smoothed your palms over the hem of your skirt. And waited.

Because you knew he’d come through the door soon.

And you needed to be ready.

Two bodies.

That was all you saw at first.

The front door swung open on its silent hinges, just wide enough to catch the night air and let in the swamp’s low, humming breath. Then, dragged across the threshold like afterthoughts, came two bodies.

Ankles gripped in Remmick’s fists. One man. One woman. Limp. Unceremonious. Their shoes scraped along the steps with dull thuds, their limbs sagging like broken dolls. Their heads knocked once, twice, against the frame as he yanked them forward over the threshold, then across the floor, right over the woven runner you’d cleaned just yesterday.

He didn’t pause to readjust his grip. Didn’t hoist them up by the arms or cradle the neck. Just dragged them straight across the polished pine, the hem of the woman’s dress catching on a nail, the man’s cuff leaving a damp smear along the grain.

You were already sitting when the door opened. Curled at the far end of the parlor sofa, one leg tucked beneath the other, a book open in your lap. You’d read the same page three times now. Or tried to.

The fire had gone soft, more glow than flame, and the air smelled faintly of lemon oil from the furniture polish you’d used that afternoon. The quiet had stretched long enough to feel foreign. The kind of quiet you always thought maybe, just maybe, meant a reprieve.

But it never did.

And deep down, some awful part of you had known.

You knew it when he left without telling you where.

You knew it when the sun dipped low and the shoes sat untouched beside the door.

You knew it when your fingertips hovered over the necklace at your collarbone, blue and cold and impossibly bright against your skin.

The quiet of the day had been too full.

The stillness too practiced.

The gift too kind.

Now, he was back. And he brought proof of it with him.

Remmick looked up as he stepped inside. Not hurried. Not sheepish. Just calm.

Casual.

As if he’d been returning from a stroll through the garden and not some carnage-stained errand that ended in slaughter.

And he smiled.

Sharp. Crooked. Gleaming even beneath the gore.

His shirt, what was left of it, clung to him in soaked folds. Torn across the collar. Split open down the front. Dark with blood and something thicker beneath. His trousers weren’t better, stiff with drying stains, the cuffs tracking flecks of mud across the parlor floor.

But it was his hands, claws, that made your breath catch.

Those clever, expressive things.

They were soaked up to the elbows, glistening red at the knuckles, sticky across the nails, the fingers flexing slightly as if trying to forget what they’d just done.

The blood hit the floor with every step. Slap. Smear. Slap. The sound seemed to echo, loud against the hush of the house.

And around his neck,

The gold chain.

The same one from all those months ago. When he first walked into your life, quiet and strange and smiling with teeth too white and eyes too old. The chain had caught the afternoon light back then. Made you think of warmth. Of wealth. Of good manners and good shoes and someone just passing through.

Now, it caught nothing.

Just blood.

Draped against the hollow of his throat, the metal barely glinted beneath the gore. But you knew it. Recognized it in a way that made your stomach twist. Not with fear.

With memory.

Back then, he’d brought honey. Compliments. Ribbons.

Now he brought bodies.

And not once, not even as he stepped closer, dragging the corpses across your freshly scrubbed floors, did he look ashamed.

He didn’t stop until they were halfway into the parlor, just a few feet from where you sat.

Close enough that the stink caught up to you. Metal and dirt and something that curled the back of your throat.

You stared.

At the man. At the woman. At Remmick.

At the man who said he loved you.

At the one who’d kissed your neck that morning and murmured, Won’t be long.

At the one who’d bought you shoes.

And finally, finally, looked at you proper.

Then, he smiled again.

Like this was nothing.

Like it was love.

“I got greedy,” he said with a smile that pulled too wide. Too sharp. The kind of smile that didn’t look right on a human mouth. “Ain’t proud of it. But-”

He dropped one of the ankles with a wet thud and dragged a blood-soaked hand through his hair, slicking it back from his brow. The strands clung there, heavy and dark with something not yet dry.

“-damn, if it didn’t feel good.”

The book slipped from your lap.

It hit the floor with a soft thud, pages bending inward like they were trying to hide. You didn’t look down.

Couldn’t.

Remmick tilted his head. The firelight caught in the red sheen along his jaw, the crimson glint in his eyes, the blood on his lashes, the teeth brazenly bared behind his smile. His gold chain lay across his collarbone, no longer shining, just soaked.

“Now don’t start with that look,” he said gently. Like you were being difficult. Like this was a misunderstanding. “Ain’t nothin’ different about this than last time. Just… more.”

You opened your mouth.

Closed it again.

Your throat tightened. Heat rushed up from your chest to your face, fast and dizzying.

“I can’t,” you said. Too soft. A ghost of breath.

He blinked.

You swallowed, tried again, louder this time, firmer. Your voice broke on the last word.

“I can’t do this.”

His smile didn’t disappear. It tilted. Softened. Confused. Like he’d misheard you, like you’d offered a strange joke in poor taste.

“Sure ya can,” he said with a little chuckle. “You’ve done it before.”

“No- Remmick, I mean it.”

You stood too fast and stumbled backward, shoulder bumping into the arm of the couch. Your hands shook. Your legs wouldn’t stay steady. Something inside you wanted to bolt.

“I-I thought I could prepare for this. I thought I’d be ready if it happened again. I tried to be ready.” You gasped, the tears rising too quickly now. “But it’s too much. It’s too much, I can’t- I can’t do it again.”

You covered your mouth with both hands as the sob came. Hot and involuntary. It made your knees buckle.

He didn’t say anything.

Just stood there in the parlor’s golden light, two bodies behind him, the blood still dripping from his sleeves. His shirt was open, clinging to him in places and torn in others, revealing streaks of red drying along the lines of his ribs. The bloodied gold chain at his neck looked too bright against it. Almost sickeningly bright. Like something holy lost in rot, just as defiled.

And yet he watched you.

Like you were the only thing that mattered in the room.

Like the rest of the blood didn’t exist.

Like he liked this. Your shaking, your fear. Or maybe it wasn’t that. Maybe it was something worse. Maybe he needed it.

He dropped the second ankle.

The bodies sprawled in opposite directions, lifeless and heavy, arms twisted beneath them. But his gaze didn’t follow them. Never once did he glance away from you.

He started walking.

Slow, deliberate steps. Not rushed. Not angry. As if trying to convince you to not run away. Even though he knew you wouldn’t.

His claws hadn’t retracted yet.

You could see them now. Long and sharp, extending clean past his fingertips like polished blades. Shimmering wet.

You backed away until your spine met the bookshelf, hands splayed behind you against the wood.

“I’m not mad,” he said gently.

God, why was that worse?

“I just thought ya might help.” he went on.

He was close now. Close enough to breathe in. Close enough to taste the iron in the air. His outline looked too tall in the firelight, too narrow at the shoulders, too still.

You turned your face away, but his hand came up, bloodied, clawed, and cupped your cheek with the same reverence you remembered from quieter mornings. His thumb smeared a tear away.

“You’re cryin’,” he murmured, and it almost sounded like it surprised him.

Then, instead of licking it away, he kissed it. Softly. Slowly. Like he knew that was what you needed. As if that made it better.

You sobbed harder.

“Please,” you whispered, barely able to speak past the tightness in your throat. “Please, Remmick. Not this time. I-I can’t.”

He leaned in, brushing his lips against your nape, his breath traveling hot and sticky down your neck.

And then, in the sweetest voice you’d ever heard:

“Sometimes I think about killin’ ya.”

Your whole body went still.

Not in fear.

Not in surprise.

In something worse.

Recognition.

Because you knew. Knew without needing a second breath, that he meant it.

The words didn’t drop like a bomb. They slid in like a knife. Quiet. Precise. Familiar.

He tilted his head, brushing his knuckle down your jaw like he hadn’t just said the most horrifying thing you’d ever heard.

“Every day,” he whispered. “Mornin’ and night. Before ya wake. After ya sleep. When you’re liftin’ the kettle, or brushin’ out your curls, or sayin’ my name like it still means somethin’ soft.”

His eyes were wide now, blue burning red at the center. Hungry. Hollow. A flame with no wick.

His hand drifted down your throat. Light as a feather. He traced the line of your pulse with the back of his knuckle, sighing at the flutter under your skin.

“Don’t mean I want to,” he said. “Not in the way you’re thinkin’. I’d never do it to hurt ya. It ain’t about that.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

He stepped in closer, just close enough that your breath bounced off his shirt. Soaked and stiff with blood, the collar dark and curling at the seams. You could smell it all over him now. On his breath. In his hair. On the chain pressed tight against the hollow of his throat.

“Sometimes,” he started, “I see ya sittin’ there with a book in your hand, brows furrowed, lips pursed, and I think: God, I’d like to still that moment forever. Seal it. Keep it. Bury it right inside me so no one else ever gets to see it.”

His hand dropped lower.

Over your ribs.

The curve of your waist.

“Sometimes,” he went on, his voice still syrup-sweet, “I think about your blood spread out over the floor like a paintin’. The kind of red that don’t fade. The kind that says y’were mine.”

You whimpered.

And it made him shiver.

“But then ya smile at me,” he said. “And I think, no, not yet. Not yet. Let her smile again. Let her ask me what I’m hummin’. Let her scold me for trackin’ dirt into the kitchen. Let her keep bein’ good.”

His hands moved again. Gentle. Worshipful.

He wrapped them around your hips and turned you, slow, pressing you backward until your thighs brushed the edge of the sofa.

Until you could see the bodies again.

Still sprawled on the parlor floor.

Still leaking onto the wood.

Your knees locked.

Remmick lowered you down like you were made of glass. One hand cradling your spine, the other smoothing your skirt beneath you. He sat beside you, far too close. Turned to face you as if there was space to spare.

His claws scraped your knee where the fabric had risen.

“Y’see, darlin’,” he said, cupping your face again, “it ain’t about cruelty. It’s about closeness. I love ya so much I can’t figure out what to do with it. It don’t burn clean. It don’t settle.”

His eyes gleamed.

“I wanna take ya in. Swallow ya whole. Wear your name on the inside of my mouth. I want ya with me, inside me, forever. That’s what this is.”

You were shaking now.

Tears welled, but you couldn’t blink them away. They just sat there, blurring the edges of him. Of the room. Of the lifeless shapes still cooling on the floor.

“Ya think I don’t see it in ya too?” he lied, so confidently that you almost found yourself believing it. “That same want? That same ache? Ya look at me like I’m already inside you.”

You made a choked sound. Couldn’t tell if it was protest or grief.

He kissed the corner of your mouth again.

Then lower.

Your jaw.

Your throat.

His hands roamed with reverence, but they were still stained.

And it was still happening.

“Sometimes,” he breathed, lips brushing the shell of your ear, “I think I’ll wake one mornin’ and do it. Just let it happen. Let my love finish what it started. But I haven’t yet.”

He leaned back just enough to look at you.

His kissed a tear from your cheek.

“I haven’t,” he said again, softly. “Y’should remember that.”

You should’ve screamed.

Run.

Shoved him back.

Instead, you stared at him through tear-glossed lashes. Silent. Spinning. Unmoored.

He leaned in once more. Kissed your cheek like it was something fragile.

“Y’don’t ever have to be afraid of me, sugar. Long as ya stay.”

And for a moment, just a moment, you almost believed him.

Remmick’s lips brushed yours, feather-light at first, a barely-there caress that left you reeling. You could taste the copper tang of blood on his mouth, feel the warmth of it against your skin. Your breath caught as he pulled back slightly, just enough to feel his breath against your face. A soft huff of air, a reassurance.

But then his hand slid up your spine, blood smearing across your dress, and all softness fled.

This time, when his mouth met yours, there was no gentleness. No hesitation. Just hunger, visceral and consuming. He kissed you like he wanted to devour you whole, his lips slanting over yours, his tongue pushing into your mouth and claiming every inch of it as his own.

You whimpered, fingers groping at his shoulders, but whether to push him away or pull him closer, you didn’t know. Your thoughts were muddled, thick with fear and revulsion and a deep, wrenching want you couldn’t name. He tasted like death. Like sin. Like every dark fantasy you’d ever had but never dared speak aloud.

He yanked your head back to bare your throat, kissing down it, hot and open-mouthed, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your skin. His other hand, which had been stroking idly up and down your side, slipped under your skirt. You tensed, a protest rising in your throat, but he shushed you before you could voice it.

“Shh, now,” he murmured against your throat, fangs ghosting over your skin. “You’ve been achin’ for this. Starvin’ for it. A man’s hands. A man’s mouth. And ain’t it a mercy it’s mine givin’ it to ya?”

His fingers brushed your inner thigh, dragging through the wetness that had gathered there. You could feel the scrape of his claws, even through the fabric of your panties. A shudder ran through you, and you hated yourself for it. Hated that some twisted part of you wanted this, wanted him, even like this, covered in blood and filth and the evidence of his crimes.

He teased you through the thin fabric, his touch light and maddening. Circling. Flicking. Dipping just inside the edge before pulling away again. You whined, hips bucking of their own accord, desperate for more. More pressure. More friction. More something, anything to ground you in the midst of this debauched nightmare.

“Please,” you gasped, not even sure what you were asking for. For him to stop? For him to keep going? For the world to open up and swallow you whole, so you didn’t have to reckon with this unfamiliar depravity?

He chuckled, dark and indulgent. “Greedy girl,” he chided, his breath hot against your ear. “Don’t worry darlin’. I’ll give ya what y’need.”

He punctuated his words with a hard press of his fingers, rubbing rough circles over the damp fabric. You cried out, back arching, lungs seizing with the intensity of it. It was too much. Not enough. Your thoughts were fragmenting, splintering under the force of your need. You felt like you were drowning in it.

In him.

And still, he whispered filthy things in your ear, coating your skin in his words. Telling you how much he loved you. How much he needed you. How he’d do anything to keep you, even this. Especially this.

Remmick sucked at your throat, slow, deliberate, letting the warmth rise, letting you squirm. Then, without warning, he bit down. Deep. Sharp. A growl rumbled from his chest at the sound you made, part gasp, part sob, and he shivered like it thrilled him. “That’s it,” he breathed, lips glossy with blood and spit. “Sing for me, sweetheart.”

He growled as he left a map of his obsession on your flesh, fingers finally shoving your panties aside to slide through your slick folds.

Inside, something was screaming. Screaming for you to run, to fight, to do anything but this. To not let him take you like this, stained with the blood of innocents, surrounded by the evidence of his madness.

But your body... your body was betraying you. Arching into his touch. Soaking his fingers. Trembling with a heat you’d never known before. A heat that was as twisted and all-consuming as he was.

He pushed his fingers inside you, and you cried out at the stretch, the burn of it. He was big, bigger than you’d ever had, and the scrape of his claws against your inner walls only added to the intensity of it. It hurt, God, it hurt, but with every flex of his fingers, every curl and twist, you were hit with a new pang of euphoria, a pleasure so sharp it was almost painful.

You were so close, teetering on the edge of something huge and shattering, when he suddenly pulled his fingers out, leaving you achingly empty. You whimpered, hips bucking, seeking, but before you could even form a protest, he was pushing your legs apart, baring you completely to his gaze.

And then, without warning, he was on you, his mouth hot and wet and voracious. He ate you out like an animal, fangs still bared, growling into your flesh like he wanted to consume you whole. The sounds he made were obscene, wet and slurping, echoing in the quiet of the room like some kind of debauched symphony.

You thrashed beneath him, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling, pushing, trying to get him closer, get him away, you didn’t even know anymore. The pleasure was cresting higher and higher, coiling tighter and tighter, a spring on the verge of snapping. You felt like you were being flayed alive by it, torn apart piece by piece by piece.

And when you finally broke, it was with a scream that tore from your throat like a wound. You came so hard you saw stars, your vision whiting out, your lungs seizing, your body convulsing. And through it all, he just kept lapping at you, drinking down every drop of your pleasure like it was the finest wine. Like he couldn’t get enough of your taste, your need, your everything.

Your breath came in sharp pants, thoughts equally scattered. Fragmented. Lost in the haze of pleasure and horror that clouded your mind.

And then, with a monumental effort, you pushed him away. Or tried to. Your arms felt weak, your muscles trembling with the backlash of your climax.

He looked up at you, his face soaked with your arousal, a feral smile spreading across his lips. “I’m not done yet, darlin’,” he growled with a low rumble that vibrated through you. He tore at his clothes, ripping the blood-soaked shirt over his head, exposing his crimson-streaked torso. You tried to protest again, but he shushed you with a kiss, a deep, consuming kiss that left you tasting yourself, him, and the metallic tang of blood.

He lined himself up at your entrance, and you could feel the heat of him, the thickness, the promise of what was to come. You tensed, a flutter of panic in your chest. “Remmick, I-” you started, but he cut you off with another kiss, his hips surging forward, impaling you in one swift, brutal stroke.

You cried out, a sound of pain and pleasure mingled together, your nails digging into his back as he filled you completely. He was nothing you could’ve prepared yourself for, stretching you to your limits, the sensation was nearly unbearable. He started to move, his hips rolling in a rhythm that was both primal and precise, each thrust driving him deeper, harder, more relentlessly than the last.

“God, ya feel so good, sugar,” he moaned against your neck with a huff that made you shiver. “So tight. So wet. Y’were made for this. Made for me.”

You could feel the soreness building, the ache of being stretched, of being taken so ruthlessly. Your body was overwhelmed, every nerve ending firing, every sensation heightened to almost unbearable levels. You whimpered, your hips bucking in time with his thrusts, unable to do anything but take what he was giving you.

Remmick’s eyes were wild, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he drove into you. “Look at ya,” he panted, voice so thick with lust you could barely understand him. “So beautiful. So perfect. Ya take my cock like a dream.”

He leaned down, licking the tears that streamed down your face, his tongue hot and wet against your skin as he purred. “Ya taste so sweet when you cry.”

You tried to divert your attention, to escape the intensity of his near-crimson gaze and the raw, animalistic need that burned in his eyes. It was a need that terrified you to your very core. Your eyes darted around the room, seeking anything to anchor yourself to, anything to distract from the overwhelming sensations coursing through your body.

Your gaze landed on the necklace that swayed from his neck. That blood-soaked gold chain that glinted dully in the firelight. That gold chain that followed you from the life you once had to now, wrapped in Remmick’s embrace, his body moving against yours in a rhythm as old as time.

He noticed your distraction, a cruel, knowing smile playing on his lips as he reached up and took the necklace into his mouth. He bit down on the gold, his teeth sinking into the metal with a force that should have bent it, his eyes never leaving yours.

“That’s it, darlin’,” he groaned, the words muffled around the jewelry. “Focus on that. Focus on me. On how good this feels.”

And God help you, he was right. It did feel good. So good it hurt. So good it was almost too much to bear. The pleasure was a sharp, piercing thing, a knife’s edge of ecstasy that left you breathless and dizzy. With each thrust, each roll of his hips, each brutal, delicious stroke, the pressure inside you built, a coiled spring ready to snap, your body teetering on the brink of something monumental.

You could feel the guilt gnawing at you. A dark, insidious thing that clawed at the edges of your mind, trying to break through the haze of pleasure. How could you find enjoyment in this? How could your body respond so eagerly to his touch? To his invasion? You knew the depth of his depravity. The extent of his crimes. You were a willing participant. An accomplice.

You were ashamed of the moans that fell from your lips, ashamed of the way your body moved with his, ashamed of the desperate, keening cries that escaped you as he brought you higher, closer to the edge of oblivion.

Remmick's hips continued to roll in a relentless rhythm, his body glistening with sweat, his breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps. He leaned down, his voice a drunken, fervent whisper against your ear, his words a mix of promise and threat. “M’gonna put a baby in ya, sugar. Gonna fill you up. Watch ya get all fat ’n slow ’n pretty.”

His words sent a shock of panic through you. A cold, paralyzing fear that cut through the haze of pleasure and left you reeling. You tried to push him away, your hands pressing against his chest, your body tensing as you tried to escape the inevitable. “Remmick, no-” you gasped, your voice hoarse, your eyes wide with a mix of terror and pleading. “You can’t-”

But he was relentless, his body pinning you down, his strength overpowering yours in a way that left you feeling helpless. Trapped. He captured your wrists in one hand, holding them above your head as he continued to move inside you, his hips never ceasing their brutal, demanding rhythm. “Shh,” he cooed, his voice a low, soothing purr that contrasted sharply with the wild, untamed look in his eyes. “You’ve been askin' for this. You’ve been beggin' for it. I know you have. And I’m gonna give it to you.”

He leaned down, tongue invading your mouth, exploring, conquering, silencing your protests as he continued to move inside you.

You tried to turn your head, to break the kiss, to gasp for air, but he followed, his lips never leaving yours, his breath mingling with yours, his tongue continuing its relentless exploration. He kissed you deeply, thoroughly, his lips moving against yours with a suffocating desperation, as if he were trying to pour every ounce of his being into you. To consume you wholly.

“Remmick, please-” you managed to gasp as he finally broke the kiss, your chest heaving, your body trembling with a mix of fear, pleasure, and something else, something almost akin to desperation. “I can’t-”

But he only smiled, a slow, knowing smile that sent a shiver down your spine, a mix of anticipation and trepidation. “Ya can, sugar,” he insisted, the lack of choice you had in the matter laced on every word. “And ya will.”

With a final, shuddering thrust, he buried himself deep, his whole body seizing tight as he spilled inside you, breath caught somewhere between a grunt and a gasp. His mouth found your shoulder, and without pause, he bit down. Hard. Fangs sinking deep. The pressure broke through your skin, and the sound that left him was low and guttural. Like it came from the oldest part of him.

The pain hit first. Bright. Hot. A sudden wash of heat that bled through your dress and soaked down your arm. You cried out, not just from the hurt, but from the way it tangled with everything else. Your spine arched, your chest heaving, your head going light from the sheer force of it.

Remmick didn’t stop. Didn’t pull away. His hands gripped tight around your hips, and he moved through the aftershocks like he couldn’t bear to let the moment end. The bite held you still. Anchored. The only sound in the room was the ragged pull of his breathing and the faint sound of blood dripping onto the sofa.

When he finally stilled, he didn’t let go, or pull out.

He licked over the wound slow, careful, as if tasting something rare. As if trying to commit it to memory. A quiet sound rose in his throat, something between a hum and a sigh, and you felt it against your skin.

You were shaking.

Spent.

And he held you like you were something precious, something ruined, something he couldn’t stop himself from needing.

The sheets smelled like lavender. Fresh. Clean. As if nothing had ever happened at all. As if you hadn’t just laid beneath him in the room where the bodies had gone cold, their blood still tacky on the floorboards.

As if he hadn’t taken you with that same blood smeared down his chest, soaked into his sleeves, crusted along his jaw.

As if he hadn’t whispered love into your mouth while fucking you raw against the parlor sofa, his hands pinning yours down, his hips relentless, the broken cries that spilled from your throat sounding too much like pleading and too little like pleasure.

And then, when it was over, when your body was wrecked and shivering, your legs too weak to stand, he’d kissed your forehead like a lullaby, scooped you up in his arms like you weighed nothing at all, and carried you to the bath.

The tub was already full.

Of course it was.

Warm. Steaming. Waiting for you.

You’d wondered, hazily, if he’d drawn it before or after.

He didn’t speak as he undressed you. Just peeled the ruined nightgown from your skin with slow, reverent fingers. His claws retracted now, nails blunted and gentle. No urgency. No demand. Only care.

The water lapped up around your body as he eased you in, one hand holding your back, the other at your hough, lowering you as though you might break apart in his arms.

He didn’t get in with you. Not at first.

Just knelt beside the tub and cupped water over your shoulders, your breasts, your thighs. Ran a cloth down your spine. Washed you in long, slow strokes, like he was trying to scrub the memory of the bodies from your skin before it sank too deep.

But it already had.

Still, you let him work. Let him wash your hair, comb it through with his fingers. Let him tilt your head back and rinse it clean. Let him trace every curve of your body like it was scripture.

He scrubbed the blood from your shoulder with painstaking tenderness, kissing the half-healed wound in between passes, calling you his miracle, his mercy, his girl.

His voice never rose. Not once.

Not even when you flinched from his touch. Not even when you cried.

He kissed your eyes dry.

You thought about the quiet days. The good ones. When he made breakfast in the morning and left hibiscus tea on your nightstand. When he sang while he cooked. When he brushed your hair with such delicacy you almost forgot what his hands were capable of.

And you thought about the other days. The long silences. The backhanded questions. The hollow, hateful stares that brought you to tears.

Your body ached in places you didn’t have names for. Inside and out.

And he was so gentle now.

You wanted to scream.

Instead, you let him rinse the soap from your skin and lift you out of the tub. Let him wrap you in a towel, thick and warm, smelling faintly of clove and firewood.

Let him dry you off. Let him carry you to his bedroom, both of you silent now, except for his breath brushing against your temple.

The mattress dipped under your weight. The pillows caught your head like a secret. The blanket was heavy in the best way, and his arms found you again before you could move away.

Remmick curled around you like a second skin. One arm beneath your waist. One over your belly.

His fingers didn’t move. Just stayed there, still and steady, like they could already feel what had been made between you.

His mouth was at your neck again, breath soft, lips barely brushing.

And still, you didn’t sleep.

You just stared into the dark, remembering the warmth of his voice when he called you good. Remembering the snap of bone. The wet sound of flesh giving way. The feel of his body slamming into yours with no hesitation, no mercy, like love could be beaten into you if he just took enough of you for himself.

He shifted behind you. Pulled you closer.

There was no space left between your bodies.

None between the truth and the lie of it.

And you still didn’t move.

You kept your eyes open. Fixed on the wall.

And thought about everything.

About your daddy’s store. You thought about that first. The sound of the bell over the door, bright and sweet as wind chimes. The gentle sweep of the broom on the front steps every morning. You thought about how the sun used to come in through the big front windows, painting long streaks of gold across the shelves. You used to watch the dust swirl in the light and think it looked like magic.

You thought about the girls you’d grown up with. How you used to sit on porch rails with your legs swinging, eating too much candy and daring each other to run barefoot down the gravel road. You wondered where they were now. If they were married. If they had babies.

If they thought about you.

You wondered if any of them had come by the store. If they’d stood on the same wooden floorboards you once stood on and asked your daddy where you’d gone. If they were told you were gone for good.

Or maybe they didn’t ask at all.

Maybe they figured you’d run off with a man, like so many girls did when the world backed them into a corner and made them choose between being loved or being lonely.

You thought about your mama next.

About how she used to wrap your hair at night, hands gentle but firm, fingers slick with oil. She never let you skip it, not even once. Not even when you pouted and said you weren’t a baby anymore. “Still my baby,” she’d say, tying the scarf with a kiss to your forehead.

You thought about what she’d say now. Whether she’d still hold you close, or just hold your face and try not to cry. You didn’t know if she’d recognize you.

Not like this. Not with him.

Remmick shifted behind you in the bed, stirring as if he could feel your thoughts pulling you too far. He curled tighter. Pulled you in with him. One arm clutched low around your waist, the other curling beneath your ribs. Like he was trying to mold his shape to yours. Like if he could just hold you close enough, you’d stop trying to leave, mind or body.

And maybe he was right.

Maybe he could fold you into him, press you so deep into his chest you’d forget where you ended and he began.

You blinked slow.

Your throat ached.

The room was quiet. The air was warm. The shadows on the walls flickered and stretched like they didn’t know where to settle. The lamp on the dresser hummed soft and low, casting gold against the covers, turning everything honeyed and still.

There was no lock on the door.

No chain at your ankle.

No order in his voice.

But it was a cage all the same.

A soft, warm, gilded cage.

And you had stayed.

Because where else was there to go?

You’d imagined leaving. Dozens of times. Pictured it clear as glass. The road winding long and empty behind you. The night cool on your skin. Your heart in your mouth.

But every time you chased that dream far enough, it ended in the same place.

Here.

With him.

You’d made too many trades along the way. Traded silence for safety. Traded truth for comfort. Traded fear for something that looked too much like love to name it anything else.

And now you had nothing left to bargain with.

You’d redrawn the line a hundred times, and now the chalk had run out.

So you stopped thinking.

Let your muscles go slack.

Let the ache in your chest press itself into the mattress. Let the silk of his voice echo in your head.

You’re safe, darlin’.

My beautiful girl.

I love ya.

And finally, you let yourself go.

[minhoetaur]

nsfw. bouncer!minotaur x fem!reader (one) – monsterfucking, smut, bribery, oral sex, blowjob, pussy eating (mentioned), size difference, bodily fluids (mentioned), he also has a country accent bc that's hot :)

next part –>

begging the big, pretty minotaur bouncer to let you into the club you drove over an hour to visit. it's in the "bad" part of your town and rarely, if ever, gets any human patrons. they're either too scared or judgmental of what goes on behind the doors, but not you–with your little dress and blinking eyes. telling the bull you'd do anything to convince him, to change his mind from the gruff no he mumbled out when you'd arrived.

he towers over you with crossed arms, pecks bulging through the tank he'd squeezed on before his shift. golden septum ring flickering with a slight shine, the matching jewelry dangling from his ears easing you into a light daze. when you drag your stare to his eye line, he's already looking at you through the shag of hair falling over his eyes.

scrunching his nose, the bouncer scratches just behind his left horn. sighing like he's lost some kind of internal battle.

"ya really want in, huh?"

"yes," you nod, somewhat desperate. he keeps looking you over, trying to get a read on you. "yeah, i do. what can i do to prove it?"

his answer ends up being the messiest blowjob he's ever received.

you can barely fit his fat tip into your mouth, yet you still suckle and swallow around him like you're already addicted to the salty flavor of his cock. he sits legs spread on the couch in the back office, groaning and huffing loud pants through his nose every time you swivel your head. the soft of your hands tug at what you can't fit, soon reaching down to cradle his sack. it sits heavy in your hand, swollen and full with a warmth that spreads nicely through his stocky thighs.

"you know," he grunts out, large hand coming to help the bob of your head. pressing a little, his hips jerk when you choke with a sweet-sounding cough. "didn't know your kind could suck cock like this. maybe you come 'round next weekend, 'n i'll bring ya back here again t'show how impressed i really am. let ya hold one'a my horns while i tongue your hole... see 'f you taste as good as you smell."

the bull grins at the way your eyes flutter with a roll, tongue still working his slit. he's pouring out pre cum and has been the second you licked a stripe up his shaft. the slick runs down your chin and ruins the front of your dress, but you keep lapping at him. mewling at the wide stretch of your mouth.

"fuck, 'm close," he alerts you. hips bucking, he leans onto the edge of the couch. "swallow it all up fer me, alright? s'gonna be a lot but you can do it. i know you can..."

there's something in your nod that tugs him into euphoria. balls twitching, he pulses what feels like an ocean into your mouth. it only takes three ropes for you to fall behind, the thick seed flooding your mouth so full that it spills out at the corners of your lips.

he falls apart with groans that tear loud from his chest, head tossed and back arches as you gulp him down. the groans turn into whimpers because you don't stop until he yanks himself out of your mouth, cock flopping onto his stomach with a loud, wet thwack. moving to his balls, you nuzzle them with a messy face. even pressing a small kiss to the skin.

staring down at you, his hand comes to cradle your cheek as he stares down at you. studying you with slight awe.

his first human, and she's a sweet, pretty-faced cum guzzler.

oh, the boys'll love this...

BOUNCER!MINOTAUR TAG <3

[shadowtraveled]

"mithrun is the only real monsterfucker in dungeon meshi" is objectively the funniest bit you can get out of his everything, but in all seriousness i think his attraction to his love interest is deliberately overstated—and that makes sense, because romantic jealousy is a classic and digestible motive, which is explicitly what kabru was aiming for in condensing mithrun's backstory, and also because until chapter 94, mithrun wasn't willing to admit to the true nature of his desires.

but because romantic envy is both classic and digestible, it probably isn’t a unique enough or complicated enough desire to tempt a demon’s appetite. mithrun’s wish, as far as we can figure from kabru’s reduced retelling, was to have a life in which he had never become one of the canaries, and that carries like 3857 implications and desires within it. that’s delicious. his love interest acts as sort of a red herring to his motivation for making it, though. (side note: i'm saying "love interest" here because, keeping in mind that i barely speak japanese on a good day anymore, "想い人" is something i'd usually take as just kind of an old-fashioned and romantic way to refer to a lover, but in context i wonder if both the connotation of yearning and the vagueness are intentional, and i think this phrasing gets those aspects of it more effectively. anyway.)

mithrun considered his love interest to be untrustworthy. there was a minute where i thought that comment might be about a similar-looking elf (yugin, one of his squad members), but comparing the two…

the "sketchy" arrow is definitely referring to the elf we know as his love interest—the bangs go toward her right, she only has the one forehead ornament, and, most notably, her ears aren't notched.

every time she’s given a full-body depiction in his dungeon, she’s drawn as a chimera, with the body of a snake from the waist down. (side note: the “what if a dungeon has chimeras before reaching level 4?”/“then the dungeon lord is unstable” exchange just being mithrun grilling his past self alive is so funny. he’s so. but anyway) there are a couple things about this.

first, the snake part of the chimera appears to be modeled after some species of coral snake mimic

which, in the biology-for-fun manga, i… doubt is a coincidence, especially with the added context of the “untrustworthy” comment. the dungeon’s conjured illusion of mithrun’s love interest was a harmless copycat of a venomous original. for whatever reason, he felt this person was a threat and made up a "safe" version of her to be in a relationship with, and while it’s definitely possible to be attracted to or even love someone you find to be toxic and/or intimidating, when you take that into consideration alongside the configuration of her body, you get some interesting implications.

which brings us to our second point: if we assume that mithrun was not in fact fucking a snake, then sexual attraction, at least, was so far removed from his idea of a relationship with this person that he did not even bother to keep her dungeon copy human enough to maintain the illusion of the option of a sexual relationship. this is somewhat echoed in the depictions of their interactions, which also imply a frankly unexpected romantic distance. she kisses his cheek and he doesn't seem to react; she's at the edge of a narrow bed with only one set of pillows, on top of his blankets while he's underneath them.

the kiss is particularly interesting because it seems to contrast the text. kabru's narration tells us this was everything mithrun could have asked for, but mithrun is there looking unreadable to pensive, likely because this is right before the panel that makes it clear things in the dungeon are beginning to go wrong.

walking through this backwards for a minute, we have the physical barrier of his bedding and the spatial separation inherent in a bed made for one person, the emotional barrier of his mounting anxiety getting in the way of his ability to enjoy the affection he sought, and... the snake, which historically carries the connotation of temptation, yes, but also mistrust, barring physical intimacy. okay. ok. if a dungeon reflects the mentality of its lord, all of this might suggest that mithrun was not able to have any real desire for a relationship with this person. his unwillingness to be vulnerable or let another person in was insurmountable. but in that case, why was she such a focal point that she remained to the end, after his dungeon had stopped creating iterations of his friends to come and visit him? why would he get so upset over her meeting with his brother that he became lord of a dungeon about it?

well. mithrun's brother was also interested in her, probably genuinely. and mithrun had to win.

you have an older brother who your parents completely ignore, probably in part because he is chronically ill/disabled and almost definitely in part because he received a ton of recessive traits that resulted in rumors that he was an illegitimate child. you are aware, most likely because those same parents fucking told you, that you actually are an illegitimate child. but they keep you around because you had the good fortune of looking just like your mother. what can that possibly teach you but that you, like your brother, are disposable?

it's utterly unsurprising that mithrun, under these circumstances, developed a pathological need to be better than everyone around him. people don't keep you otherwise. i'd argue this is also why he says he looked down on everyone he knew while milsiril claims his dungeon reeked of feelings of inferiority—he sought out people's worst traits and prioritized them in his mind to protect his already extremely fragile sense of self-worth, and all the while he tried to be as likable and high-performing as he possibly could be. his parents disposed of him anyway, but even then he tried to keep up the performance. he was kind to everyone. he never once lost to a dungeon.

when he saw his "love interest" meeting up with his brother, what he saw was himself being replaced by a person his parents had always treated as worthless, and if that was what they thought of the child they'd kept, what value could anyone possibly see in the bastard they'd given away to die? mithrun and kabru tell the story like he wanted to win this unnamed elf's heart, but it was never about being with her. it was about cementing his worth, proving that he didn't deserve to be thrown away.

and so it's particularly cruel that his demon discarded him, too. but maybe it's also particularly gentle that, in the end, there was someone who refused to even consider giving up on him.

kui laid it out in three panels better than i could hope to.

yeah. it's love. you wanted to be loved, even when the only way you were able to understand it was through the desire to be wanted, and you wanted that so badly that the idea of being consumed felt like the promise of finally mattering to someone.

[lay-z]

WALK THE PLANK | Part 1

Happy Mermay! 𓂃𓂁𓂃 ོ

— mershark!Simon Riley × fem!Reader — 18+ | Pirates of the Caribbean AU; magic; strangers to lovers; slowburn-ish; monsterfucking; possessive/territorial! Simon; breeding kink; time skips; loss of virginity; canon-typical violence; smut; fluff; dub-con (to be safe)

You have been drawn to the sea since your mother gave birth on a pirate ship.

Even though your father warned you to stay away from the Gems Cove many a times while growing up, told you to stop swimming there, stop feeding the fish, stop praying to Calypso, stop serenading the bloody sea at dusk when the last golden rays of sunlight disappear behind the horizon, because you cannot even comprehend what lingers in the depths of the reef, sweet lassie, you never listened, and when your father left one last time to follow after his Captain’s orders one last time, there was no one left to tell you to stop going there.  

And with your dear father’s disappearance, your feet only carried you towards the cove with more purpose—and a lot more spite. 

Raised and fed by kind townspeople who took pity on your situation, you continued to spend your teenhood at Gems Cove, glaring at the horizon and quietly cursing ever ship that sailed by and didn’t magically take you away. 

A warm breeze sweeps through your hair, swirls around your bare legs as you stand there in your flowy white undergarments, dress and boots discarded in a haphazard heap in the shade of a rock, salt curling the strands and sticking to your dewy skin, sunrays dancing on the crystal-clear water, sparkling like a million gemstones. 

“Perhaps I’ll become a bloody pirate like you, eh? How does that fucking sound, father?” you sneer again, angrily flicking another broken seashell over the glittering surface as you stand on the rotten boards of the old jetty, gentle waves lapping against the jagged rocks and wooden pillars supporting the planks. 

It’s what you’ve been doing for the past decade, whenever you realize once again how incredibly meaningless and mundane your life has turned out to be, like a ruffled feather blowing in the wind—working as a hierling on fishing boats to get by, helping out as a seamstress and barmaid, selling self-made jewellery to drunken travellers, and avoiding the local brothel at all costs like Davy Jones avoids dry land. 

Your father had always promised to take you with him—“when you’re old enough, sweet lassie”—though it was too late when you realized that he was simply staving you off. You would have never been old enough, always his little lassie, too soft for the ocean—a pebble with no edges, smoothed by the current. 

“Perhaps... Perhaps I’ll have a child only to abandon it, too, huh? Or even better, I bloody snuff it givin’ birth to it like mother did!” You scoff, and the sound ricochets around the enclosing cliffs sharply, like the shot of a well-maintained pistol. 

A murder of crows and a few scattered seagulls feeding on a large mutt’s cadaver at the beach nearby, are startled by the sound and take off flight; distracting you momentarily as you glance over your shoulder, squinting against the slowly setting sunlight. 

You barely register the gentle sloshing of waves behind you. The mass that heaves itself out of the water to peek up at the jetty, and the quiet, steady dribble of fat drops dripping off sleek skin, back into the ocean.  

When you turn around again, you let out a surprised yelp and nearly jump backwards at the sudden sight that greets you, stumbling on bare feet, almost slipping on slick algae. 

He’s huge, and it’s barely half his torso that’s sticking out of the water. 

Black, beady eyes—marbles containing the depths of the sea—staring at you, with a rather curious twinkle, from behind a mask crafted out of what you assume must be a cracked human skull, secured around his head with a frayed string of hemp rope, its upper row of teeth twinkling with a gold tooth. It exposes a crown of short brown hair sticking to his skull, the sharp curve of jawline and a plump, rosy bottom lip. 

His skin is pale, with a silvery shimmer and faint grey stripes along his upper arms and ribs, depending how the light catches it. Paler than the white sand on the beach, like it has never been kissed by the afternoon sun. 

Blessed with wide shoulders, a bulky chest, chiselled abs, and large arms with bulging muscles and protruding blue veins running along the inside of his forearms. Half a brown leather harness is secured around his upper torso, a short and tattered sheath attached to it, the blade’s ivory handle seemingly carved from some great fishbone. 

You’ve never seen a man quite this large, not even on your father’s crew, but once you spot the row of gills on each side of his neck, you know that you’re not faced with a man, but a beast—and suddenly, all doubts you once held vanish. 

As it turns out, your father didn’t lie in his bedtime stories, didn’t exaggerate when he warned you all those years ago: “There are things–beings–lingerin’ below the surface that might not make sense to us, but it don’t mean they’re not real. Aye? If ye feel like ye’re bein’ stalked by the water, chances are bloody high tha’ ye are, lassie.” 

“Who–Who are you?” You shake your head, rubbing your eyes on wobbly legs to make sure you’re not dreaming again. 

He doesn’t answer at first, only regards you with those dark, soulless eyes, head tilted like a puppy experiencing something new while his chest rises and falls with shallow breaths, until you find your footing again, slowly backing away from the edge of the jetty, holding your breath despite the salty air scratching in your lungs. 

“Wait!” He calls out firmly with a voice like gravel coated in oil, barking like a captain yet pleading like a lost boy. You freeze, exhaling a shuddering breath while your sweaty skin pebbles with goosebumps. 

The water parts as he glides through it with ease, closing distance while your eyes flicker to observe the large silhouette of his lower half moving below the surface, causing your eyes to widen in fear and disbelief—and curiosity as it begins to tickle you in the back of your mind. 

You should grab your clothes and run far away, but you stay where you are, mesmerized by the creature who is now pulling himself out of the water, bracing his forearms on the edge of the first planks while they creak under his added weight.  

For a moment, you’re distracted by his body and the sheer power emanating from him; his hands so brawny and veined, he looks like he could crack a coconut without any effort. 

“My name,” he takes a deep breath as if it strains him to speak, “is Simon.”  

“Simon,” you repeat, and something splashes sharply behind him, breaking the surface like he’s excited to hear you utter his name, and you wonder if your eyes have deceived you—or if you’ve truly just seen a shark tail. 

There is a brief yet tense pause, then he speaks your name, loud and clear, and your heart throbs inside your chest. “Why are ya so angry again?” he asks casually, as if he’s talking to an old friend. 

Simon belongs to the mythical merfolk. 

Different than the mermaids and men you’ve heard of through legends and lore, and the heresy fishermen and pirates alike love to spread, the creatures who call the territory around Whitecap Bay and Isla Sirena their home, he’s a maverick, a lone sea ghoul. 

Unlike them, he doesn’t belong to any pod. He’s been on his own for most of his life. 

Mershark, they call themselves. “Aye, stronger than those pretty fish,” he tells you one day two, chortling when he adds, “smarter, too.” 

He does look like a ruthless tiger shark, his lower half nearly twice as long as a human body, with tough skin, criss-crossed with battle and other scars. And when he catches how your gaze lingers on his unique body, a rare smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, nearly preening under your attention. 

Simon lets you inspect and learn as you please, answers your questions about his tail, and why it doesn’t look like any of the merfolk drawings you’ve seen in books—his large caudal fin like a shark’s, undulating from side to side rather than up and down whenever he swims. 

And you start spending more time at the cove and less at your hometown, ignoring your lack of money and possibilities in favour of being with him—your scarily handsome sea beast. 

After five days, you bring what is necessary, along with a tattered pillow and thin blanket as you stay more nights at the beach, reading aloud old books to him as he can neither read nor write, and sleeping in the sand while Simon prowls his territory underwater, hunting at night. 

You’ve never had a friend quite like him, if any at all, but neither ever did he, from what you can tell. 

He gets terribly restless when you do end up leaving the cove a couple of hours a day, pacing while the big trademark fin of a shark swims circles in the bay until you return, and Simon ends up bringing you fish to cook over an open bonfire and fresh clams to slurp with lemon juice to keep you from having to leave him again; always making sure you’re fed while he lingers; sometimes sitting awkwardly in the shallows with you, when the tide is lowest, and the temperature burns too hot. 

It’s peaceful, being with him.  

“Everyone always told me to stay away from Gems Cove. Said it’s too dangerous and cursed,” you remark, kissing your teeth in snide as you gaze out on the calm water. “Nothin’ ever happened, and they stopped pestering me eventually, though.” 

There is a pause after you tell him, and you wonder if he’s even listening to you, but then he opens his mouth to speak, and you realize that he’d been hesitating. 

“I’ve watched over you whenever ya swam here. Nothin’ would’ve ever happened to you, because I never allowed it,” he admits sheepishly after barely ten days of knowing each other, as the late afternoon sun inches towards the horizon. He points a finger at the span of the cove. “F’all these years, y’know?” 

Simon looks straight ahead as you gaze up at him, his skull mask resting in your lap after taking it off for him, and you use the moment to admire how the sunlight makes his dark blonde hair shine, the unruly strands now close-cropped, thanks to you, exposing the three deep claw marks at the side of his skull from a fight with a merman.  

Then his jaw clenches and his cheek ticks as if he regrets telling you now, but your heart skips a beat at his admission, utterly touched by it.  

“Why?” you croak, and your eyes sting with salty sea spray.  

His head tips down at your hand now resting where his hip should be and where his body turns twisted, abnormal. Still, your thumb rubs soothing circles on his sleek looking yet rough skin, sharp like sand and fine glass shards. 

Reaching out, he takes your right hand, turns it over to look at your palm, tracing the jagged scar in the middle of it, and huffing through his nose at the memories flooding his mind, before he speaks: “Because you saved me and almost bloody died doin’ it.” 

You don’t remember it, but Simon recounts that you’d lost consciousness back then. He could never forget it—stuck and tangled up in a net, thin ropes biting into his skin while a fat hook was piercing his dorsal fin, his own blood attracting more sharks. 

You’d jumped into the dark water without hesitation, the full moon the only light illuminating the restless waves, and you cut him free with a rusty pocketknife before pulling out the hook. And Simon remembers your sharp cry of pain, the one that made his heart drop heavy in his chest, then the sweet and copper scent of your blood as it dripped onto him and into the sea, when the hook went through your palm.  

Barely a decade old the both of you, when he had to watch from afar how loud men hauled you out of the angry water, pressing down on your still flat chest with force until you sputtered and coughed gallons of salty water while death kept clinging to your complexion. 

Simon still wishes he could’ve kissed you back then, protect you from drowning like that, but he was still a silly pup—oblivious to his own powers, because nobody close to him was still alive to teach him. 

His shoulders slouch, dry skin pulling taut over his muscles after spending too much time out of the water. 

“I never even got to say ‘thank you’ back then.” 

The sourness of lemons from supper is still sticking to your lips as you lick them, the taste of seafood lingering in the back of your throat as you listen and watch, barely breathing while Simon paints a vivid picture in your head; lifting the fog of a sad, lonely childhood for a smidge to teach you how you got that nasty scar on your hand. 

“You don’t have to thank me,” you reply, not moving your hand as he keeps cradling it in his. “I’d do it again in a heartbeat.” 

Then, your father’s words come to your mind: “Whenever the sea calls out to ye, ye walk the plank and take a jump, lassie.” He’d always laugh fondly. “One fearless minx, ye are. Every pirate cap’n would fear the lass who’d cheated Calypso of another innocent soul.” 

It makes more sense now, but before you can think about it, Simon turns to you, his eyes dark pools of nothingness, swallowing up all the molten golden brown in his irises.  

“That’s what I’m afraid of, love. Bloody reckless y'are.” There is no malice in his baritone voice, just a hint of exasperation and fatigue, as if he’s done with your bollocks after years of playing guardian angel and keeping himself hidden in a desperate attempt not to scare you away, but then there’s a faint smile lifting the scarred corner of his lip—a gnarly scar caused by another fisherman's hook, he’d told you. 

A genuine smile graces your lips when you entwine your fingers with his, feeling the smooth, translucent webbing between his fingers, while his body tenses, nostrils flaring with a sharp inhale of breath. 

“Wouldn’t have met ya if I was some prudent, Si.” 

It’s still a foreign feeling for him to feel air burn in his lungs for so long, but Simon can’t help the way his breath stutters and hitches whenever you’re close to him—whenever you touch him so effortlessly, just as confidently as when you’d jumped into the water to save him from a cruel death. 

And Simon is almost sure you don’t know, not yet anyway, but you’re doing things to him he’s never experienced before. 

The naturally fearless mershark continues to crumble under your gaze, your voice, your every touch, like a delicate sandcastle blown over by the breeze. He’d endure the burn of air in his lungs, of sunrays on his sensitive skin, a thousand times over if it means he can spend another moment in your bright presence. 

“Aye.” He returns your smile, squeezing your hand lightly as you hold his gaze. “Guess ye’r right.” 

For the first time in his pathetic life, Simon doesn’t feel that cold and crippling kind of loneliness, and unbeknownst to him, you feel very much the same. 

After two weeks, when the Caribbean sun burns too hot at noon, Simon steals you away from the Gems Cover, has he listened to you hiss and moan about your townspeople and the desire to leave the island one too many times in this short amount of time. 

“Bring water,” he keeps calling out to you like a mother hen, bracing his arms on the jetty as he watches you fussing about in your makeshift camp at the beach. “Can’t have ya faintin’ on me,” he adds with a teasing lilt, and you roll your eyes, stuffing your flask into your old leather rucksack. 

When you sit down at the edge of the jetty, bare legs swinging while the hem of your yellowed tunic flutters around your thighs, Simon feels a different kind of warmth stirring in his chest that spreads down to the tip of his tail, pooling and pulsating low in his gut. 

His hands twitch below the surface, clenching into fists to keep himself from reaching out to feel your supple flesh give under his brawny hands, nose twitching as he gets a whiff of your scent—luscious sweat and salt coating your skin, a trace of coconut water on your hair, a whiff of your heavenly womanhood when you squirm on the rotten planks and your knees spread apart.  

His mouth fills with saliva and the urge to shove his face between your thighs becomes unbearable as something wild claws and thrashes behind his ribs, razor sharp teeth tearing him apart from the inside while he tries to tame his instincts. 

Simon exhales slowly through his nose, dark eyes flickering up to observe your gorgeous face from behind his skull mask as you secure your rucksack on your back, so unaware of this predator—lusting, wanting, adoring you so openly.  

Sometimes he wonders if you know that you’re his salvation, and he hates himself for not bracing that surface sooner, for not taking that leap and show himself to you. 

“Now c’mon, little legs.” He clears his throat and water splashes as he lifts his arms up, waiting for you to make the final jump. “I’m takin’ ya for a swim.” 

Your pearly teeth flash with a grin and then you slip off the edge, right into his embrace before he cradles you close to his buff chest while a pleased rumble bubbles up in his throat at the weight of you finally in his arms, legs wrapping around his midriff where man meets shark. 

“Fuckin’ hell, ye’r squishy,” Simon mutters under his breath, earning a glare as he snorts in amusement and slight embarrassment, pale cheeks flushing under the bone of his mask. “I–I mean... soft. In a–a good way.” He adjusts his grip on you, cupping the back of your thighs, squeezing involuntarily. 

You squirm against his body, lashes fluttering against the spray and breeze whipping around your body, while your heart beats rapidly against your ribcage, overwhelmed by the closeness to him, not having expected nor ever experienced this effect from a anyone.  

“Hold on tight now, aye?” 

Adjusting your grip around his neck, you nod, and Simon eases himself into the water, floating on his back while he has you lay on his broad body, keeping you secured to his chest while he starts moving his tail underwater, gliding through the waves as he manoeuvres you both out of the familiar cove, past the colourful reef where the sheltered bay opens up into the vast ocean. 

“Haven’t been out in open water in so long,” you start shakily, eyes darting around, but the sun’s reflection on the surface blinds you too badly. “What if someone sees us out here?” 

Simon shrugs. “Don’t ya worry ‘bout that. I know these waters better than anyone,” he assures you, sounding proud while his chest puffs out. 

“Sounds like you expect a pat on your head for that,” you quip as you play with the hair at his nape underwater, and there is a brief pause before his tail breaches to splash a cold wave of water on you.  

You squeal and Simon smirks triumphantly at the sound you make, and he can’t stop his hands from roaming over the curve of your back, the thin fabric of your drenched tunic now clinging to your body like a second skin. His fingers twitch to rip it clean off and shed the barrier between you both, but again he pushes the urge far away into the darkest depths of his mind. 

The secret he’s so determined to show you turns out to be a cave halfway around the island; unreachable from land, its entrance hidden behind large lumps of boulders covered in moss, seaweed and barnacles. An old smugglers hideout he had discovered in his years of calling this island his territory, though no one has returned here since the Royal Navy has been patrolling close to the island occasionally. 

As Simon takes you farther inside, the pool of turquoise water ends in a U-shaped landmass of dark glimmering stone, surrounded by a solid rocky wall with large cracks at the ceiling where daylight spills inside and illuminates the cave. It smells sweet and clean, like a source of fresh water is nearby. 

When he sets you down on a dryer spot of stone, you push yourself up slowly, your gaze wandering around the cave in awe, head tilted back, while Simon watches, eyes crinkling deep in the corners with a pleased smile at your reaction. 

“You like it?” You nod eagerly, a breathless laugh erupting from your lungs. “Yes! This place is beautiful, Si!” 

The water ripples around Simon’s midriff while his tail swishes below the surface, like a mongrel wagging its tail. 

A few hours later, Simon is lounging on his back on a larger, flat rock in the middle of the pool while listens to the gentle padding of your bare feet echoing around the cave, enjoying the shade and warm, damp air, while you continue to explore each nook and corner curiously, letting him know whenever you find something worth mentioning. The sound so soothing to him, he nearly dozes off with one arm propped up behind his head. 

You’ve found the pile of driftwood that he’d brought to the cave a few days ago, when he’d shoved them into place where the sun shines the brightest through the cracks in the ceiling to let them dry, and you’ve been trying to build and start a fire for a while before you call out his name suddenly.  

Simon cracks one eye open, waiting. “Is this your home? Uhm, I mean... Is this where you stay when you’re not at the cove with me?” He lifts his head up and catches you standing at the edge of the pool, dipping your toes into the water tentatively.  

“No,” he answers eventually, his tone curt. “I don’t have a home.” You are his home, but he can’t possibly tell you that now.  

“So,” you start again, and Simon props himself up on his elbows as he notices how you suddenly avoid his eyes. “Why did you never,” you shrug, pulling your toes from the water, “y’know... try to find a–” You make a vague hand gesture in the air, and his stomach twists into a thousand tight knots. 

Simon utters your name, though it comes out as a growl. “A what?” 

Your pretty eyes snap up to meet his and you look so innocent, he can barely endure the sight. His chest heaves and his tail slashes briefly before he speaks: “A pod? A family? Come on, say it.” 

You lick your dry lips as your cheek warm up. “A mate, Simon.” 

His tail swishes, stirring the water. A muscle in his jaw ticks as he clenches his teeth tightly. This question alone nearly offends him, especially coming from you, and he doesn’t quite know what to say while the truth is already trying to claw itself through his gills and up his throat, burning in the back of his tongue as if he ate something rancid and rotten. 

Then he huffs. “Why don’t you have one?” He doesn’t even want to know the answer, and fear clogs up his veins when he briefly imagines that you already have one, that you’re simply spending time with a lonely bastard like him out of pity and kindness.  

You kick a tiny seashell into the water as you shrug, looking like a child that doesn’t know how to explain itself.  

“Never liked anyone in my town. The men are all just–” You sigh, shrugging again, unaware that Simon is already seething at the mere mention that you’ve looked at males in the past.  

But the truth is mundane—you feared you’d end up like your mother, with a man who loved his freedom and a life of piracy more than her, only to die scared, giving birth to her child during a storm on a pirate ship. 

“Not bloody good enough for you.” He finishes your sentence with a frown on his face. They’re not the words you would’ve used, but deep down, you agree with him.  

A dreary smile tugs at your lips as you finally look at him, regarding him lolling about in the rock, muscles stretching and flexing in a way that twists and turns your insides warm and your smile more bashful.  

“Perhaps, aye,” you agree, and Simon perks up at that, heart fluttering with hope. “Perhaps that’s it.” 

Yes, I planned this as a oneshot, but things got out of hand and I'm having way too much fun in this universe. 🙃 I hope you've enjoyed the first part! If so, I'd always appreaciate your feedback, likes & reblogs. Thank you so much! 🧜🏼‍♂️🩵

[spearofheaven]

⋆˚࿔ SYMBIOSIS — venom! geto suguru

SUM. absorbing curses was simple enough, right? until your boyfriend absorbs something that wasn’t quite a curse.

CONTAINS. 18+ content, MDNI. 6.2k words. x fem! journalist reader. non canon compliant/au. smut. blood. monsterfucking (?). tentacles. dead chickens (first venom movie ref lol). light bondage. unprotected p in v. consensual recording. oral (f & m receiving). riding. missionary. pet names (baby, princess, etc.) some aftercare.

A/N. another geto repost whoops. positive comments and reblogs are appreciated <33

You were going to strangle your boss.

Or, you would've entertained the idea had it not been for the hefty stack of ALMOST DUE bills cluttered around your kitchen table in bright red ink (and the very real possibility of ending up in jail, whoops).

Maybe you'd just stick with your original idea of writing a heavily worded word document. One that you'd never send, of course. But one that would explain the absurdity of this situation, nonetheless. Using your journalistic degree—and the many years of debt that it'd set you back, to come to an abandoned barn house in the middle of nowhere.

Unsolved mysteries and speculation led you to explore some complaints farmers had about missing chickens. On some hunch that Venom as the city dubbed him had been responsible.

Brown, dried out leaves crunched underneath your feet with each step as you slowly began to approach the abandoned barn. A coyote howled in the distance, the sound of cicadas buzzing around only adding to the animal symphony. You wouldn't be surprised if a chainsaw popped out from the back of the barn and began chasing you down.

"Can't be that bad, right?" You muttered to yourself, standing in front of the tightly shut doors. Trying (and failing) to convince yourself to go through with this investigation instead of tailgating it straight out of this horror scene. You managed to get the heavy door open, its hinges creaking obnoxiously. No chainsaw in sight—okay.

Holding the small candle in front of you, the area around you began to illuminate while you made your way further inside. Nothing out of the ordinary. A couple horses sleeping in their stables, buckets and rakes in almost every corner. Until you approached the chicken coops. Flies buzzed around a couple of the spaces, bunching up in the masses.

Shooing them away, you peered your head inside. And you almost immediately wished that you hadn't. Instead of getting an angry chicken looking back at you, you only got to see a chicken's body laying there. With no sight of the head anywhere. And while you were just a journalist for a mid tier newspaper.. even you could tell that it wasn't normal behavior.

SWISH.

A sudden burst of air hit your face, the hinges of the barn door creaking even further. The culprit had been just a couple meters away and you'd missed it. You jogged outside to try to see if you could catch a glimpse, looking up and down. Only to receive nothing but the buzzing cicadas from earlier.

In the short amount of time it'd taken you to come out, whatever—or whoever was out there, disappeared in the blink of an eye. You were left standing there with your mouth agape, camera weighing heavily in your hand. And now, a missed call from your boss.

"Hello?" You decided to answer the second call, pacing around the barn. Trying to think of just how you were supposed to begin to explain this. How every fiber in your being felt Venom's presence.. without actually facing him. Without actually having any proof that he was even here in the first place.

"I'd appreciate it if you answered my calls the first time around," her voice snapped out from the other line, an agitated groan leaving her lips. "I called to ask how the investigation was going. I'm assuming you have what you need to have the paper by tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow?" All the blood in your body ran cold, even more than the near death experience. The woman's working you into an early grave.

And all you received in response to your question was another groan. You could practically picture her pinching the bridge of her nose by now. "Yes, tomorrow. I plan on having it released a couple days from now, you know how the process is."

"Right, right, yeah. I'll get the paper to you by tomorrow," You assured her, your steps starting to get faster. It wouldn't be that hard, right? You just had to do what a couple journalists hadn't achieved in months by tomorrow morning. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, I'm screwed," you muttered to yourself, pushing your phone into the depths of your pocket.

The animals woke up from their nap, looking over at you with an unamused expression. "Don't look at me like that," you hissed out, catching a glimpse of them before letting out a groan, "And now I'm arguing with a bunch of animals." A slow breath left your lungs, forcing yourself to calm down. You'd just work with what you had in front of you.

Only drops of blood staining the tan floor in front of you served to prove that you weren't seeing things. You set the candle aside and pulled your camera out of your bag, starting to take pictures from whatever angle you could muster up. Whatever angle would look the most inconspicuous and mysterious to the newspaper editors.

You couldn't help but feel like something was staring at you—gauging every single one of your movements when you stepped out of the barn. The creature wouldn't have been stupid enough to stick around, would it? You looked up at the barn roof, almost expecting to see something ready to attack. But once again, a whole load bucket of absolutely nothing.

You truly didn't get paid enough to deal with this.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

An unquenchable thirst consumed Suguru's being inside and out, the urge completely taking over any last sense of rationale that he had remaining. Taking over every single last one of his thoughts. Even with the warm, iron taste of blood coating every single one of his tastebuds—the need wasn't satisfied. It wasn't nearly enough.

It almost felt like it would never be enough.

Dried crimson smudges smeared across elongated canines, pieces of raw flesh sticking to the ends. A mix of his own drool and blood dripped from the corners of his mouth, dripping down his chin and bare body. A body that wasn't really quite his own. Or more accurately, a body that wasn't just his anymore.

Suguru wasn't completely sure what the thing was, originally thinking of it as curse when he'd been sent out by Yaga to 'handle' the issue. Ironically enough, for the same thing that you were investigating just now. Except that he went to absorb it, the black glob in the ground didn't behave anything like a cursed spirit.

The taste of vomit and shit was one that Suguru was used to by now. The taste of every single one of humanity's evil doings—from lust to greed—sticking to the back of his throat while his body absorbed that very same evil. It was a taste that he couldn't get rid of no matter how hard

The little glob didn't taste like anything going down, which probably should've served as the first red flag. One of the other things was that the little thing didn't exactly appear on his command—much like the others in his repertoire, but rather when the thing wanted to make itself known. Like it had rational thinking.

It'd somehow bonded with Suguru's DNA, latching onto him for survival. Even with every method that he'd tried to take it off—prying it off with a metal bar, burning it off, freezing, it was all pointless. The little thing would just stick its gooey tongue out at him before retreating back to the safety of his own body. Going so far as to claim that they were the 'perfect match.'

Dead chicken heads cluttered around his feet, the sound of bones crunching against each other and the last desperate clucks in vain still echoed throughout his skull. Even a couple pieces of flesh remained on the tips of his teeth, the creature inside of him savoring each last bit of the pieces. Better than it being a human, at the very least.

He'd become too sloppy. That much was clear after you'd almost caught him in the barn earlier. If you'd been even just a second faster, you would've noticed him sticking to the side of the roof with no problem. Despite every sense in his body being enhanced, he'd almost gotten caught. All for his blood thirsty to have chickens before going back home for dinner.

How'd this even become a problem? Suguru had made it a point to take just a few chickens—just enough to satiate the thirst that seemed to run deep within his veins. Taking a few from a different farms scattered across the countryside shouldn't have been suspicious.. and yet here he was. Being investigated.

The smart thing to do would just to leave the chickens alone for now, right?

Just leave the whole thing alone. That would be easy...

Until he had the stupid idea to swing by your apartment. Just to make sure that you'd gotten home safe after driving in the snow. And maybe think of some lie of how he got stuck out with Gojo on a mission again, anything that would ease the suspicions you had.

After spending what seemed to be an eternity waiting for some kind of sign to show up, for the culprit to make themselves known—you decided to call it a night. With just a couple photographs and a new conversation topic for your therapist in the following days. And now you were stuck writing a multi page article with nothing but good vibes and a couple dead chickens.

Can after can of unfinished energy drinks cluttered the expanse of your desk, serving as a paperweight for the several papers that laid in front of you. The laptop screen in front of you illuminated your face, nearly blinding as every tab you could find in regard to Venom was opened up. Which was a complete grand total of three articles.

All built up on pure speculation. Exactly what the farmers had told you during their interview—rambling about it being a two headed monster, a soul snatcher, a demon. The eerie presence that hung around the farm was too strong to be ignored.. and yet, no one had actually found the source behind it. No source, no reliable clues, nothing. Just a whole load of absolutely nothing.

The simple fact remained that no one had managed to catch a glimpse of it. Or probably, no one had managed to catch a glimpse of it and live to tell the story. The photos didn't offer much either—they were all either blurred, heavily edited, or just outright AI generated. Each failed result just made the pounding headache thumping against your head all the much worse.

Just what were you supposed to tell your boss and the multitudes of readers?

A loud thump against your window distracted you from looking at your computer screen for different job offers. A thump too heavy to just be a result of the snowfall outside. To open it or not to open it? You stayed still in your spot, gulping down more of the battery acid to keep yourself for a couple more hours. Until another thump. And the third thump came.

You reluctantly got off the chair, padding over towards the window. Nothing. The night sky was completely empty, albeit for a couple snow flakes that were starting to coat the streets in a thin white sheet. Your gaze went down to the three pebbles lying on the floor, matching the number of thuds you'd heard earlier.

"What the fuck?" You muttered to yourself, looking up from the pebbles. The words died in your throat when you looked up to see big, white eyes boring into your own. Not exactly what you were expecting to see living in the second floor. You scrambled away from the window, your heart beating against your chest as you heard the creature scratching against the glass.

The same creature that you were trying to write an article about was scratching against your window, each one grating against your eardrums. Had it been tracking your movements down since you'd left the barn..? Before you had the chance to begin questioning it further, it slid through the crack in the window like slime. Reaching up and up until it reached the lock.

Slipping inside of your apartment in a span of seconds, Venom stood in front of you. Its head pressed against the ceiling, taking over the space it had available with ease. Chills ran down your back when the creature met your gaze—his stare unsettling. The way a predator would look at its prey. It didn't help that you could practically see it salivating as it took you in.

The chickens were the appetizer and you were about to be the full course meal.

"You're the one writing those articles," not a question, just a simple statement. Its voice came out like something out of an alien movie. You rubbed the back of your neck, awkwardly looking up at the goo-like creature. Trying to figure out what lie you could pull out of your ass.

"I mean, not exactly. There's a lot of people writing those articles, mine don't really get as much traction," you were babbling the first thing that came to mind, trying to buy yourself enough time. Enough time to figure out if jumping out of the second window in just your pajamas was too stupid of an idea. Except... that Venom wasn't even paying attention to you anymore.

It busied itself with picking up one of the various news articles, an indignant scoff leaving its mouth. Holding up the offensive piece of paper up to his face, its eyes narrowing down at you. "If you answer this wrong, I'll be eating your brains. If you answer it right, I'll be eating your arm. Do you think this is the most flattering picture of me?"

You looked over at the picture, trying to discern what was so wrong with it. Seeing Venom face to face, this was the closest thing that resembled it. "It's red but it still looks like you somewhat," you shrugged. Though your eyes quickly widened seeing Venom lick their lips, almost hungrily. Like it'd been waiting for you to say the wrong answer.

"But no, I don't think it's the most flattering. Doesn't look like you at all," you quickly backtracked with a nervous laugh, stepping back just the slightest bit. Just to where the creature wouldn't notice you were slowly slipping away. The creature seemed satisfied with that answer, slamming the photo down onto the wooden desk.

"So unfair that I'm still getting compared to that thing."

"That thing?"

"Carnage."

Venom picked up the camera that laid next to the disorganized stack of papers—holding it up to his face. "Not bad, could've done with some better lighting," he tsked, looking through the pictures you'd taken earlier at the farm. "There wasn't any better lighting," you grumbled, folding your arms across your chest. The subtle click of the camera filled up the room as the creature continued to look through the photographs.

Until even it got tired of multiple copies of the same photos. Venom held up the camera lens to face its slimy face, having the nerve to smile just as the flash came on. "There. A much better picture for your references," the creature spoke almost proudly.. holding up your camera to take another photo of itself. Taking on a more serious expression. "Replace those ugly ones on Google."

Venom moved across your room curiously, exploring it like something out a museum. Picking up the articles you had scattered throughout your desk, holding it up underneath his scrutinizing gaze. And then.. the first change started to happen. Its mask began to disintegrate, human flesh starting to show underneath its cover.

You were delirious. That was the only possible explanation. The fumes from the filthy manure finally infiltrated your brain. The sight of the dead chickens was starting to mess up your cognitive function. "Suguru?"

"Surprise," now he sounded nervous, looking everywhere in the room except at your face.

All the little signs that Suguru had been displaying throughout the past couple weeks slowly started to make sense. From being insistent to be the one to wash his uniform (not that you'd minded at the time) to coming back home at the ass crack of dawn. Claiming that a mission held him up. And still, you found yourself wanting to believe that maybe you were just hallucinating.

"I didn't scare you too badly, right?" he approached you slowly, like he was the one that had to be cautious. You stayed frozen in spot, your mouth agape even as he came to hold your hips.

"Wait, so you're the murderer? How long has it been going on for? A-And why'd you show up here as Venom?" The questions spilled out of you, struggling to even begin to wrap your head around this.

Choosing to ignore your other questions, he simply answered, "You wanted to write your article, didn't you? What better way to do that than to keep track of our exclusive interview." Your phone looked ridiculously tiny held in between two digits, one of his fingertips tapping at the screen. To get the camera app set up?

Suguru placed the camera against one of the perfume bottles on the desk, capturing your bed in the frame. "What's that for?" you questioned, looking over at him as he moved around your room. No longer with that curious gaze, but the usual comfortability instead. "It'll be easier for you to remember if you have it digitized."

Your bed squeaked underneath his weight as Suguru went to lie down, resting his hands behind his head. "Come on, princess. The interview's more comfortable this way," he patted down on the spot next to him, a couple of your stuffed animals flying to the floor from the sheer force of his hand.

"So, what do you want to know?" Suguru questioned, running one of his fingers down the sheer material of your sleep shirt. Bunching up the thin material underneath his hands before slowly raising it up to your stomach. Abnormally cold hands slid up your torso, goosebumps forming instinctively at the touch.

"Why'd you murder the chickens? Not like we're missing any food at home," You looked over at the camera, making sure it was recording. And trying to avoid looking at Suguru. Was he still the person that you fell in love with? Well, clearly not.. but maybe, just maybe, the symbiote hadn't changed him?

You weren't sure how to deal with the possibility that the thing inside him had changed him completely. But Suguru was still gentle, his fingertips lightly caressing your body while he let out a small hum. Considering his answer.

"The thing inside me craves blood. Morning, day, and night. It's like an urge. An itch that I can't really control," Suguru moved his hand up your shirt, letting out a small hum. "I know that doesn't answer your question. Give me a bit."

Suguru grasped one of your breasts in his hand, rubbing his thumb against your areola. Feeling your nipples getting harder and harder underneath his fingertip, both from the cold seeping in through the slightly ajar window and his actions. He did the same to your right breast, slowly taking his time to move down your body. Eliciting all the goosebumps he could muster within you.

Suguru's fingers rubbed slightly against your clothed cunt, tracing the outline of your folds through the flimsy material. "Or better yet. Why do you think I murdered the chickens?" the deflection was smooth, even you had to admit that much. His fingers were just as smooth, sliding your panties to the side to reveal your already glistening cunt.

The two digits began moving in a scissoring motion, slowly starting to spread you open. It was hard to focus on the damn chickens when all you wanted was for him to keep going. Your hips bucked up to meet his hand, getting the slightest bit of friction against his palm. Just as soon as that sense of relief came over you, it was quickly ripped away.

Suguru pulled his fingers out of your pussy, bringing them up to his lips. Wrapping his lips around them and sucking on them like a decadent dish, rolling his eyes back. "I'll be nice, even though you didn't answer. Want a little taste?" You simply nodded at his question, leaning up to meet his lips. Suguru closed the gap in between you two, pressing his lips against your own.

The first thing you could taste was yourself, the taste clinging onto his lips for dear life. Your tongue ran over his bottom lip, picking up the remnants.

“If I knew why'd you murdered the chickens, I wouldn't be asking," you pointed out, a small gasp leaving your lips. His thumb teased your clit yet again, teasing you to that crescendo before letting it drop again.

"But you're so smart, baby. I wanted to hear your thoughts on why chickens. Why not dogs? Why not cats?" Suguru spoke in puzzles, only serving to confuse you even further. "Come on, put that big brain to use and let me hear your thoughts."

"Because.. it's easier to overlook?" You blurted out the first thing that came to mind, trying to put your 'big brain' to use without blanking out completely.

Suguru clicked his tongue, nodding his head from his spot in between your legs. "Something like that, yeah. I thought no one would really notice if a couple chickens went missing," he looked up at you, amethyst eyes almost seeming to sparkle underneath the moon.

The only time where Suguru didn't feel like the hunger was all consuming was when he was in between your legs, eating you out to his heart's content (or until you had to pull him off you after the nth orgasm, either or). "Could smell you all the way outside the window. Such a good scent," he all but purred into your skin, completely removing your panties off.

Just how enhanced were his senses now? Maybe that should be your next question. If you remembered, that is.

Sharp canines grazed upon your inner thighs, the movement surprisingly gentle. For someone who'd just bit off a chicken's head with those same teeth, anyways. His long tongue licked a stripe up your inner thigh, sucking on the supple skin and savoring the taste all the while. Your hips bucked up in need of something more, only to quickly being pinned down by his hands.

"Let me take my time, princess. Savor this," He looked over at you, a firm grip on your thighs. "I'll give you what you want, I promise," Suguru hadn't even done anything—and he was already starting to get delirious. He could practically taste you from here, could feel the scent of you completely invading his senses. All he could think about was you, you, and you.

The stretch of the symbiote's long, pink tongue as he pushed it in deeper into your cunt had you gripping the sheets beneath you all that much tighter. The silken sheets bunching up underneath your vice grip. Just the tongue was enough to reach up where your boyfriend's cock normally did.

You writhed against the silk bedsheets, your eyes struggling to stay open as the tongue pushed further inside of you. Filling you up with so much ease. It slowly retracted, pushing back inside of you with one swift motion. "D-Don't stop," you let out a gasp, your back arched while the tongue reached deep within you.

"So tasty," a low gravelly voice that didn't quite belong to Suguru sounded from the back of his throat. The different entity living within his body. "Don't get used to it," Suguru's voice came out muffled, tongue-deep inside of your cunt. His tongue eagerly lapped up and every drop of your slick, coating his mouth and chin.

He pulled away for the slightest bit, letting his spit dribble down on to your pussy. Watching intently at the way your walls clenched at just that, the way you twitched with just the lightest of movements. "F-Fuck, Sugu!" A whine left your lips, feeling his fingers push into you again. Curling them just right, hitting that sweet spot inside of you with each thrust.

"So good," he babbled against your cunt, the tip of his tongue swirling against your clit. "T-Taste so fucking good, I love you," Suguru rutted his hips pathetically onto the edge of the bed, leaving his precum onto the sheets. The hand that wasn't essentially knuckle-deep inside you wrapped around his cock, thrusting himself in time with your own.

The symbiote's tongue was quick, precise in the way that it flicked around your clit. Suguru swirled it around the nub, letting out mindless groans and babbles as he leaked further into his hand. Your cunt gushed around his fingers—squelching with every thrust of his fingers he gave. You tightened up around them, your fingers digging in further into the bedsheets.

"G-Gonna cum, gonna cum," you babbled out, your toes curling. It was just so deep, so good, so much of everything. "Cum all over my fingers, pretty. Wanna taste you so bad," Suguru managed to get out through his own whines and babbles. You felt that pressure inside of you build up before finally releasing—covering his fingers in your release when you came.

Suguru took his fingers out, replacing them with his tongue to lap up every last drop that started to leak down your thighs. With one final kiss against your folds, he pulled away to clean away his fingers. You sat up, coming face to face with his cock now that he was standing up.

And to call it a beast was short of an understatement.

Your swollen lips wrapped around the tip of his cock, struggling to completely get him inside of your mouth. It was just so.. thick. You looked up at him, your eyes starting to water up from the way your jaw was starting to slack. "You don't have to, princess," Suguru cooed down at you, wiping away your tears with his thumb. Though, even he would be a fool to deny this sight was anything short of perfect.

You looked absolutely sinful on your knees, your cheeks hollowing out in some attempt to ease the way down. You ignored the warning, slowly starting to bob your head down his shaft. Becoming complacent with the fact you wouldn't dare to try to take all of him in—not unless you wanted a quick trip to the hospital and an awkward explanation to the ER doctors.

With the spit pooled up in your mouth, you blew bubbles on the tip of Suguru's cock before letting it dribble down his shaft. One of your hands wrapped around the base, slowly starting to twist your wrist and start to jerk off what you couldn't reach. "F-Fuck, that's it, princess. So good," Suguru moaned out, one of his own hands resting on the back of your head.

"If you want me to keep going—answer me this. Have you hurt any civilians?" You pulled your mouth away, a string of saliva connecting you to the tip of his leaking cock. Suguru let out an exasperated groan, "No. I haven't. I don't want to hurt any people."

Even from this awkward angle on the floor, you could tell that he was telling the truth. Finally. You continued to drool on his cock, the filthy sounds of you gagging on it when the tip hit the back of your throat echoing through the thin walls. Your tongue traced through the thick veins on the sides, feeling Suguru's thighs twitch beside you.

"O-Oh f-fuck," Suguru bit on his fist, his head lolling back the more you tried to push his cock inside your mouth. Your tongue licked down the underside of his cock, going all the way to his heavy balls. You looked up to see Suguru struggling to meet your gaze, his chest heaving and strangled breaths leaving his lips.

Your tongue drew small circles on the sac before you took it in your mouth, sucking on them. "Wait, wait," Suguru started off, gently pulling you off, "Need to come inside you." He grabbed your hand, helping you off the floor.

Though the camera was still running on the nightstand, you decided to make mental notes of everything he was saying. Just in case. You weren't even completely sure if you'd remember by the end of the night. Suguru made himself comfortable just like at the start of the night—and the pieces started to click together. No way the man wanted you to ride him now.

"S-Suguru, I can't," the words escaped your lips in a hiss, slowly impaling yourself onto the first two inches of the large cock underneath you. Not even enough to completely get the tip in. Each inch felt like it was splitting you apart all over again.

"Yes you can, you're taking it so well baby," Suguru cooed, watching as you slowly sunk yourself down on his cock. Squeezing the life out of him while you tried to find your momentum.

You could already imagine the words on your tombstone— death by monster dick.

Suguru placed his hands on your hips, gently squeezing the flesh to ease your movements. "There you go, that's it. That's it, take it for me," he encouraged your movements with each bounce you were giving on his—the symbiote's(?)—cock.

Suguru looked over to see his cock nudging a bulge in your tummy when he thrusted up into you, the sight nearly having him close to an orgasm again. He thrusted in deeper, watching how the tip protruded with each one. "S-Sugu, you're in too deep," you moaned out, practically feeling the man in your guts. And he wasn't even fully in. You wouldn't be surprised if he could reach your guts.

Your hips gyrated, trying to keep up some sense of rhythm. You pressed your hands firmly against their chest for some semblance of balance, feeling the goon underneath your fingertips sticking to your fingers. "Take it, take it," Suguru let out a moan of his own, his fingers digging into the soft skin of your hips. His feet pressed against the mattress, using you like a toy as he thrust himself in and out of your cunt.

"S-Sugu, too much, too much," you babbled out, struggling to keep up with the pace you'd set for yourself. That, and the absurdly big dick jackhammering you.

"You tired, baby?" His tone was sickly sweet as he spoke, pulling you off his cock and setting you down on the bed. "It's okay, I'll take care of you now. Just lay there and look pretty."

Suguru's body began to change back into its original form, the symbiote retreating back into his body. Thick, extensive tentacles protruded out of Suguru's back, each one wrapping around one of your limbs. Suguru slowly rubbed his cock across your folds, covering his length with your slick until it glistened against the moonlight peeking in through the windows.

Suguru slowly pushed the tip inside, feeling your walls tighten up against his shaft. "Is that better?" He looked down to watch for any signs of discomfort, and upon not finding any, he placed your legs up on his shoulders. Using the angle as leverage, hips snapping deeper inside of you.

"Taking everything I give you so well," his finger lightly caressed your cheek, the sharp thrust of his hips completely contradicting the gentleness he was trying to give. Your cunt covered his shaft with your slick, squelching as he slid it in and out of you. "Rub my clit, please, please," you let out a mewl, keeping your gaze directly on his own.

"Can't say no when you beg so pretty," His thumb slowly began to rub your clit, building up your orgasm for the second time tonight. Your walls clenched around him tightly, milking his cock in the process. Everything started to get too much, too little, you weren't really sure what you wanted. The only thing that you did know was, well, you wanted to cum.

“So. Fucking. Tight," each of his words was pronounced with a thrust, sweat dripping down from his forehead and covering his skin. Your orgasm hit you like a wave, a moan leaving your lips as you came. It was both a sight and a sound that Suguru couldn't find himself getting tired of even if he tried. His own hips began to grow sloppy, his thrusts losing all sense of rhythm while his balls continued to grow heavier.

A groan erupted from the back of Suguru's throat, his head thrown back while his eyes barely managed to stay open. "Take it baby, it's all yours," Suguru let out a groan, his hips growing more erratic. Your messy pussy was pushing him closer and closer to his own orgasm. You simply nodded your head against the pillow, your nails digging into his forearm.

"Y-Yeah, all mine," your moan came out so sweetly, being the last thing to push Suguru over the edge. Ropes of cum spurted deep inside of your cunt, filling you up almost immediately. He didn't bother to move just yet, remaining buried deep inside of your cunt. The only thing that he did do was start to press slow, sloppy kisses on your calves before setting your legs down on the bed.

A soft whine left your lips when Suguru pulled out his twitching cock, the tentacles retreating back inside of him. Globs of cum dripped down out of you, streaming down your thighs and ass. "I never harmed anyone in what I've been doing, by the way. I don't want to harm anyone, I promise. I'm still your Suguru," he whispered, low enough to where your phone wouldn't pick it up.

"Still your Suguru. Your Suguru," Entrusting those words to you and you only. His thick fingers pushed inside of your dripping cunt, pushing his cum back inside of you. Filling you completely yet again. Suguru pulled out of you once again, wiping his hand off with a rag on the bed stand.

"You okay?" Suguru whispered, using the rag to gently wipe away the sweat that dribbled down your forehead. One of his hands reached down, fingertips gently rubbing against your thighs in a bleak attempt to soothe the ache.

"No, think you and that cock earlier might've broken me," you mumbled, your voice coming out hoarse. At this rate, you'd have a noise complaint taped to your front door first thing in the morning. Suguru reached over for the nightstand next to you, opening up a water bottle. "Sit up for me just a little."

Your body ached even further, pushing yourself so at least your head would be straight. "I know, I know it hurts," Did he really? Suguru took a hold of your chin, lightly tipping it up before giving you slow gulps of water. Your throat cleared up with each sip, but you could practically feel your body crying out underneath you with each second you stayed up.

"You're okay, pretty girl. I'll take care of you, did so good for me," Suguru murmured praises against your back, wrapping his arms around your stomach and keeping you close. Keeping you far warmer than any blanket you've bought as of yet.

Silence clung onto the room, but it was a comfortable silence this time around. All of the previous tension had disappeared, leaving the two of you spent. "I know you're still my Suguru, but thank you for answering the questions. You scared the shit out of me when you popped up in the suit."

"I know. Wouldn't hurt you or another person, though. Please trust me," Suguru peppered a kiss onto your upper back, continuing with his gentle motions. After nearly splitting your body in half, he was being delicate. Keeping you safe and assured.

Suguru looked over at the drawer where your phone rested, remembering all about the 'interview' he'd signed up for. "I'm gonna go see how photogenic we were, I'll be right back," He spoke quietly, pressing a small kiss onto your forehead before getting up from the squeaky mattress. It'd been a miracle that the old thing hadn't given out just from tonight.

"Yeah, okay," you spoke through ragged breaths, watching him stand up and move through the shadows of your room. Suguru took his time in picking your phone up and looking through it, watching every second of the 'film.'

"Think we're gonna have to do re-do the interview," Suguru noted, watching through the footage recorded. The phone had toppled over around 1/3 into the video, completely coming to a stop shortly after with a 'storage full' pop-up. Your chest heaved, barely registering any of the words he was saying. Interview..?

Oh, right. The Venom article you still had to finish writing. By tomorrow. Very important.

"You don't mind that right, baby?"

[toomuchdickfort]

I should be allowed as a tiefling to make obvious comments to wyll like ‘woag ur sharper than I am, cool’ and have him be like. I mean. I did. come about it by different means yes. Alas, I’ll just imagine t’evye staying the obvious to his companions and the just sorta blinking to try and figure out if she’s wanting to hear their thoughts or really only just noticing it

[sceletaflores]

𝐒𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐊𝐧𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐞 𝐕𝐞𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐭 𝐓𝐨𝐫𝐧, 𝐎𝐧 𝐌𝐲 𝐓𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐡…

￫ PAIR: Remmick x fem!reader

￫ WC: 1.5k

￫ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, religious (sacrilegious) themes and imagery, nat taking some liberties with the established vampire lore, semi-light gore (in a flashback), murder (also in a flashback), vampirism, vampire/human, monsterfucking, established relationship...kind of, biting, blood play, spit kink, pain kink, period sex, oral sex (fem!receiving), blood drinking, a very obsessive/possessive relationship, corruption, biting is just another form of sexual penetration guys, porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.

￫ MINI NAT'S NOTE: i've contemplated posting this for literally so long and i've ranted about my woke/horny inner turmoil already...but i just can't stop thinking about the sexy vampire man and i just love some southern gothic themes DOWN so i had to. remmick as a character is so complex and interesting to me that i knew it would be an experience to write him, and i was right like this google doc really kicked my ass for a bit. let's hope it's not dog water! also this is totes inspired by @spikedfearn! i absolutely loved and died for under the blood moon and i've been clawing for an excuse to write some depraved period sex of my own so now's the perfect time. hope you love it, mwah!

dividers by @cafekitsune!

a monster dressed in the skin of a man lurks outside your window...

There's a man outside your window.

You know he’s there even as you face away from the panes. The moonlight casts his shadow along the wall of your bedroom, broad shouldered and still as a tombstone. You don’t move, continuing to lay on your side as you trace the shape of him with your eyes. Cicadas and crickets sing in time with one another, a sweet song that sours at the edges as he stands among them.

The longer you lie still, the heavier the room becomes. The air thickens like soup on the stove, slow to bubble. The shadow raises its arm, all you can do is listen as the sound of nails scratching gently along glass fills the four walls. 

He’s waiting.

He always waits.

You don’t need to invite him in, you haven’t since the first night.

He likes you to.

“Come in.”

When the pane creaks open behind you, slow and careful, you don’t flinch.

You breathe through your nose. The scent that rolls in with him isn’t human—copper and mineral, sweet like decay under sunbaked wood. It smells like the road, like blood, like the belly of something unholy. It smells like him.

“Remmick…”

Even now, as his boots touch your floorboards like thunder soaked in molasses, you don’t turn to face him. You’ve long since learned that looking at him too early gives him the satisfaction of watching your pupils dilate, your breath catch, your pulse flutter like a moth trapped in a mason jar. 

His voice is a rasp, smoke behind your ear. “You been waitin’ on me, honey?”

Remmick steps into the shine of the moon, eyes glinting dark and red-rimmed in the light.

He’s sin stitched in skin. Wears the allure of his very being like a preacher coming to warn you off temptation, but you know better. You’ve tasted temptation, bathed in it body and soul. Let it crawl between your legs and drip from your lips. 

You barely have time to breathe before he’s on you. Calloused hands, cold lips, teeth that drag across your neck but never pierce. There’s blood on his mouth already, you can feel the slickness of it as it stains your skin—it’s not yours, yet.

You watched him once. Stood by as he fed, watched impassively as the man beneath him writhed and choked on the blood flooding his torn throat, arms and legs scrambling in the dirt until the last traces of life finally faded from his eyes. He was left nothing but an empty husk, the color from his skin drained as the last few moments of horror were preserved on his face.

Remmick turned to look at you when it was done, blood drenched and nowhere near satiated. He fucked you for hours that night, right there on the dry dirt. Your face pressed into the earth as he took you from behind over and over again, cunt aching and abused around the ungodly stretch of his cock.

Your fingers shake as you curl them in the sheets, your body already aware of what’s coming. You’ve been craving it. Begging for it in the silence of empty, rotting pews.

Even as your mouth tried in vain to pray the memories away, your hips have been rolling against the mattress all night, slick with more than sweat, damp with more than fear. There’s a scent to it—ripe and hot, threaded through with iron. You’re bleeding. And he knows.

“I can smell you, baby.” You shudder as his lips brush your neck with every word, goosebumps pebbling over your skin as your cunt throbs shamefully between your thighs. Drool drips from the corner of his mouth, thick and hued in a dusty pink as blood melts into it.

Your body screams at you to reach out, to drag your tongue along the filthy mess and make it your own. Your lips part in a soft breath as Remmick smiles down at you wolfishly, sharp fangs catching the moonlight dangerously as it gleams through the open window.

“Sweet little wound. Givin’ it up for me already, angel?”

A broken sound blooms in your chest, caught in the lust and horror forming a knot in your throat. Your eyes flutter shut, soft breasts heaving with every shallow breath as big, frigid hands skate down the offered expanse of your body.

“Christ.”

A dark chuckle rings out over your head. “Trust me, he ain’t here, just me.”

Warmth burns at your cheeks, but the embarrassment has long been worked out of you after all this time.

Remmick likes it best like this. When you’re raw. Unclean. When there’s blood in your panties and God in your mouth.

He slides his hand beneath the thin cotton of your nightgown, and chuckles when he feels it—your cunt already bare, adorned with blood and slick, thick and messy, coating his fingers like oil paint. He brings it to his mouth and sucks them clean, the sound obscene, reverent. 

And the way he moans at the taste—full-throated, low in his chest, hungry and pleased and damn near feral—makes your spine arch. You swear you can feel your blood rush towards his voice like it’s called.

Remmick glides down your body like a serpent curling around the branches of a tree, urging you to bite from the forbidden fruit just as he will.

He never asks permission. Just parts your thighs with the heel of his palms and settles his weight between them like he belongs there—like he was carved from your ribcage in a past life to fuck the God out of you.

You feel it when his hand grazes the inside of your thigh, hot and slick. The mess between your legs has him inhaling hard through his nose, a deep growl tearing its way from his chest. His tongue comes out to wet the dry skin of his lips. Your heart stutters as his breath fans cool over your sweltering heat.

The first lick is obscene. A broad drag of tongue from hole to clit that has Remmick groaning like he’s starving. You think, a bit hysterically, that he is. He always is.

Although, you don’t know what he’s hungrier for—your cunt, or the blood slicking it.

He fucks you open with his mouth like he’ll be judged for it. Hands branding bruises into the soft skin of your hips. Forked tongue licking you until your thighs quake on either side of his head, until your breath hiccups into desperate moans that sound more like confession.

Your shaking hands fist in his hair, back arching off the bed and into his mouth. “God–”

Sharp pinpricks of pain bloom white hot between your legs. Your eyes dart down just quick enough to watch the way his nails pierce your flesh. Tiny trails of blood running in weak streams in time with the helpless pulse of your cunt. Fresh against the drying evidence of his red stained hands stamping their prints over your skin.

Remmick pulls back, mouth soaked. Your blood streaks his chin, his cheeks, his nose. It stains his teeth and tongue. He grins, and it’s terrible. “What’d I tell you, girl? God ain’t coming.”

He spits on your cunt. Thick. Filthy. Blood and saliva and slick mixing on your skin like a sacrament.

Then his mouth is back on your clit, rough and clever. He kisses the sensitive bundle of nerves once before dipping his head, thick fingers spread your lips apart, wide enough to watch your hole convulse and shake for him. A deep, evil sound fills the room as his lips descend onto you once more.

You can feel the blood trickle out as he sucks, feel his tongue move in tandem with the sharp press of his fangs. He doesn’t bite yet. He’s teasing. 

Tempting. 

Worshipping. 

You whimper. He groans. “Keep makin’ that sound,” he pants, voice hoarse. “That pretty little hurtin’ sound. Devil’s listenin’, baby."

You can't help but obey him, a symphony of pathetically sinful noises pouring from between your parted lips like hail mary’s. You writhe on the mattress, twisting the soft curls fisted in your hands tightly as your body trembles. Your rosary swings haplessly from the bedpost, deep red beads gleaming like an omen you’re blind to. 

Remmick pulls back once again, panting as he rests his soiled face against your thigh to peer up at you like a lonewolf stalks a lamb grazing far too close to its den. “Say you missed me, darlin’.”

You did. You hate it. You do.

“Say it,” he snarls, dragging his teeth along the vulnerable skin, breaking it so shallowly it stings.

“I missed you.”

He bites.

You scream.

You come on his mouth with your thighs trembling and your eyes rolled back far enough to strain.

Remmick won't stop. Not until he's drunk his fill, until your thighs are sticky and raw and he can kiss you with your own blood on his lips.

Outside, the cicadas resume their song.

MINI NAT'S NOTE: extra special shoutout to my husband @ebodebo for advocating for the posting of this fic with a near violent enthusiasm, she's to blame for this. thank you so much for reading!