#little obsessed with the vampire one as you can see..

[flixpii]

Never Not Yours (ii)

part two

| fem!reader x remmick

word count : 15.2k

link to part one

A/N : Reading part one before part two is mandatory to understand.

synopsis : located in part one !

warnings (MDNI 18+) : blood/blood drinking, vampirism & supernatural themes, themes of loss & abandonment, unprotected sex (p in v), spit, fingering, soft dom remmick, praising, semi-riding?, trauma responses/dissociation, death/grief, i’m obsessed with iwtv and it shows

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When you wake, it isn’t with a start.

It’s slower than that. Like drifting to the surface of a lake you didn’t know you’d sunk into.

Your eyes blink open to the soft spill of light bleeding through the curtains—hazy and warm, the kind of gold that only comes at the very start of morning. You rub your eyes with the heel of your palm, but the heaviness doesn’t leave right away. It clings to your ribs, your shoulders, your mouth.

Then—

A small whine. Faint, but growing.

You rise.

Feet cold against the wood as they carry you to the guest room, body still moving in that in-between state where sleep hasn’t quite let go of you yet. But when you step into the room, she’s already there.

Your sister.

She’s got your niece tucked against her shoulder, bouncing her gently with the kind of ease that makes you feel like a child again yourself. Her hand rubs the baby’s back in slow, patient circles, and your niece is already quieter, eyelids fluttering like she’s deciding whether she’s done crying or not.

“Good morning,” your sister says, turning her head. Her smile is small but warm, the kind that only sisters can offer without saying anything more. “Thanks for watchin’ her.”

You nod, voice still lost somewhere in your chest. But she doesn’t mind the silence—you can tell. She never did.

It doesn’t take long to gather everything. The bag with the bottles, the little blanket your niece never lets go of. Your sister hums as she works, adjusting the baby in her arms with practiced grace. And then, just before the door, she turns and places a kiss on your cheek—loud, wet, too wet—and you grimace instinctively.

“Ugh, get outta here,” you mutter, shooing her with a lazy flick of your hand.

She only laughs, full-bodied and familiar. “I’ll see you next week—don’t forget Mama’s birthday, or she’ll drag you over by the ear.”

Then she’s gone.

The door shuts.

The house settles.

And you are left in it—quiet, still, holding the ghost of her warmth in the hallway air.

The rest of the day drips forward like honey—thick and slow and mocking. The hours crawl, every minute stretching long and mean, like time itself is playing with you.

You try to busy your hands—folding laundry, washing a few dishes left from yesterday, wiping the counter that didn’t need it. But the weight behind your eyes lingers, and you find yourself glancing at the clock more than once, counting down to when you can lie back down.

To when you can close your eyes and see him again.

Even if it’s only a dream.

By the time the moon is high in the sky and casting its pale light across your floorboards, you’re finally heading to bed. The day has dragged every ounce of energy from your bones, but sleep still feels like something you’ll have to chase—not something that’ll come easy.

As you pass the front door, your steps slow.

You don’t mean to stop. But you do.

Right there, right in front of the door.

Your eyes land on it like they have a hundred times before—like they did the night he left, and every night since. And for a split second, just a flicker, you stare at it like it might open on its own.

You shake your head, lips pressing into a bitter smile as you mutter under your breath, “He’s not out there.”

You curse yourself for hoping.

The link between you had dulled—muted, like someone had drawn a curtain over it—but you still felt something now and then. Or maybe you just wanted to.

You start to turn toward your bedroom, foot already pivoting on the floor.

Knock.

You freeze.

The sound comes again.

Knock. Knock.

Your breath catches low in your throat, limbs locking into place as your heart—your very human heart—thrums against your ribs. You don’t even need to walk to the door. You already know.

Remmick.

You’d know that knock anywhere—slow, steady, like he’s never unsure of whether you’ll answer. Like he’s not asking to come in. Just letting you know he’s there.

Just like before.

You don’t move.

The knock fades into silence, and the silence stretches—long and thick like the air before a summer storm. Your breath stays lodged somewhere deep in your chest, like your body’s too unsure to exhale, like letting go of even that would be too much.

Still, you don’t move. Don’t answer.

The stillness creeps across the room, brushing over your skin and curling around your ankles, your wrists, the back of your neck. You swear the moonlight grows colder through the glass. Every shadow along the hallway wall feels like it’s leaning toward the door, waiting too.

And then—

His voice.

Soft. Low. Threaded with something quieter than regret, but heavier than apology.

“Can we talk?”

It’s muffled by the door, but it reaches you—wraps around your ribs like it always did. Like a pull.

Your brows furrow. Not from confusion. Not even from anger.

But from something deeper.

Because he’s knocking. And asking.

And that’s what catches you most.

He could come in. You know that.

You’d invited him in years ago—one soft-voiced, firelit evening, back when you didn’t know what it would mean. That invitation still lingered, invisible but unrevoked. If he really wanted to, he could step inside without asking. Walk through that door and into your life again like he never left it scattered.

But he doesn’t.

He waits.

Outside.

Quiet.

You stand there, bare feet cold against the floor, arms tucked tight around yourself like you’re trying to hold every piece of you in. You glance at the door again. You imagine him just behind it, hands in his pockets like he always did when he didn’t know what to do with them, coat pulled close around him like it could shield him from more than just weather.

You don't speak.

Not yet.

You’re not ready to make it easy. Not when it had been so hard.

And so you wait too, rooted to the spot—heart a soft tremor, breath shallow.

The silence between you grows heavy again.

But he doesn’t knock this time. He just waits.

The seconds stretch. Then a minute. Then maybe more.

You can’t tell anymore—time’s slipped sideways the way it always does when he’s near but not quite with you. Your eyes are fixed on the door, unblinking, like you’re waiting for it to vanish or open or burn.

His voice sounds again. Quieter this time. Rougher.

“Please… just talk to me.”

It’s not a demand. Not even a question, really.

It’s the sound of someone who’s been chasing a thought too long in his own head. Someone who used to never need to ask for your words, because they always came freely.

You inhale slowly, air passing through your teeth in a low hiss as your jaw tenses. You shift your weight, eyes dropping to the seam where the door meets the floor. His shadow flickers beneath it, unmoving but present.

When you finally answer, your voice isn’t cold—but it’s not warm either. It’s even. Still. Measured.

“I thought we already did.”

The words fall like stone—soft, but final. You don’t need to say more. You could, but you don’t.

Because you know he remembers. Two years ago. In this very spot.

That was a mistake.

You hadn’t heard from him since.

Your arms fold over your chest like instinct, like protection. And though your voice had come out steady, your throat feels tight now. Not with new pain, but with all the old ones left to fester too long in silence.

Outside, you hear nothing. Not a breath. Not a rustle of fabric. Not even him shifting.

Just more stillness.

But you know he’s there.

You stand still a moment longer, your heartbeat pulsing in your throat like it wants to climb out and reach for something that might still hurt.

Then— One foot steps forward.

Then the other.

Your breath catches in your chest again, not from fear, but from the ache that’s begun to spread just beneath your ribs. It always starts there when he’s near—like something bruised waking up again.

Your bare feet are nearly silent against the floor as you cross the space between you and the door. Every step feels louder than it should, though no sound echoes in the house except the soft creak of the wood under you. The moonlight reaches through the front window and brushes faintly over your skin, pale and silver like a ghost’s touch.

When you reach the door, you hesitate again.

And then—quietly, cautiously—you lift your hand.

Your palm presses flat against the wood.

It’s cool.

You don’t say a word. You don’t need to.

Because your touch is the first thing you’ve offered him in two years.

A simple gesture. A quiet contact. But it speaks. I’m listening.

The silence holds again. Longer this time. He doesn’t rush into it. Doesn’t pounce on the moment like you half expected he would. Maybe he’s just as surprised by it as you are.

And then—finally—

His voice again, but lower. Unsteady. A little rough at the edges, like he’s unraveling as he goes.

“I don’t expect forgiveness.”

He lets that hang.

Your fingers curl slightly against the door.

“I shouldn’t’ve left like I did. I just… I didn’t know how to be near you without wanting something I didn’t think I deserved.”

You can hear it in his voice—the effort. The fight to hold himself together. The weight of everything he’s not saying, pressing into the cracks.

He exhales once, slow and hard.

“I think about that night. Every goddamn day.”

Still, you don’t speak.

But your hand stays there, steady. Present.

He sighs again, quieter now. Not out of frustration. Out of guilt. 

Out of grief.

You stay still, hand against the wood, listening.

There’s something in the way the silence stretches now—not strained like before, but slow. Considered. Like he’s sorting through a thousand thoughts just to find one worth speaking aloud.

You don’t rush him. You never have. Not really. Even when it felt like you were pushing, all you ever wanted was the truth.

And now, after all this time, he’s trying to give it.

“I went north,” he says, finally.

His voice is quieter than before, like he’s not sure it matters. Like he half expects you to pull your hand away at any moment.

“Way up past the river, past the hills no one bothers naming anymore.”

You keep listening, eyes closed now.

“There’s a woman there… maybe a couple of them. Old ones. Real old.” A pause. “They remember things most folks forgot on purpose.”

His breath hitches slightly. Not dramatic. Just human.

“They knew about the kind of blood I carry. About how it… sticks to grief. How it holds on.”

You frown softly, not moving, but your hand presses just a little firmer into the wood, fingertips spread like you're trying to feel him through the barrier.

“I asked about them,” he says, voice low now. “My family. What was left of ‘em. If anything could bring 'em back.”

The word them lands heavy between you both, and for a moment, the silence tries to fold itself back around his throat.

“I thought if I found the right ones—learned the right things—I could fix it. Undo the curse. Or at least find a way to reach them again. But everything they told me… it came with a cost.”

Another pause. Deeper this time. Like he’s swallowing more than words.

“And I kept askin’ myself, what’s it worth?” He laughs once, but it’s hollow. “What’s it cost to keep wanting something dead to come back… when someone living wanted to stay?”

Your hand trembles.

“I thought if I stayed away long enough, you’d hate me. And if you hated me, you’d stop waitin’.”

There’s a rawness to his words now. A ragged, near-breaking edge he never let you hear before.

“But I never stopped waitin’ for you.”

A beat.

“I came back because… I couldn’t carry it anymore. The grief. The guilt. The silence.”

Your hand stays against the door.

Still not ready to open it.

But you don’t pull away either.

The silence presses soft between you again, but you don’t move.

You feel it—him—closer now. Not just through the wood or the faint echo of his voice in your chest, but deeper. Like his presence has slipped back into the hollow your heart made for him and settled there, breathing slowly.

And then—

“I used to sing,” he says.

You blink. You didn’t expect that.

“Back then… back when I still had a heartbeat. When I still had callouses on my fingers from playin’ every night.” A faint laugh. “Didn’t matter where—fields, riverbanks, dirt-floored kitchens. My people used to say I could pull grief from the bones of a man with a tune.”

He pauses. Not because he’s lost in thought. Because it hurts to say it.

“But when I lost them… when I became what I am—I couldn’t do it no more. I’d pick up the fiddle or hum a note and it’d come out hollow. Empty.” His voice cracks, just slightly. “You can’t sing grief if you’ve become it.”

Your hand curls against the wood, fingers dragging gently down the grain.

He’s still on the other side. You can feel the shape of him shifting closer.

“I tried, darlin’. I tried to find a way back into it… back into who I was. But that man is dead. Has been for a long time.”

You swallow hard, breath held like it might fall apart if you let it go.

“And then I met you.”

The words are quiet. 

“And suddenly, I remembered what it felt like. Not to be human—but to want to be. To ache for it. To crave all those stupid, beautiful things I can’t have.”

You feel it then—his presence pressed just beyond the door, a stillness that isn’t empty anymore, but full of something unbearably tender.

“I hated it sometimes. Hated you for it, in my worst moments. Not because you did anything wrong—but because you reminded me of me. The me I lost.”

His voice is softer now, like if he says it any louder it’ll crumble between you both.

“But it wasn’t your fault. It never was. And I’m sorry I let you believe it might’ve been.”

Another breath.

Then:

“You were special.”

Your breath catches.

“You are special.”

The words don’t falter.

“And meeting you? Loving you?” He leans his forehead against the door now, you can feel the weight of it, even if you can’t see him. “It wasn’t a mistake. It was the first thing that ever felt like grace.”

The silence between you aches.

And then he finishes, voice low, rough, but steady:

“I’d burn in the sun a thousand times if it meant meeting you in every lifetime.”

Silence falls again.

Not empty.

Not cold.

But full—brimming with everything that’s never been said, everything that was said too late, and everything they both held in for far too long.

You don’t say a word.

Not yet.

Your hand is still on the door, the wood warm now beneath your palm from where he’s leaning on the other side. You can almost feel the curve of his brow against it, the slow, uneven breaths he’s trying so hard to steady.

The hallway is still.

You can hear the wind brushing soft through the trees outside.

And then—

“…Say somethin’,” he whispers, almost too low to catch.

There’s no demand in it.

Just hope. Raw and quiet. The kind that trembles at the edge of ruin.

You stay still for a moment longer, lashes low, heart thudding in the hollows where his voice touched. And then—without speaking—you turn the knob, slow and careful, like the moment might vanish if you moved too fast.

The door creaks open an inch.

Then another.

And another.

Until there he is.

Standing just outside in the soft silver of moonlight, his coat dusted with it like ash. And, even though you saw him the previous night, it’s as if you’re seeing him again now. His hair is a little messier than you remembered. His shoulders sag as though they’ve been carrying grief by the armful. And his eyes—God, his eyes—they find yours like they never stopped looking.

The look he gives you is almost awed.

He doesn’t step forward.

He just stands there, breathing in the sight of you like it’s the first moment he’s felt alive in centuries.

You stand there, the door open between you, air moving slow as honey through the space. His eyes don’t leave yours. Not once. And it almost breaks you—how familiar he still is. How ruined.

You part your lips, but nothing comes out. Not yet.

So much lives in your chest—grief, longing, rage, love—all tangled together like threads knotted too tight to unravel in one breath.

Your fingers tighten slightly on the doorknob. You inhale. Exhale. He waits.

And then, softly, your voice begins—scratchy, like it's being pulled from somewhere deep, unused.

“I used to… stand at this door,” you say, eyes not leaving his. “Almost every night.”

His expression doesn’t change, but his chest rises like the breath costs him something.

“I’d stare out past the porch, past the trees. Wondering if you’d come back. Wondering if you even could.”

The ache that lives in the curve of your words makes his throat work. But still, he says nothing.

“I thought maybe I made you up.” Your laugh is small and wet, trembling at the end. “That maybe I dreamed you and none of it happened. That I was crazy.”

He shifts like he wants to speak, but you lift a hand—not to stop him, but to steady yourself.

“I hated you,” you say, and the words crack, not from anger, but from how hard they were to hold in. “I hated you for leaving. For making me feel like it was all in my head. For saying I wasn’t enough.”

Remmick flinches at that. His shoulders draw in slightly, eyes darkening with quiet pain.

“But more than that…” your breath trembles. “I hated how much I still loved you through it.”

The silence that follows is thick and fragile—like a held breath.

He stares at you with a grief so human it undoes something in your chest. His lips part, but no sound comes at first. Just a look—one that says I know. I know. I know.

And then, gently, he speaks—like every word has to step carefully through the broken glass between you.

“I never stopped thinkin’ about you.”

The way he says it isn’t dramatic. It’s not pretty or poised. It’s a confession scraped raw.

“I never stopped feeling it,” he adds. “Even when I tried to forget. Even when I told myself I had to.”

His voice wavers then. Breaks like something inside him gave out just a little.

You don’t move. You can’t.

And neither does he.

You just stand there in the hollow space between distance and closeness, the quiet pulsing around you like a heartbeat only the two of you can hear.

The air between you tightens, saturated with everything left unsaid—every night you dreamt of him, every hour he walked with your voice in his head like a hymn he couldn’t silence.

The wind stirs faintly around you both. A soft rustle in the trees. A far-off howl of a nightbird. But neither of you move.

You’re both too afraid to.

His eyes glint beneath the porch light—darker now, as if holding too many thoughts behind them. He shifts slightly on his feet, not stepping forward, but the motion alone makes your throat ache.

“I didn’t know how to come back,” he admits, voice low and hoarse. “I thought maybe… maybe too much time passed. Maybe you’d moved on. Maybe you hated me.”

Your gaze lowers to the space between your bare feet and the porch planks, your voice dry with disbelief. “You think you’re that forgettable?”

There’s no humor in it—until there is.

A laugh bubbles out of you—choked, messy, and broken around the edges. It falls from your mouth in a staggered breath, sharp with irony and soaked in tears that haven’t quite fallen yet.

“God,” you laugh, swiping quickly beneath your eye. “You think I’d just… get over you? Like I could go down to the general store and pick up a new man who growls at my neck and broods in my rocking chair?”

You hiccup softly, caught between crying and laughing.

Remmick’s head bows slightly. His shoulders hunch like the sound of your laugh wraps around his ribs too tightly, like it hurts and heals all at once.

He glances down at his boots, the barest shake of his head giving him away.

And then—just faintly—his mouth curls into a small, crooked smile. Not a smug one. Not confident. Just… soft.

Like the sound of you laughing—even through tears—was the one thing he thought he’d never hear again.

His smile lingers only a second before it falls into something more serious—his gaze rising to meet yours again, like he’s bracing for the weight of what he’s about to say.

“I didn’t think you’d still want me,” he says, and it’s so quiet you almost miss it.

Your breath catches.

“I thought maybe… I’d ruined it for good.” He lifts his eyes fully now, and the rawness in them strikes you still. “And maybe I did. But I’ve spent two years with nothin’ but ghosts and silence, wishin’ it was this instead. You. That porch light. Your voice.”

He lets out a soft breath, his hands clenched at his sides like he’s forcing himself to stay still. “I know I don’t deserve to ask. But if you’ll let me in… just for a little while… I won’t take it for granted.”

You don’t respond right away.

You just look at him.

And he looks right back.

A long, stretching silence builds between you, but it doesn’t buckle. It holds. Carries the weight of two years. Of every word spoken and unspoken. Every ache. Every night spent with your backs turned to the world, thinking of each other.

Then—slowly, silently—you step back.

Just once.

Just enough.

The motion says more than words could.

It’s not forgiveness. Not entirely. But it’s something. Something warm and breaking open and tired of hurting.

Remmick doesn’t rush.

He steps forward carefully, crossing the threshold like he’s afraid the moment might vanish if he moves too fast.

The door closes with a soft, final click.

The sound feels louder than it is. Like it seals something in.

Neither of you speak as the quiet settles around the room, sinking into the walls, into the floor, into the soft shuffle of his boots on worn wood.

You stand just a few feet away, your arms folded loosely over your stomach—less for protection, more for the ache of holding something in for too long.

Remmick’s eyes are still on you. Not hungrily. Not pleading. Just... watching.

He takes a slow step forward, and then another. Until the space between you is close enough for your breath to meet his in the stillness.

His hands rise—hesitant, trembling slightly at the fingertips. He doesn’t touch you right away. They hover in the air, open, as if he’s scared the motion alone might send you shattering.

His voice doesn’t come. Only the unspoken ask in his gaze.

Your breath hitches softly. You look at his hands—those familiar hands—and then at him.

And then you lift your own.

Without a word, you cup his hands in yours and press them gently to your cheeks.

A breath leaves his chest. Not sharp. Not heavy. Just… relieved.

Like in that one touch, the part of him that’s been screaming for years finally goes quiet.

His palms cradle your face fully now, thumbs brushing faintly beneath your eyes, catching the faint traces of earlier tears. His skin is still cool, but not unkind. Familiar in a way no one else’s ever was.

He leans in just a little. Not for a kiss. Just to be closer.

His thumbs brush slowly over your cheeks, like he’s not sure if he’s trying to wipe away old tears or memorize where they once were. He doesn't rush a word, doesn’t even try to fill the silence. It’s heavy between you, but not unbearable. Not anymore.

His forehead dips until it’s nearly touching yours, breath warm and even. You can feel the tremble in his fingers where they rest against your skin. The kind of tremble that doesn’t come from weakness—but from restraint. 

“I didn’t think I’d ever get this close to you again,” he whispers, voice rough around the edges like gravel softened by rain. “Didn’t think I’d be allowed to.”

Your eyes close briefly, as if to steady something inside you. Your hands tighten just slightly over his.

“But you are,” you say softly, not quite steady. “You are now.”

The silence that follows isn’t sharp or awkward. It’s full. Full of ache and years and everything unspoken between the lines of your lives.

Remmick swallows hard, like he’s trying to move something impossible down his throat. His voice breaks a little when he speaks again. “I thought pushing you away was the only way to keep you safe. From me. From what I’ve become.”

You draw in a breath, your hands releasing his long enough to slide down and rest lightly at his wrists.

“You didn’t just push me away,” you say. “You tore something out of me and walked off with it.”

His eyes search yours. Regret sits heavy in them, but it’s not the kind of regret that fades—it’s the kind that lives in a man. That builds inside him.

“I know,” he whispers. “I know, and I’ve carried it every day since.”

You study him. The lines in his face. The weight in his shoulders. The way his mouth presses into something tight, like it’s holding back everything he hasn’t said yet.

“You don’t get to come back and say it like it’s simple,” you murmur. “You don’t get to touch me like this if it’s going to be goodbye again.”

His hands tremble again, and this time he doesn’t try to hide it. He lowers them from your face and presses your hands between his palms, holding them like a prayer he doesn’t believe in—but needs anyway.

“I don’t want goodbye,” he says, barely more than breath. “I want what I ruined. I want to fix what I broke.”

You stare at him for a long time. You can feel the truth of him thrumming beneath his skin, even without a pulse. It’s there in his eyes, his voice, the way his fingers hold you like you’re made of something devine.

But it’s not that easy. You both know it.

So you ask, barely louder than the breath between you:

“What does that even look like, Remmick?”

He doesn't answer right away.

Instead, he presses his forehead gently to yours and exhales like he’s still figuring it out himself. Like saying it aloud might collapse whatever fragile hope he’s found just by standing here with you.

“I don’t know yet,” he admits. “But I’ll spend every night I’ve got tryin’ to find out. If you’ll let me.”

Your throat tightens.

And for a moment, you don’t speak. You just breathe.

You slowly lower your hands from his. He doesn’t let go—his fingers linger, tracing lightly down the backs of yours until they rest still again. And then, without a word, you lean in. Closer. Letting the air between you disappear until your arms slip around him, wrapping tight around his waist.

He exhales sharply—something between relief and disbelief—as your cheek presses to his chest.

You melt into the hug like it’s the first warmth you’ve felt in years. Like he’s something solid in a world that’s been shifting beneath your feet.

His arms come around you in return, tentative at first, then tighter. Strong. Holding you as though he knows you could slip away again.

And just as you begin to close your eyes, nestling into the curve of his neck, a soft crinkle sounds—barely audible, but there.

Your brows pinch. You lean back just enough to speak, voice muffled with affection.

“…Was that your bus ticket?”

It’s the most fragile kind of joke. But it cuts through the weight like a knife made of light. You lift your head, and your eyes find his.

He’s smiling.

Barely, but it’s there—small, crooked, and real. The kind of smile that makes your throat ache.

He reaches into the inside pocket of his coat without a word. There’s a faint rustle as he pulls something out. A folded piece of paper, edges fraying from time and wear. He holds it between his fingers for a second too long, as if it hurts to give it up.

Then he presses it into your hand.

You glance at him, then down, and slowly begin to unfold the paper. The creases part like seams worn by memory, and when it opens, your breath stutters in your throat.

It’s your sketch.

The sun.

Drawn in charcoal and smudged by your own fingers years ago. The same piece you had given him before he left, hoping it would be enough to remind him of what he couldn’t see anymore. Of what you saw in him.

“I kept it,” he says softly. “Even when I tried to forget you—I couldn’t throw it away.”

Your fingers tighten gently around the page, eyes tracing the lines like they’re alive.

“I thought you’d left it behind,” you whisper, not even realizing how much that thought had haunted you.

He shakes his head, slow.

“It’s the only thing that kept me together.”

The paper trembles slightly in your hand. You look up at him, and for a moment, neither of you speak.

———————

The months had passed slowly—like syrup in winter, thick and reluctant—but they passed all the same. And with time, you and Remmick began the quiet, careful work of relearning each other.

Not because the love ever faded. No, that had remained, stubborn as ever—woven into your bones like threads of old sunlight.

But loving and living are two different things.

You weren’t relearning how to feel. You were relearning how to exist beside one another without flinching at ghosts. How to breathe in the same room without wondering when the next ache would crack open between you.

There are still moments of distance. Still nights when his silence stretches long, and you find him sitting on the porch staring at the moon like it’s taunting him.

Still days when your chest tightens with the memory of him walking away—your hands aching with the muscle memory of reaching for someone who wouldn’t stay.

But more and more, there are twilight hours where he watches you from the shadows of the room, brushing your hair back once the sun has finally dipped, just to see the way you soften in sleep.

Evenings where he lets himself laugh, really laugh, like he hasn’t in a long time.

Moments where you both sit in shared quiet, not because you’re afraid to speak, but because you don’t have to.

The sharp edges are dulling.

And in their place, something softer begins to bloom. Not new love, but rooted love. The kind that has weathered storms and still dares to grow.

The hearth crackles—barely.

Flickers of orange light dance across the walls like shy ghosts, faltering with every gust of wind that slips through the cracks in the old house. Remmick crouches before it, jaw tight, his brows knit together in focused frustration. A few dry logs sit piled beside him, and a single flame sputters in protest beneath the kindling he’s rearranged for the third time now.

You’re curled up on the couch beneath a woven blanket, cheek pressed against the back cushion, watching him with the kind of quiet amusement only earned after years of knowing someone. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, the hem of his shirt untucked slightly from where he’s shifted too much.

“Come on,” he mutters, leaning in to blow gently at the ember. The smoke curls upward in a sulky twist, and when it doesn’t catch, he curses under his breath—soft, but unmistakably annoyed.

You bite your lip, the corners of your mouth twitching with held-back laughter.

“Need help?” you ask, feigning innocence as your fingers toy with the fringe of the blanket.

“I don’t need help,” he grumbles, poking at the logs again like the problem lies in their arrangement and not in the fact that he’s always had the patience of a storm.

“You’ve been fighting that fire for thirty minutes.”

“Feels longer.”

“It looks worse.”

He glances over his shoulder at you, eyes narrowed. The shadows cast by the hearthlight make his face look more hollow than usual, but you catch the glint of amusement there too—barely veiled beneath his frustration.

“You wanna come do it?”

“Nope,” you answer, already smiling. “It’s more fun watching you lose.”

He scoffs and sits back on his heels, wiping his hands on the thighs of his pants. The fire sputters again, then settles into a faint glow—just enough to make the room look warmer than it is.

You reach for the extra blanket on the armrest and unfold it in your lap, then pat the cushion beside you.

“Leave it,” you say gently. “Come sit. We’ll survive one cold night.”

He hesitates, but something in your voice—your quiet, teasing invitation—pulls him in. He stands, dusts his hands, and makes his way to you. When he sits, the couch dips under his weight, and without asking, you tuck the blanket around both of you.

He shifts close, shoulder brushing yours, then lets his arm settle behind you. You lean into him easily, like it’s muscle memory now. Like your body always knew how to find his.

The fire behind the glass dims again.

But here, wrapped in warmth not made by flame, it doesn’t seem to matter at all.

The warmth of the blankets doesn’t match the kind that passes between you. His arm is snug around your shoulders, your hand resting lightly against his chest where you can feel the stillness beneath his shirt—no heartbeat, no thrum. Just the steady rise and fall of breath, borrowed for your sake. The only sound in the room is the occasional crackle from the hearth and the wind brushing against the windowpanes.

Remmick’s head dips down slowly.

You feel his breath before you feel the kiss—soft, deliberate—placed right at the crown of your head. He lingers there a moment, nose brushing against your hair as he breathes you in. You feel the faintest smile against your scalp.

“It’s gotten longer,” he murmurs, voice quiet and thoughtful.

Your eyes flutter closed for a moment, comfort washing over you. But then you hear the next words, softer still, tucked into the moment like something too heavy to name.

“I think I’ve found people.”

You stir gently, lifting your head from where it’s rested against him to glance up, eyes narrowing faintly in question.

“What kind of people?”

He hesitates. You feel it first in the slight shift of his body, like he’s weighing the truth on his tongue. When he speaks, his voice is low, edged with something like reverence.

“The Choctaw Natives,” he says slowly. “They helped us—the Irish during the famine. Gave what they had when they had nothing.”

You blink, unsure where this thread is leading. “Remmick…” you prompt, brows pulling together. “What are you talking about?”

He sits up a little more, hand sliding from your shoulder to your back. His eyes flit away for the briefest moment before they find yours again, steady this time, like the truth’s finally ready to surface.

“There are some… storytellers. Firekeepers,” he begins. “Just like the filí. Like what I used to be. They can pierce the veil, same way I did with the harp… with song, with rhythm. They don’t speak to the dead, not like séances or grave witches—but they open the space. For a moment. Just enough to bring something forward.”

Your name leaves his lips as if he's trying to anchor you with it—quiet and unsure.

You watch him closely, shoulders tense, trying to read the shape of his hope.

“Remmick…” you murmur again, voice trailing, a hesitant tilt to your tone.

“I could find them,” he says, more to the air between you than directly to you. “I could find someone. Someone who could help me cross over… just for a moment. Long enough to find them. To speak to them.”

There’s a long pause, and then you look away.

“Are you leaving again?” you ask it without venom, but the fear that laces your voice is palpable.

He stiffens. For a second he doesn’t answer.

Then his hand comes up, slow and deliberate, fingertips brushing your jaw as he gently turns your face back toward him. You let him.

“I’m not leaving you again,” he says, firm and low, the vow more like a breath than a promise.

You search his eyes, letting yourself get lost in them for just a second before the ache inside you rises again.

“Do you even know where they are?” you ask, not quite accusatory—just tired. Wanting the truth.

He sighs, the kind of sound that sounds like surrender.

“Mississippi.”

Your eyebrows lift before the word tumbles out of your mouth, quiet but disbelieving. “Mississippi?”

He nods, lips pressed together, watching your expression like it might shift the ground beneath him.

You sit there in silence, the flicker of the dying hearth casting shadows across both of your faces.

“Mississippi,” you repeat again, slower this time. “You want to go all the way out there chasing a ghost?”

His jaw shifts at that, but he doesn’t answer. You lean back a little, just enough to put some space between you—not too much, but enough to let the weight of your words settle.

“And what if it’s just a story?” you ask, voice soft but tinged with sharpness. “What if there’s nothing there?”

His gaze hardens slightly, and you know that look—it’s the one he wears when he’s trying not to say something too raw.

“I have to try,” he says simply.

You shake your head, pulling the blanket tighter around your shoulders. “And leave everything behind again? Just for a maybe?”

His lips part like he wants to explain it, soften it somehow, but instead he says, “It’s not about leaving. You know it’s not.”

“No? Because it sure as hell feels like it,” you bite back, though your voice trembles at the end. “You say you’re not leaving, but you’re already talking about ‘finding them’ like I’m not even part of it.”

He doesn’t move. He just watches you—lets the words land. You think you see something flicker in his eyes, but he blinks and it’s gone.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and it’s not dismissive. It’s not even a retreat. It’s genuine. But it doesn’t make the ache go away.

You look down at your hands in your lap, fingers curling into the edge of the blanket.

“I just…” you start, but your voice fails you. You try again, quieter this time. “I wish I could’ve given that to you.”

The silence that follows is different. Not cold. Not distant. Just full—dense with everything unspoken.

You feel the couch shift as he moves, his hand reaching for yours but pausing in midair.

“You’ve given me more than anyone ever has,” he says, voice low, nearly a whisper. “Don’t twist yourself up thinking you haven’t.”

You meet his gaze again, and your heart cracks just a little more. Because in all the years you’ve known him—through grief, through loss, through blood and silence and time—it’s that look right there that always undoes you. The way he looks at you like you’re already enough, even when he’s breaking apart inside.

You reach out and take his hand in yours. He exhales, slow and relieved, and the argument—if you can even call it that—melts away like fog.

You settle back against him without a word, the argument thinning into silence like dust in warm lamplight. His arm curls around you again, drawing you close until your back is pressed to his chest, the steady rise and fall of your breath the only rhythm between you.

The fire has dulled to a glow, no longer crackling, but humming low—like it's listening too.

Your head finds that familiar place just beneath his chin, and he lowers it instinctively, lips brushing the crown of your head as he exhales through his nose. It’s a quiet sound, but full of thought. Maybe guilt. Maybe gratitude. Maybe just the weight of everything that’s passed between you.

Outside, the wind rustles through the trees, and you can just make out the faint creak of the porch as it shifts with the cold. But in here, wrapped in the circle of his arms, you feel no chill. Just the beat of the moment stretching longer, deeper.

He pulls the blanket up a bit higher around your shoulders. His fingers find the ends of your hair and toys with them absently.

“I thought of this,” he murmurs softly, “on nights when it grew to be too much to be away from you. The quiet. The warmth.”

You don’t answer. You just press your hand over his arm and squeeze.

The weight of the months—the years—feels lighter here, in this small corner of time where nothing is asked of you but to rest.

And so, you do.

The night deepens.

The fire sighs.

And you both stay like that, not speaking, not needing to, letting the silence do what words never could.

———————

The nights are warmer now. 

The moon spills across the floor in a pale wash, catching the edge of the couch in a soft silver hue. It dances across your skin when you lean forward again, brushing your mouth over his—slow, deep, aching.

His hands tighten around your waist like he’s grounding himself with your body alone. His fingers flex where they rest against the curve of you, not desperate, but adoring. Like holding you still helps him breathe.

You whisper his name back, breath catching as you feel the hard line of him beneath you, feel the tremble in his thighs as your hips roll forward again. His head falls back once more, exposing the column of his throat in the moonlight, and you can't help but follow it with your lips, dragging a kiss down the slope of his jaw to the point just below his ear.

A low sound rumbles in his chest, something between a moan and a sigh—your favorite kind of sound. The kind that says he feels everything you’re giving.

"You're not real," he murmurs, dazed and drunk on you. “Sometimes I swear I dreamed you up.”

You smile against his neck, teeth barely grazing the skin there before you press a kiss in apology. His hands rise, slow and warm, until one cups the back of your neck, fingers rubbing at the flesh as you sit up just enough to meet his eyes again.

"You're real enough for the both of us," you whisper back.

The room is quiet, save for your breaths and the quiet creak of the couch beneath your movement. The air smells faintly of smoke and skin, and the tension between your bodies hums—not rushed, not sharp, but steady, a low, intimate burn.

His eyes trace the shape of your face like he’s trying to memorize it all over again. Like even after everything, you’re still his only anchor.

And beneath the glow of the moonlight, as you rock against him with the kind of slow, intentional rhythm that’s more about closeness than climax, it feels like time folds in on itself—like the past and present blur at the edges until nothing exists but this.

When his hips rise to meet yours, the friction is just right—hot, slow, unrelenting. A breathless moan tumbles from your lips before you can catch it, your fingers curling tightly around his wrist, grounding yourself as the pleasure pulses through you.

“Remmick…” you whisper, like his name is a lifeline. Like it’s the only thing holding you steady as the world narrows to the way he touches you, the way his body answers yours like instinct.

His other hand moves with purpose, gliding beneath the hem of your nightgown, the tips of his fingers barely grazing the soft warmth of your skin as he travels higher—leaving behind a path of heat. You shiver when he finally reaches the place where your thigh curves into your hip, his palm settling there with a quiet kind of adoration, like he's worshipped this moment in thought a thousand times.

The breath between you thickens, and before either of you can say a word, his head lifts and his mouth finds yours again.

This kiss is different.

It’s deeper. Slower. Less like a hunger and more like a need. He kisses you like he’s remembering the shape of your lips. Like he’s trying to taste all the months he’d been without you, all the quiet nights where the thought of your voice was the only thing that kept him sane.

Your hand comes up to his cheek, your thumb brushing along the edge of his jaw as you melt into the kiss. Your body moves of its own accord, hips rolling again in tandem with his, like you’ve both been waiting for this rhythm—for this closeness—to return for far too long.

His breath stutters as his lips break from yours only to kiss the corner of your mouth, your cheek, the curve of your jaw. You feel his whisper against your skin, barely more than a breath.

“I missed you everywhere.”

The kiss deepens as your fingers slide from his cheek to the back of his neck, threading through his hair like you’ve done a hundred times before—like it’s the only way to tether yourself to this moment. His hand curls more firmly at your hip, anchoring you there, and you feel the subtle tremble in his grip, the restraint threaded through his every movement.

Your nightgown shifts higher as he touches you—his palm now smoothing across the small of your back, then lower, molding you closer to him. The warmth of him seeps through the thin cotton barrier between you, and the way his hips roll up into yours—steady, slow, deliberate—draws a soft, desperate whimper from the back of your throat.

Your mouth breaks from his just long enough to gasp in air. His lips don’t stray far. They trail down—featherlight kisses at first—along your jaw, your neck, the slope of your shoulder. Each one lingers like a promise. His fangs don’t graze you this time. He’s careful, too careful, as if he knows any slip of control might unravel him completely.

You can feel it—how tightly he’s holding the reins.

And that knowing only makes your body burn hotter.

His voice comes next, low and rough against your collarbone.

“Say it again,” he whispers, breath fanning across your skin. “Say my name.”

“Remmick…” you breathe, barely audible, your fingers flexing in his hair.

A sound rumbles deep in his chest, nearly a growl but tempered with something softer—need, the ache of loving someone too deeply to rush it.

He pulls back to look at you then, hands gripping your waist, thumbs brushing just beneath your ribs. His eyes are dark, glinting with something primal, but there’s nothing threatening in the way he watches you—only awe. Like he can’t believe you’re real. Like every time he touches you, he expects you to vanish.

The air between you charges, heavy with want. With trust.

And then he moves.

Not fast. Not rough. Just enough.

He shifts his hips again, and this time, you feel the full pressure of him through the fabric. It punches a soft moan from your lips and has your head tilting forward to rest against his. His hands slide higher, ghosting the sides of your ribs until his thumbs graze the underside of your breasts, and your back arches instinctively into him.

“Please…” you murmur, unsure what you’re begging for—more friction, more touch, more of him.

His mouth finds yours again, but it’s different now.

Open. Consuming. A kiss that steals breath, that makes your stomach flip and your pulse thrum wildly under your skin.

And still, somehow, it feels gentle.

Like he’s trying to memorize this version of you—needy and giving and soft beneath the moonlight.

Your breath catches the moment his hand slips lower, fingers trailing along the curve of your inner thigh—slow, unhurried. The way he touches you is like he's learning you all over again, even though he already knows every inch, every tremble, every sound you make when you're this close to falling apart.

His forehead rests against yours, breath mingling with your own as his fingertips graze the sensitive skin, circling the heat there without rushing, without taking. Just touching. Just being.

You whimper softly, hips shifting, and your thighs part just a little more to guide him in. Your hand, still clinging to his wrist, tightens like you're trying to steady yourself in the weight of his presence.

His lips hover near your cheek, brushing kisses that aren't quite kisses—soft and gentle. “You’re so warm,” he murmurs, voice barely a breath, as if he’s awed every time by how alive you are. “So alive.”

His fingers stroke gently, still outside your underwear, the slow rhythm of his touch coaxing your body to melt even more against his. He presses a kiss to your temple as your chest begins to rise and fall faster.

“Remmick,” you whisper again, voice thick with want and something more tender beneath it—trust, love, the ache of holding him this close.

You feel him swallow, feel his restraint in the way his jaw clenches beneath your hand where it rests on his neck.

He shifts under you just slightly, angling closer, his other hand splayed wide at your lower back, anchoring you to him like he doesn’t want you to drift away.

And you won’t.

You press your face into the crook of his neck, sighing shakily against his skin, as his fingers finally slide beneath the edge of the cotton, brushing the bare heat of you in full.

Your whole body stills—tense, trembling, anticipating.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to.

You feel it in his hands.

In the way he touches you like you’re something to be held, not broken.

In the way he waits for the small gasp that escapes your lips when he finally moves—slow, aching strokes that make your hips twitch and your thighs clench around his wrist.

He presses his mouth to your hair and breathes you in, as if grounding himself in the scent of you.

Your moan slips out before you can catch it—soft and open, breathy against his neck—as his finger slowly sinks into you.

He moves with care, like he’s not just touching your body, but something deeper. His other hand steadies at your waist, thumb gently rubbing small circles there as if to soothe you through the growing tension low in your belly.

You shudder against him, fingers tightening in his hair, and he lets out a low sound—almost a groan, almost a prayer.

“Just like that,” he whispers, voice thick with feeling, not lust alone, but something older, heavier—something that’s lived in him. “You’re perfect, just like this.”

He curls his finger inside you, just once, testing the give of you, the way your body reacts to him. The way your hips press down, chasing more, like instinct.

Your forehead leans into his, noses brushing, and the air between your mouths grows hotter, wetter. You feel his breath stutter, and then his lips ghost over yours without quite kissing you, as if he wants to watch your face as he moves inside you—wants to see what you feel.

Another moan rises up, deeper this time, as he begins a slow rhythm—unhurried, just enough to draw you into that familiar ache, the one that lingers right between comfort and desperation.

Your thighs tense slightly around his hand, your chest rising and falling as your free hand slides up his chest, over the strong line of his collarbone, gripping his shoulder to anchor yourself.

“I missed you like this,” he murmurs, lips brushing the corner of your mouth.

The heat spreads through you like rising water—slow at first, then all-consuming. It starts where he touches you, where he presses inside with steady, deliberate care, and flows outward, blooming across your chest, your throat, your cheeks.

Your breath stutters as your hips move with his hand, seeking more, no longer shy in your want. A soft whimper slips from your mouth, and when you feel his forehead press to yours again, you know he heard it. You feel him savor it.

You’d never gone this far before.

Every time you'd come close—every time you were spread over him, breathless and trembling, right on the edge—he’d always stop. Pull away, kiss your shoulder with apology laced between his lips. His hands would tremble. His voice would crack with restraint. You’d feel it in the air around him: the fear. The desperation not to break something he loved too much to lose.

But now… now he doesn’t stop.

His hand stays steady at your hip while his other keeps working you open, slow and sure, drawing those soft sounds from your lips like music. His thumb brushes lightly against you, sending sparks up your spine. Your body jerks slightly, then arches into him, and the way his eyes track every shift of your expression—it makes you feel known. 

He watches you like he’s starved for the sight of you.

And when your mouth falls open, a gasp catching on your tongue, his own lips part, a quiet sound breaking free from his chest that sounds almost like your name—ragged and hoarse.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs against your skin, voice thick with restraint. “You want me to stop?”

You don’t answer right away. You just press your forehead harder to his, lips brushing. Then, barely louder than a breath:

“No.”

That one word unravels something in him. You feel it.

His hand tightens at your waist, grounding you as he curls his finger again—slightly deeper, slightly firmer—pulling another moan from your throat that makes your legs tremble around him. Your nails drag softly along the back of his neck, and he shudders, eyes fluttering shut for a moment as if to anchor himself.

He’s still afraid. You can feel it beneath the surface—how careful he’s being, how each movement is deliberate. But it doesn’t stop him.

Because for once, he lets himself believe he won’t ruin you.

And you, wrapped around him like this, letting him in without hesitation, feel something warm crack open inside you. Not just desire—though it’s there, heady and pulsing—but trust. The kind that breaks you open. The kind that feels like falling and knowing you’ll be caught.

His lips find yours again, and this time, the kiss is deeper—needier.

His breath stirs against your cheek as his finger stills for the briefest moment, and then—

He pushes in a second finger.

The stretch is slow, careful, but the heat coils low in your belly all the same—tighter, deeper now. Your lips part on a sigh that brushes against his neck as you drop your head onto his shoulder, mouth barely grazing his skin.

Your body shudders, not from cold, but from the weight of sensation—the pressure of him inside you, the warmth of his hand holding you steady, the way your thighs tighten around his hips. He’s so still, letting you feel everything. Letting you adjust. Letting you lead.

And so you do.

You roll your hips—slow, deliberate, seeking friction, chasing the pleasure blooming inside of you. The movement drags a soft moan from your throat, one you try to stifle into his shirt but fail.

Remmick groans low in his chest, and the sound vibrates against your cheek where it rests. You feel the tension in his body—how he holds himself together only by a fraying thread.

But his fingers… they don’t stop. They begin to move again, slow at first, in time with your hips, drawing a slick rhythm between you. Every stroke sends sparks fluttering beneath your skin, makes your toes curl, your fingers clutch gently at the fabric over his chest.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple. “So perfect for me.”

Your eyes flutter shut.

You barely register the movement—just the shift of his wrist, the soft glide of his palm adjusting. But then his thumb finds it.

That aching bundle of nerves already so swollen with want, so tender from the slow friction building between your thighs—and when he presses down, light at first, you jolt.

A cry escapes your mouth before you can swallow it, high and breathless, your body arching against his with a force that surprises even you. His name falls from your lips like a gasp, tangled in the heat of your breath, and your fingers tighten in his shirt as if it’s the only thing anchoring you to the earth.

“Remmick—”

He groans at the sound, deep and guttural, like your voice strikes something inside him he can’t quite name. His fingers don’t stop. He draws slow, deliberate circles with his thumb, coaxing your body to open further for him, slick and ready and warm beneath his hand.

You’re trembling now, thighs trying to close around his wrist, overwhelmed by the pressure building and building, the steady drag of his fingers inside you, the wet sounds of it, the way his other hand slides up your back to hold you closer, grounding you.

Your head drops against his shoulder again, but this time it’s not soft. It’s heavy. Boneless.

You can’t keep still. Your hips roll in slow, desperate motions, riding the rhythm of his hand. Chasing it. Needing it.

“You feel that?” he whispers, voice thick with awe and heat, “How you’re falling apart for me?”

A whimper bubbles up in your throat and his mouth is on your temple again, lips moving between kisses and quiet curses.

“I wish you could see yourself.”

You feel like you’re on the edge of something—like the ground is gone beneath you, and the only thing keeping you from falling is him, his hand, his mouth, the low murmur of your name as he worships you with every breath.

The movement of his fingers slows, easing to a near stop, and it’s enough to make your lashes flutter open. You blink through the haze of pleasure, chest rising with shallow breaths. Your lips part to question why—but before you can speak, he leans in, mouth brushing the shell of your ear.

“Do you want to go further?”

The words are soft, barely above a whisper, but the weight of them sends heat curling up your spine like flame licking up dry wood. His breath is warm against your skin, and for a second, your body stills—caught between instinct and desire. But then you nod, once, and it trembles.

“Yes,” you breathe, the word thin but certain.

A quiet sound leaves him—one where he’s barely keeping himself grounded. Gently, he shifts you, and your body moves with his, pliant and trusting, as he reaches down to undo the buckle of his pants.

You watch, wide-eyed and breathless, your thighs still clamped around his as he slides the leather strap free, the metal catch letting out a muted clink. Every second feels like an hour—thick with anticipation, your heart thudding in your throat like a drum that won’t still.

He frees himself slowly, drawing himself out with practiced ease, and when you finally see him—hard, flushed, thick—you suck in a breath. The tip gleams in the low light, glistening with anticipation, twitching slightly as his hand slides down the length, firm and sure. Your stomach tightens at the sight, the ache between your legs deepening into something more raw.

Your legs stay folded around his hips, bare and trembling, the heat of you just inches from where he waits. His eyes meet yours again—those dark, endless eyes, rimmed with control and something deeper still.

“Are you sure?” he asks, and this time, his voice is more fragile. 

You hesitate, only for a heartbeat. Not because of fear. But because of the gravity of the moment. Because this—this—is something you’ll never be able to come back from. Something final in its tenderness.

But then, quietly, you say it.

“Yes.”

His mouth brushes your cheek, a kiss that’s almost too gentle to be real. Then he murmurs against your skin, “You’ll have to lift yourself, love.”

The words send another rush of heat spiraling beneath your skin. You nod, even as your hands tremble slightly when they press to his shoulders for balance.

He keeps you steady, his palm warm on your waist. Then it dips—slides beneath your nightgown, fingers brushing the crease of your hip as he hooks the fabric of your panties to the side. You can feel how careful he’s being, even as his hand lingers, thumb tracing soft patterns into your skin as if soothing you through the intimacy.

Your eyes hold each other’s—his expression unreadable but soft.

Then, with a breath held between you both, you begin to sink down.

He’s warm, the tip of him parting you slowly—painfully slow—your body stretching to take him in. There’s pressure, more than you expected, and a fluttering gasp falls from your lips as your eyes threaten to flutter shut.

His fingers press into your waist—steadying you, grounding you.

“You’re doing perfect,” he murmurs, voice cracking as he watches you inch down onto him, breath stuttering from the effort it takes not to thrust up into the heat of you.

You moan softly, your thighs trembling as you continue lowering yourself, inch by aching inch, until he’s fully seated inside you.

Neither of you speak for a long moment.

Only the sound of shared breath. The soft creak of the couch beneath you. The sound of two people tethered, slolwy giving in to something they’ve both longed for.

You stay still for a moment, settling into the stretch of him, your breath catching in your throat as your body adjusts to the sheer size of him inside you. It’s overwhelming—not painful, just impossibly full. The kind of fullness that feels like it reaches somewhere deeper than the physical. Your hands tighten slightly on his shoulders, your eyes locked on his as you breathe through it, slow and steady.

His jaw tightens as he groans, low and guttural, the sound dragging from deep in his chest. His hands remain at your waist, steady but not guiding, as if anchoring himself to you. The faint friction of your panties still bunched to one side rubs against him, and he shudders from the sensation—the subtle pressure of fabric where your bodies meet making the moment even more unbearable in its intimacy.

His eyes never leave yours.

You lean forward, mouth catching his in a kiss that’s messy and unrestrained, need taking over. It’s not careful—nothing about it is gentle now. His tongue brushes yours and you sigh into him, lips parting wider as the heat spreads between your thighs and up your spine. When you pull back, a thin string of spit clings between you, stretching until it snaps, and he looks up at you with something close to awe.

Your hands brace against his shoulders. You pause, gaze dropping to his lips, then meeting his eyes again—seeking that silent permission. The nod comes, subtle but sure, and you draw in a breath that trembles through your chest.

Slowly, your thighs begin to rise, muscles pulling taut as you lift yourself until only the thick head of him remains inside. Then you ease back down, a soft whimper slipping from your lips at the feel of him sliding back into place—deep and aching and good.

His head tips back against the cushion, mouth falling open in a soundless groan, and you can feel his fingers flex against your hips, not controlling—just feeling.

You lift again. And sink.

And already, your breath comes faster. His eyes flutter for a moment before snapping back to yours, like he can’t bear to look anywhere else but at you—at the way your mouth falls open, at the way you take him in with trembling thighs and flushed cheeks.

You keep moving, slow and steady, a rhythm that grows with each pass. The air is thick between you, heavy with the scent of heat and skin and the electric charge of finally giving in.

Your moans echo soft and desperate through the room, swallowed by the thick air that clings heavy with heat and wanting. Each sound that slips from your lips stirs something deeper in him—makes his grip on your waist tighten like he’s afraid of losing the rhythm, or losing himself altogether.

Your hips move with a fluid kind of hunger, bouncing with a rhythm that’s both instinct and invitation. The soft slap of skin meeting skin fills the quiet between your breaths, between the wet, broken sounds of your pleasure.

He groans, sharp and strained, his jaw clenched as his fingers dig harder into the flesh of your waist. He’s holding himself back, you can feel it in the way his thighs tense beneath you, in the way his body threatens to snap forward every time you sink down on him.

And when your breath cracks apart—when your voice slips out on a pleading gasp, raw and full of need—“Please… more…”

He breaks.

A low curse stumbles from his mouth as he grips you tighter, grounding himself in the shape of your body. Then, without warning, he thrusts up to meet you—deep and fast, sending a shudder straight through your spine. You cry out, eyes fluttering shut, hands grasping at his shoulders to keep yourself from slipping.

He keeps going, matching your pace until there’s no space between the two of you—just thrust after thrust, your body catching him like a wave each time he rises.

The living room is full now—full of heat, of breathless cries and low moans, of the sound of skin and desperation meeting in perfect time. 

His name leaves your mouth again, and it sounds like a prayer and a warning both. He answers it with another thrust, harder this time, his mouth falling open as he watches you above him, the way you fall apart just for him.

And he thinks—if there was anything holy in this world, it’s you like this.

The moment escalates, tension rising with every breathless beat between your bodies. You’re both moving faster now, more desperately, as if the need has become too much to contain—like something ancient and hungry has broken loose inside of you both.

Moans pour from your lips without restraint, mixing with his—low, rough sounds that rumble from deep in his chest. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, gripping hard, needing something to anchor you as the world narrows to just this—his body inside yours, your bodies pressed close, the rhythm of it all spiraling out of your control.

Suddenly, Remmick pulls you down flush to his chest, locking you in his arms. The shift knocks the air from your lungs and you gasp, your face buried in the curve of his neck as he thrusts up into you harder, deeper. His breath is hot and ragged in your ear, panting with the effort it takes to hold back even as he crumbles beneath you.

You whimper as the heat coils tighter in your core, and he groans your name—half prayer, half plea—as his movements grow more erratic. His arms tighten around your waist like he’s trying to pull you inside him, like he needs you closer than skin can allow.

“I—fuck, I can’t,” he pants, voice rough and unraveling. “I need you. I need—”

He cuts himself off with another hard thrust, and your mouth falls open, the moan that escapes you trembling with the force of it all. You’re both clinging to one another now, barely holding together as the pleasure threatens to rip you both apart.

You call out his name, breathless and broken on your tongue, the sound soft but sharp as it cuts through the heavy air between you. Your head lolls against his shoulder, lips parted, eyes fluttering as you tremble in his arms.

The moment your voice wraps around his name like that—like a plea, like a praise—his hips stutter beneath you.

A groan tears from his chest, rough and guttural, and he grips you tighter, like the sound alone unraveled something primal in him. His pace quickens, hips snapping up in sharp, desperate thrusts, each one sending another wave of pleasure crashing through you.

His breath is hot where it ghosts over your skin, mouth pressed to your neck as he inhales you like he’s drowning and you’re the only air left in the world.

“I love you—fuck—” he chokes out, voice cracking under the weight of it. “I love you.”

The confession breaks through him like it’s been waiting for this moment, buried deep, and now there’s no stopping it. He presses his nose to your neck, breathing you in as if your scent is what’s holding him together, grounding him as he comes undone inside you.

The tip of his cock kisses your cervix with each thrust, and it sends stars bursting behind your eyes—blinding, breathtaking. Your mouth falls open, but no sound escapes at first, just the ragged pull of breath as your body struggles to keep up with the pace he’s set.

Your walls begin to flutter around him, clenching instinctively, and he groans deep in his throat, the sound vibrating against your skin as his mouth latches onto your neck. He presses wet, open-mouthed kisses there—sloppy, frantic—tongue dragging across the sensitive skin like he’s losing himself in the taste of you.

Your body tenses in his arms, thighs quivering as the heat coils in your belly and then erupts, hard and fast. It crashes through you like a storm, a white-hot wave of pleasure that rips a cry from your throat. You clench tight around him, pulsing, trembling, and he groans again—louder this time—his rhythm faltering under the force of your orgasm.

Still, he moves, thrusting through the aftershocks, chasing his own edge now with barely restrained desperation. His hands grip you harder, holding you in place, grounding himself in the feel of you around him. And then, with one final thrust, deep and deliberate, he stills.

A breath catches in his throat as he buries himself to the hilt, body shuddering as he spills inside you. You feel the warm pulse of him as your walls milk every last drop, pulling him deeper, keeping him close even as your muscles slowly begin to soften from the high.

You’re both breathless, clinging to one another as the last waves roll through.

You’re breathing heavily, chest rising and falling against his as the aftershocks ripple faintly beneath your skin. Your head remains pressed to his shoulder, listening to nothing but the hush of the night and the faint slowing of your breath. His arms are still around you—gentle now, steady—and for a while, neither of you move.

When you finally pull back, his face is still nestled into your throat, lips trailing lazy, gentle kisses along the curve of your neck, as though he doesn’t want to leave the warmth of you.

“Come with me…” he murmurs, the words barely more than a breath, soft and tentative against your skin.

Your eyebrows pull together in a slow furrow, still dazed. 

“To Mississippi.”

Your breath catches. The name lands in the space between you like a vow, like a pull. You blink, a beat of silence stretching, and then you nod, the motion slow but sure.

“Okay… yeah,” you whisper, your voice a warm breath against his cheek, your body still pressed to his, both of you clinging to the fragile stillness.

“Yeah?” he asks again, his lips brushing your collarbone, and something about his voice sounds almost childlike in its need—like he’s afraid he imagined your answer.

You bring your hand down to his face, gently easing him back from your neck so you can see him. And when your eyes meet his, the world stills.

His eyes glow faintly crimson in the low light, rimmed with something that looks like restraint, like hunger he’s buried deep. And still, there’s softness in them. Longing. Fear. Love.

Your breath hitches, but you don’t look away.

“Yeah,” you say again, steady this time.

Then you lean in, brushing your lips to his. The kiss is slower now—less desperate, more anchored—like a promise sealed between parted mouths. You can feel the edge of his fangs, just barely, where he’s trying to keep them at bay, trying to be gentle for you.

When you pull back, your gaze lingers on his face. Your fingers lift, brushing his bottom lip, pausing on the faint curve of his fang. Your eyes soften, but your voice is strong.

“If God ain’t make you…” you murmur, breath ghosting against him, “then whoever—whatever—did, created something beautiful.”

Remmick stills. You feel the way his chest tightens beneath your hand, the way his eyes search yours as if looking for the catch, the joke, the condition. But you give him none.

“Remmick,” you say, voice a little firmer now. “You ain’t a devil… you’re mine.”

Something flickers deep in his eyes, some dam that cracks and spills open with your words. His hand slides up your back, pulling you tighter to him like he needs you to tether him to this moment. His lips find yours again.

You return the kiss with equal fervor, your arms wrapping around his shoulders, clinging to the comfort of him, to the closeness that feels like home. The world narrows to the feel of his mouth on yours, his body beneath your hands, the way he breathes your name like it’s something sacred.

When he parts from the kiss, his eyes roam over your face, and something in you opens. Your lips part with the truth you’ve held on your tongue for far too long.

“I love you.”

The words are barely out before his mouth finds your neck—hot and urgent. He kisses the space just above your pulse point, and instinctively, you tilt your head, baring your throat to him. You trust him. You’ve always trusted him.

But then—something shifts.

His arms tighten, holding you firm, too firm. His mouth parts against your skin.

“Remmick…?”

You breathe his name softly, a question.

He doesn’t answer.

And before you can draw in another breath, his fangs pierce your skin—deep, unhesitating, hungry.

A sharp, searing pain explodes down your neck, and your mouth opens in a cry that barely has time to form. Your hands clutch at his shoulders, trying to push him back, but he pulls you tighter. His body trembles, breaths short and frantic as he drinks from you in greedy mouthfuls, each swallow pulling more of you into him.

You feel the warmth of your own blood running down your skin, a thick trail following the curve of your throat.

Your heart pounds wildly, but it’s beginning to stutter, the rhythm irregular as the blood loss sets in.

“Remmick—” You try again, weaker this time.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even flinch at the sound of your voice.

His eyes are clenched shut, lost in the haze of hunger and ecstasy, one hand still cradling the back of your head like he’s trying to comfort you while devouring you whole.

Your body is going cold. Your fingertips are tingling.

You try to hold onto him, to dig your fingers into his shirt—anything to get through—but your strength is slipping fast. Your arm trembles. Then your hand falls away from his shoulder, limp.

Your eyes flutter, your vision fading at the edges.

And just before everything goes dark, the last thing you feel is the heat of his mouth on your throat and the way his name wants to leave your lips… but never does.

Remmick continues to drink from you, groaning low in his throat as your essence fills every part of him—thick, hot, overwhelming. It blankets his mind, soaked into the sinew of his being, an ecstasy laced with your scent, your taste, your memories. He hasn’t even realized how tightly he held you until the shift in your body’s weight makes him still.

When he finally pulls back, it’s slow—reluctant, almost dazed. Blood spills from his mouth in thick pools, smearing down his chin and soaking into the collar of his shirt. It clings to your nightgown in dark patches, still warm.

His fangs glisten under the silver eye of the moonlight bleeding in through the curtain, his eyes—once wine-dark—now glowing an impossibly deep shade of red, fevered and wild.

But when his gaze drops to you cradled in his arms, everything inside him falls quiet.

His breath comes out wet, chest heaving slightly with the aftermath. He blinks once. Twice.

“Sweetheart?”

His voice, thick and hoarse, wavers. He tilts your head gently in his hand to look at you—but when he lets go, your head lolls back against him, limp.

“Hey…” he whispers, voice cracking as dread creeps in.

He brings a shaking hand to your cheek, the pads of his fingers smeared with blood as he cups your face. You don’t move.

“Come on—hey, look at me,” he says, louder this time, urgency climbing in his chest. He taps your cheek lightly, then again, harder. “Open your eyes.”

Still nothing.

His heart—that quiet ghost in his chest—twists with a phantom pain as he lowers you gently onto the couch, hands trembling as he adjusts you. He fixes himself with one quick motion, then lifts your head to rest on his lap, brushing your hair from your blood-slicked neck.

“No, no—no no no no no—” he mutters, eyes wild now, desperate.

Without hesitation, he lifts his wrist to his mouth and bites down hard, tearing through the flesh in one savage rip. Blood pours freely, dark and thick, running down his arm. He presses the bleeding wrist to your mouth, angling your face, his other hand gripping your chin, urging you to drink.

“Please,” he chokes, rocking slightly. “Please, just drink—just drink, please—”

More of his blood spills into your mouth, but your lips don't move. Your throat doesn’t work to swallow. The red trickles down your chin instead.

“No—” the word shatters out of him.

He lets out a broken sound, low and wet, something guttural and full of despair, and he pulls you closer to him, arms wrapping tightly around your limp form. He bends over you, forehead pressed to yours as he tries to hold your soul in your body with the weight of his grief alone.

“Come back to me,” he whispers. “Please, come back to me…”

He lifts his hand to your cheek again, wiping gently beneath your eye where a streak of blood had fallen from his own.

A sob tears through Remmick’s throat—sharp, ragged, and violent as it bursts into the stillness of the room. It breaks from him like something deep and primal has split wide open, raw and aching as it echoes against the walls.

“No—no, no, please—” he gasps, your name tumbling from his lips like a lifeline he’s losing grip on. His arms wrap around you tighter, pulling you so close it’s like he’s trying to merge your body with his own, as if he can keep you alive by sheer force of will. His hands tremble where they press against your back, fingers splayed, desperate to feel movement—anything.

He rocks you gently, the motion instinctual, helpless. Your body moves limply in his arms, warm only from the remnants of your blood still wet between you. His chest heaves with uneven breaths, and then his head tilts back, eyes wide and wild, searching the ceiling as though a god might be waiting above the cracked wood to answer.

“Please—God, please,” he begs, the words breaking apart in his throat. “I’ll do anything, anything—just don’t take her. Don’t take her from me. I didn’t mean—” The words crumble mid-sentence, overtaken by another wave of sobs.

He clutches you harder, one arm locked around your back, the other hand cradling your head against his chest. His bloodstained fingers smear red through your hair as he rocks you. “She didn’t deserve this,” he whispers. “Not her. Please…”

His eyes scan your face—your lashes still, lips parted slightly, blood drying at the edge of your mouth. His thumb brushes the corner of your lips, trembling as he whispers your name again. Like a prayer. Like a curse.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, pressing his forehead against yours, his voice shaking with every word. “I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to—I didn’t want—please come back. Please.”

He kisses your cheek, your brow, the sticky line of blood in your hair, and breathes you in like it might anchor him. Like you might stir, if he just gets close enough.

Then, quieter now—softer than the fire still crackling in the hearth—he whispers against your skin:

“Please don’t leave me…”

Remmick clutches you tighter, as if the force of his arms might breathe life back into your body. His grip turns desperate, bruising, trembling with an agony he can’t hold in anymore. And then—

He screams.

It rips from his throat, raw and shattering, echoing through the walls like something dying. Not at you, not at the heavens, not at the world—just a scream of pure grief, of guilt so vast it devours everything else. A sound pulled from centuries of buried pain, now cracked open wide and spilling out all at once.

His head tilts back and he screams again, louder, his voice breaking as it tears at his throat. It’s ragged and guttural, full of every ounce of regret, every moment he could have stopped himself but didn’t. It’s a scream of failure, of helplessness, of losing the only good thing he’s ever truly touched.

“Why—!” he cries out, but there’s no answer. There’s no one left to blame but himself.

His arms wrap tighter around you, almost panicked, as if you’ll vanish entirely if he loosens even a little. Blood—yours, his—stains both of you, soaking through clothes, sticking to skin. He presses his face to the curve of your shoulder, muffling another cry as he sobs into you.

“I’m sorry,” he rasps again, over and over, like a chant, a punishment. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

But the silence that answers is unbearable.

And still, he holds you.

The room is quiet now—hauntingly so. Outside, the faint calls of owls echo in the trees beyond the house, and the hearth, barely alive, offers one last crackle before its flame dies completely. The light flickering on Remmick’s face fades into stillness, shadowed in grief.

He sits there, unmoving, your body curled in his lap like you’re only sleeping.

His thumb strokes your cheek in small, ceaseless motions—over and over, as if the rhythm might bring you back. His other hand cradles the back of your head with a gentleness that doesn’t match the crimson staining his fingers. His eyes, rimmed red and shining with the aftermath of blood-tinged tears, stay locked on your face. You’re still warm. Still soft.

But you’re not breathing.

He stares at you for what feels like an eternity, until finally, his gaze drops to your chest. The little cross necklace you always wore rests against your skin, stained dark with blood—his blood, your blood. The contrast of it is jarring: faith and death, resting side by side.

His lips part as he whispers your name again. It’s quiet. Like a question. Like a hope.

But silence meets him again.

His brow twitches, just once, the barest ripple of emotion betraying the stillness of his face. And then it washes over him all at once—the dread. That instinctual pull deep in his bones. The sun is coming. It’s close. He can feel it stirring in the air, just below the horizon.

His body wants to run.

But he doesn’t move.

He can’t. He can’t leave you here.

The thought alone is a blade against the inside of his ribs. You told him you’d go with him. That you’d follow him into anything. And now, he can’t take you with him. Not really. Not like this.

He lifts a hand to his mouth, smearing away the blood drying along his chin and lips. His shoulders tremble as he lets out a breath that catches halfway through.

“And I thought I was the one who always broke promises,” he mutters.

It’s a pathetic attempt at humor. Dry. Bitter. Dead on arrival—just like everything else now.

His eyes drift to the window. The sky outside is softening into the palest shade of blue. Not yet morning, but close. Too close.

He moves at last, slowly standing with you in his arms. Your upper body is cradled against him, limp and silent, while your legs drag lightly across the floorboards. He walks like a man underwater, like every motion is a war with himself.

When he reaches your room, he pushes the door open and crosses the threshold. He lowers you gently to the floor in the corner and lingers there, fingers brushing the strands of hair from your face.

“I’ll be right back,” he murmurs.

His voice cracks, but he pretends it doesn’t. Pretends you’re going to answer.

He turns and leaves the room. The bathroom faucet squeaks. Water runs. A towel is soaked.

When he returns, he shuts the bedroom door and pulls the blinds tight until not a single sliver of light breaks through.

Then he kneels beside you and begins to clean you.

He works slowly. Tenderly. His face is stone—unreadable—but his hands are reverent. He wipes the blood from your neck with care. Lifts your hand and cleans each finger like they’re sacred. Not a single part of you is ignored. It’s an act of devotion. Of worship.

And when you are clean, he leans back against the wall and gathers you into his arms, pressing your body to his chest. He breathes you in, as if memory alone can hold you here.

“You can’t go to heaven dirty,” he whispers, voice thick but quiet.

—

“Who?”

Your voice is sharper than you meant it to be, cutting the air between you. But something about him unsettles you—his stillness, the way he stares not at you, but through you.

The night hangs heavy, sticky with summer air and strange tension. He stands just beyond your porch railing like he doesn’t quite belong in the world anymore. His figure is gaunt in the moonlight, pale and stretched, the shadows deep beneath his eyes—like a man caught between two places, unable to decide where he belongs.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he glances over his shoulder, slow and deliberate, like he expects someone to materialize behind him. You follow his gaze, but the street is empty.

“Someone very dear to me,” he finally says, voice so soft it feels like it’s already fading. “She’s waitin’ on me now. Probably tellin’ me to let go and to stop bein’ so damn stubborn.”

He laughs. Quiet. Low. And wrong. There’s no joy in it—just a tired echo of something that once was.

You frown, your brow knitting. “Oh.”

It slips out before you can stop it—breathless, unintentionally gentle. You mentally scold yourself for the softness in your tone.

He tilts his head slightly, examining you with a look you can’t read. Like he’s comparing your face to someone else’s in his mind. Like your features are almost—but not quite—right.

Then he nods. Slowly. Almost to himself.

The silence stretches, drawn thin like a thread.

“You just gonna stand there?” you ask, leaning on your broom handle, trying to anchor yourself to something real.

He blinks, as if he forgot where he was. “Sorry about that.”

He shifts his hands into his pockets, and just before his coat covers it, something flashes gold near his wrist. Your eyes catch on it, quick.

“Didn’t take you as the type to wear jewelry,” you murmur, nodding toward his arm.

He glances down, then pulls his hand free. The sleeve rises as he adjusts it, revealing a necklace wound tightly around his wrist like a lifeline.

At the end of the chain is a small, tarnished cross.

“It was hers.”

The words land like a stone in your chest.

Your hand tightens around the broom. Something in the air changes. Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out for a second.

“Sorry about that,” you say finally, quieter this time.

He shakes his head gently. “It wasn’t your fault,” he murmurs. “It was mine.”

That tightness returns—behind your eyes, in your chest. You glance back at the front door, needing distance but not wanting to make it seem like you’re afraid. Not of him, just… of what he’s carrying.

“…Maybe you should get goin’.”

He stares at you a moment longer, long enough to feel like he might say more. But then he nods again, slow and hollow.

“I understand.”

He turns and begins to walk the way he came, footsteps silent on the dirt road.

You exhale sharply, like your body had been holding onto breath without telling you. The porch suddenly feels like it’s tilting, reality shifting back into place.

“Get in the house!”

Your father’s voice cuts through the night like thunder, making you jump.

“I’m coming!” you call out, voice hoarse.

You cast one last look behind you—but he’s already gone, swallowed by the night. Just like a ghost.

You drag yourself inside, broom and all, and close the door behind you. But the weight of that little gold cross lingers. And you don’t know why, but part of you feels like you just met the saddest man in the world—

A man still haunted by love. 

————

A/N : reader’s death was inspired by charlie’s death in iwtv 🥲

i didn't explicitly state that present reader is a reincarnation. honestly, take what you will

[lowrisemiller]

ʟᴇꜱᴛᴀᴛ ᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ʟᴏᴠᴇʀ — ʜɪꜱ ᴅɪꜰꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴛ ᴇʀᴀꜱ

i tried to keep reader as gender neutral as possible so forgive me

comment if you’d like to be on my lestat tag list!!

masterlist | 1.2 k words | lowkey ooc lestat I made him a softie in the beginning SORRY NOT SORRY | some are smutty but nothing too explicit | lots of flirting & banter 😏 | allusions to oral | obviously blood warning he is a vampire but there's nothing graphic | sorry not rlly proofread either |

˚₊‧⁺⋆♱

1800s/1900s New Orleans

♱ he loves to dress you like a painting. velvets, lace, gloves, and jewelry he “borrowed” from noble corpses or lovers long past. you don’t ask, but you always accept.

♱ he has a thing for pressing his cold lips to your palm, dragging fangs along the delicate skin there without biting, teasing, promising.

♱ he murmurs in French, sometimes it’s something dirty, or it’s poetic, but it’s always intense. the room usually increases in temperature.

♱ he tells you you’re the only real thing left in a world that decays too quickly. his need to immortalize you wars with his fear of condemning you to the same curse.

♱ you become lestat’s muse. his obsession. a reason to write, sing, stay.

♱ he keeps a lock of your hair in a glass locket, wears it beneath his shirt.

♱ and when he leaves for days at a time (as he sometimes must), you always find a new book on your nightstand, annotated in his spidery handwriting: “this reminded me of you.”

♱ lestat’s touch is delicate and devastating. he worships your body, revering every inch like it deserves to be painted.

♱ he can be greedy, but only after he’s memorized your breath, your pulse, the way your voice catches when he’s just hovering, lips ghosting your neck.

♱ he loves control, (shocker) but he’s not cruel. he’s theatrical in bed—slow at first, making a show of undressing you, calling you “darling,” “mon chérie,” “my angel” as if your very existence is an indulgence he’s not allowed to taste.

♱ he feeds from you before intimacy but not during—he says it’s too much, your time together is too sacred.

♱ sometimes you wake up with his bite already healing on your thigh or collarbone, and he just smirks from across the room in candlelight like he’s proud of his restraint.

♱ you share a townhouse in the french quarter. lestat insists on keeping a piano in every room with a hearth. he plays at twilight while you sleep, melancholic sonatas drifting through the halls like smoke.

♱ he’s jealous. (another shocker) not violently, (hmm) but visibly. anyone who looks at you too long will find themselves unnerved by a sudden drop in temperature or lestat’s hand gently, threateningly, resting at your waist.

♱ if you ever offer your blood to him willingly, it undoes him. lestat sees that as trust in its purest form. his bite is slow, intimate, almost like a kiss—he moans into it, as if the taste of you makes him dizzy, drunk, helpless.

˚₊‧⁺⋆♱

Théâtre des Vampires Era

♱ this is more of a fwb relationship

♱ it’s not “love,” not really. not aloud.

♱ but he comes to you after every performance—still in costume, paint smudged, shirt half-buttoned, voice hoarse from monologues and mock-death scenes. and he needs you. desperately. like the applause isn’t enough.

♱ you're his little secret.

♱ in public he’s dramatic and aloof, kissing your hand like you're nothing but a muse. behind closed doors? he's on his knees for you, whispering in French about how your cum tastes better than blood.

♱ you don’t live together, but he leaves clothes at your place. his shirts are too big, too silken, and smell faintly of old roses and stone crypts. you sleep in them anyway.

♱ lestat is a performer: he makes sex a performance, too. he strips like it’s a scene from a play, slowly, confidently, like he knows the exact moment your breath will hitch. he holds eye contact the entire time.

♱ he loves to tease.

♱ he won’t touch you at first. just watches, sprawled in your bed or his, one arm behind his head, make up still on. he murmurs instructions, or worse, praises: “that’s it, mon cœur… show me how much you want me.”

♱ biting and blood-sharing are foreplay more often than not.

♱ not full feeding. just enough to make your head spin. he’ll sink his teeth in and press his mouth to yours before you can even breathe, tasting himself and you on your tongue.

♱ he likes to fuck you on rich surfaces.

♱ velvet curtains, costume tables, fainting couches, marble floors, against mirrors, still half-dressed in his stage clothes.

♱ once, he took you in the opera box after the crowd has left, still panting from the rush of performance.

♱ you read to him when he’s too wired after a show to sleep.

♱ sometimes he pretends to fall asleep against your thigh while you speak, but you’ll catch his lashes fluttering, that small smirk tugging at his mouth.

♱ it’s “just physical” but when you sleep in his bed, he watches you like he’s memorizing the shape of your spine, your mouth, the sound of your breathing.

♱ you once found a sketch of you in one of his journals. not of you naked, not posing, just asleep, with his coat draped over you and your hand curled near your mouth. in the corner he’d written: “heaven has gained another angel.”

˚₊‧⁺⋆♱

rockstar era

♱ you were hired to keep lestat from burning the world down. but of course from day one he makes it impossible.

♱ he calls you “boss” just to see you twitch, kisses your cheek during interviews, and flashes his fangs at you before going on stage.

♱ he ignores your emails and reminders but shows up to meetings shirtless and wet from the shower. says, “you wanted me on time, didn’t say dressed.”

♱ everyone assumes you’re sleeping together. You aren’t. 

♱ but you both start to think about it.

♱ you constantly catch him looking at your mouth when you talk. he lingers too long when handing you a water bottle after a show, his fingers brushing yours like you're made of fire

♱ he starts singing your name onstage during soundcheck.

♱ “this one’s for the boss,” he purrs before launching into a filthy, growling ballad about obsession and surrender.

♱ after one particularly brutal show, you corner him backstage, yelling about his set running late and flipping off the press.

♱ he crowds you against a wall, grinning, soaked in sweat and fake blood, voice rough. “you like it when I misbehave. admit it.”

♱ the first time you fuck, it’s backstage.

♱ some green room or soundproof booth. he’s just come off stage, breathless and wild, pupils blown wide. you’re arguing, again, and then he kisses you hard, mouth tasting like blood and champagne. you claw at his leather jacket, and he groans like he’s waited centuries.

♱ he worships your neck. duh.

♱ that’s where he bites you first, slow and deliberate, asking permission with his eyes but not his mouth. he says you taste like want and lust.

♱ his hands are everywhere, greedy but reverent. he grips your hips like he’s trying to memorize your rhythm, your heat, the arch of your back when he thrusts just right.

♱ he’s a vocal lover—filthy, poetic, and a little desperate.

♱ he calls you things like “divine,” “mine,” “my sweetest addiction.” but it’s the way he moans your name, half-whimper, that makes your knees give out.

♱ after? he pulls you onto his chest, licking blood off his bottom lip, looking smug and ruined. he says, “so, boss... any notes on tonights performance?"

♱ you try to be professional again.

♱ he ruins it by texting you selfies in bed, wearing your shirt. “miss you already.” you saw him two hours ago.

♱ he starts writing songs about you. some are sexy. some are heartbreaking.

♱ one makes you cry in the middle of a tour bus ride. he kisses your hand after and says, “I meant every word.”

♱ sometimes, when the band’s asleep and it’s 3am, he wraps himself around you in the dark and whispers, “you make me feel human again.”

˚₊‧⁺⋆♱

hehe if you made it this far ty for reading!! this was my first time writing him! and ik there aren't many lestat x reader things on tumblr so I rlly appreciate the likes, reblogs, & comments :)

🏷️ @lestatsinstrument @notsostrangerthing @theprettiesthead @beatricetudor-blog @goblinbabyy @vampireloverboys40 @annafromao3 @mobygoose @thegrungebarbie @grapejuicrry @zomqiez

[koipepo]

You know what my favorite Remmick moment is? Despite everything in that movie, I think it was when we see him staring from afar at the metaphorical flames of the dancing. The visible shock and awe on his face, his mouth actually gaped at just how astounded he is to have found what he maybe didn't even intend to find. The slow grin that says to both himself and to us, "...Ah, so this is it. No tricks, no schemes, and I really found it. After all these years, and it's finally right here. And all I have to do? Is just reach out... and take it."

God yes. The framing of that scene is so impeccable. the slow close in on Remmick's face, the bonfire of life burning from the joint illuminating Remmick's face, the electric guitar haunting on the background, his fucking grin - You cant mistake it as anything other than "this is the point where Remmick decides to get Sammie no matter what." 🥴♥️

I love that Remmick only stumbled by the joint and Sammie's voice by accident. Pretty sure that before obsessing on taking Sammie, Remmick only had survival in mind. He turned the klan couple just bc they were the nearest to him and isolated from anyone else, and he needed more manpower to defend against the Choctaw hunters. It cemented the feeling of One Fateful Night

Remmick has always been deceitful and self-serving (thats just what living as vampire do to you imo) but I think Sammie awoken something more selfish and indulgent inside him. He's not in survival mode when he chases Sammie, he's doing it to indulge in the little escapism he can have; to be reunited with his family, and not the coven of vampires he made centuries later

[yanderes-galore]

Can I ask for a Moonknight romantic concept (Marvel Rivals)?

Tried my best, sorry if I butchered it, he only really shows himself as Marc in Rivals.

Yandere! MR! Moon Knight Concept

Pairing: Romantic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Manipulation, Overprotective behavior, Stalking, Violence, Blood, Murder, D.I.D (Moon Knight canonically has it), Jealousy, Kidnapping, Forced/Dubious relationship.

Something interesting about Moon Knight in Rivals is we never hear much from Steven or Jake?

All of Moon Knight's voice lines are either Marc or occasionally Khonshu.

So I'm going to write Rivals Moon Knight differently from how I plan to write MCU Moon Knight.

In the MCU HCs I plan to do, all of the 'moon boys' interact with you in some way.

Rivals Moon Knight, however, won't interact with you as anyone but Marc.

So despite Moon Knight mentioning other voices in his head or mentioning he can hear Khonshu... Marc is the main identity who interacts with you.

He's also the main identity who gets attached to you... But the others either feel similarly or just want to aid Marc.

My explanation for this would be Marc not wanting you too involved with the entirety of his mind or Khonshu.

In terms of what type of yandere Rivals Moon Knight is...

I'd have to say protectiveness is his main nature.

Since being given a second chance at life by Khonshu, Marc has dedicated himself to being a protector of some sorts for night travelers.

So Marc is protective of you when he sees you from afar.

Steven would be more of a gentleman presumably, occasionally shining through when Moon Knight wants to appeal to you.

Then there's Jake who I'm assuming is the one more likely to kill than Marc, or just comes off as cold?

Marc is used to killing but tries to keep it less lethal... but it's up in the air if Jake's in control at times.

To keep it simple for Rivals Moon Knight, You're mostly dealing with Marc.

Unlike most other 'heroes', Moon Knight doesn't mind killing.

Or if he can't kill, maim works.

Moon Knight is rather passive about his obsession at first.

He's got enough to deal with and probably doesn't want to get top involved in another person.

He has the whole timeline entanglement issue like everyone else... also vampires due to Dracula.

Khonshu wants Moon Knight to find answers on how to remove vampires from the night for good.

It's an... irritating task.

So that's what Moon Knight is primarily traveling for, to steal a spellbook from Strange to look up how to get rid of vampires.

Also get his money back from Dracula.

However, just his luck, he ends up having to save someone from said vampires due to Dracula taking over a version of New York.

He's reluctant at first, watching you from a distance.

Yet you count as a traveler in the night... So when you're being attacked, Moon Knight swoops in.

You're shaking, back pressed against an ally wall as you watch blood splatter across the floor.

Once you manage to look around, you're greeted by a man dressed completely in white... except for the blood now staining the pristine white cloak.

"You okay? Geez... Didn't think there were still any civilians here...."

To him, this is a simple little favor.

Khonshu would've wanted him to do this... probably.

Or was that Steven...?

Either way... Moon Knight quickly pulls you up, holding you close in a defensive gesture.

"What's your name?" He hears you ask quietly, still shaken.

"I go by many names... Best you just call me Moon Knight, it covers everything."

That's one way you could meet Moon Knight, you don't even need to entirely be a civilian.

You could be a scientist working on researching the vampires... or even another hero who just bit off more than you could chew while trying to get to Avengers Tower.

Either way, you definitely meet Moon Knight during the whole Dracula issue.

It's the main reason he's getting involved with this whole timeline entanglement issue according to his lore.

He doesn't expect this incident to matter so much to him...

He just saved you, it's what he was meant to do.

Yet he keeps hearing Steven coo about you being cute or something... or Jake nagging at him to not get distracted.

Marc finds himself heaving a heavy sigh, realizing that he might be thinking of you more than he'd like.

Moon Knight's behavior starts as something simple.

He watches you from afar on rooftops or hidden in alleys.

He's scolding himself the entire time, telling himself he's getting distracted.

He needs to find Strange, not watch and fantasize about some person he saved.

Khonshu is no doubt either amused or scolding him... Making Moon Knight more frustrated as he argues with his own mind.

It would not surprise me if Moon Knight caved and swooped in, claiming you need to come with him.

He's clearly not going to get anything done if he can't stop watching you....

So, congrats, you're following him around.

Essentially, Moon Knight becomes your bodyguard throughout New York's Blood Moon.

He can't seem to leave you alone, so you won't leave him.

The Fist of Vengeance seems oddly... domestic in the situation for a mercenary.

You're both roaming the streets of New York, the man beside you occasionally putting his cape over you to shield you from sight.

Marc's trying to treat this as professionally as he can.

He's just escorting you to safety... That's all....

He can barely listen to the conversations he's having with you.

This should be professional...

So why does he keep feeling oddly... drawn to you?

He feels like he needs to protect you... Which for this situation, makes sense.

But why does he feel against the idea of letting you go after all of this?

Why does he feel like something is wrong if he isn't with you?

If Moon Knight isn't feeling complicated already due to his own mind... He feels even worse when you manage to worm your way into his thoughts.

Moon Knight is conflicted towards the thoughts he has about you.

He knows he shouldn't get too close to you.

You'll make his role problematic and he can't be worrying about some random person.

Yet as he speaks to you on the streets when he does listen... He's oddly enraptured.

He wants to know more about you... at first to learn why you're in this situation.

Then he wants to learn more just to... well... know more?

He needs to stop thinking you're attractive... He hates it when he screws up and calls you "Doll" or "Sweetheart" due to Jake or Steven's influence.

Marc needs control... He needs to focus....

But you make said control shatter without trying too hard.

Moon Knight feels both relieved and anxious when he gets you to Avengers Tower, now able to meet Tony, Reed, and Strange.

But Steven won't stop worrying about you and Jake keeps telling Marc about the vampire issue.

He KNOWS. By Khonshu, HE ALREADY KNOWS.

You no doubt pick up on Moon Knight having his internal battles.

Hesitantly you reach out to your savior, concerned.

"Hey, Moon Knight, you alright... You keep mumbling...?"

It snaps Marc back into focus for a moment, his mask looking towards you.

You look so concerned... for someone like him....

For a moment his mind is soothed as he looks you over before forcing himself to respond.

"Yeah, look, it's complicated, so if you want answers... sit down."

This would no doubt be where Moon Knight tries to explain his goal and... mental state.

Y'know, minus all the weird obsessive behavior he suddenly developed over you.

He'd rather you don't know about that... yet.

Essentially, Moon Knight hides a lot of his feelings towards you.

You're helping deal with vampires, meanwhile Moon Knight is having yet another argument with himself

He doesn't act too much on his desires since he's a bit overwhelmed at times.

But overall, Moon Knight is protective, occasionally charming, or downright violent.

There's times he seems to forget things... but if he explained his mental state, you probably understand why.

Even Moon Knight's peers don't particularly enjoy his violent displays.

Yet to him, that's how he gets things done.

You flinch each time Moon Knight brutally kills a vampire, the blood making his normally pristine white cloak a messy splattered mess.

Yet he shrugs it off, the first thing he does is check in on you.

"You good? Not bitten? Not hurt? Great, try not to stray."

There's times he's actually quite authoritative or stern when looking out for you.

Other times he's surprisingly caring, keeping you close when he isn't sent into a violent spree upon seeing a vampire.

Tony or the others might comment on this, but aren't met with clear answers on why he's coddling you.

You end up following him wherever he goes, Khonshu even commenting that he expected his champion to leave you somewhere safe ages ago.

This usually leads to Moon Knight telling the god to shove off.

Moon Knight isn't used to affection, he prefers watching from a distance to be a protector.

Yet other times, usually as Steven, you find Moon Knight checking in on you or even hugging you.

Moon Knight obviously struggles with his sudden romantic attraction to you.

He wants to scold himself... He really does.

But eventually he's just going to give up.

Fine, he likes you, he wants to protect you...

Now he has to find ways to do that while serving Khonshu.

By the time the Dracula situation is done with help from Squirrel Girl, Moon Knight can barely focus on the twenty bucks in his hand.

He keeps thinking of you... wondering how the rest of this timeline issue is going to affect you.

The thought... disturbs him.

Imagine Moon Knight becoming your personal protector after dealing with Dracula, claiming he can't leave you alone now.

He's a hostile person surprisingly often.

As Steven he expresses some minor jealousy when others decide to interact with you.

With Marc he's protective, warning others not to get too close as he pulls his cape over you.

As Jake... straight up threats if not outright violence.

Moon Knight probably knows dragging you through split dimensions is still dangerous...

But he can't find your actual home or timeline due to the split realities.

Part of him really hopes you were originally part of his New York....

To him, the safest thing to do is take you with him everywhere.

Then if anyone proves to be a problem... He'll bash them.

Easy, right?

Actually confronting you with how he feels is the difficult part.

He planned on just keeping it hidden the entire time, that would be the most reasonable thing to do even if Steven voices his grievances about it.

Or maybe it just comes out by accident?

Moon Knight gets so worked up over something, like maybe you're being flirted with by Loki, Black Panther, or Human Torch to give examples...

Only for him to snap.

"Look, back off, bud. This one's mine, saw them first, they're my responsibility."

The sentence is... strange....

You may ask about it, only to hear a heavy sigh from Moon Knight.

"I... we? We like you, alright? As in... You're pleasing to look at and I feel the need to look after you. You get what I'm saying? It's hard to explain, damn it...."

That's the confession, it's like he's struggling and irritated that now he has to explain himself because he couldn't control his emotions.

You may accept those emotions to make him feel better or because you feel similarly.

You just struggle on making it official since you don't know if you'll see him when the timelines fix.

Moon Knight appreciates the thought and feeds off it....

You accepting his strange feelings, regardless of your motive, deludes him more.

Now your new 'protector' is even more assertive and threatening towards people.

He wants people to both fear him and know you're involved with him.

That way they'll stay away, right?

That way he'll be your only hero.

Honestly, he never expected to be so jealous.

He's one of the few people okay with murder, too.

You often get worried for other people, warning them that while Moon Knight was always crazy... is even more so now.

You get anxious when you see blood on his cloak, unsure if you'd prefer it was his or not.

It's scary to think he may have killed others for just looking at you.

Part of you is thankful that your little "relationship" is temporary.

Yet with how intense he feels, his behavior even surprising his patron, he may not just let you go.

When the timelines are restored, whenever that may be...

What's stopping him from just snagging you?

New York is New York, right?

He'll continue to be your protector by just taking you to his universe.

Could it cause problems? Yeah...

But he could care less at this point.

For once, Moon Knight can feel all of him agree on one thing...

Once everything is done and over with and he can go back to his universe...

He'll just take you with him, then he never has to let you go (Even better if you were FROM his universe.)

"Sorry sweetheart, I'm sure this won't be much different from home, right...? Just come with me... Not a soul will touch you now."

[larkandpen]

Human remmick obsessed with crazy deluded vampire reader

PART ONE

Human!Remmick x vamp!fem!reader

Summary: Remmick is obsessed with the crazy vampire girl who feeds in the woods.

Warnings/themes (MDNI 18+ themes): canon divergence, slow burn? set in 1800s, general dark themes, yearning Remmick, reader is crazy and deluded in an unrealistic way (think Drusilla from Buffy, literally some direct quotes.), blood, murder, death, gore, not being nice to dead bodies, mutilation,manipulation, Remmick cant decide if he wans to be turned by her or be one of her victims, no mention of race, no use of y/n.

Words: 2.3k

It was always the best when the blood was still warm. When they squirmed and wriggled on the ground beneath you like little worms after a big rain. When the dark, gooey red spilled down your chin like a snug blanket, coating your collarbones and chest and down to your dress. They had a tendency to run cold before you even knew it; almost immediately after they stopped squirming, you could taste the difference. Like, it begins to sour and spoil already.

Remmick hadn't meant to interrupt you. It was an accident how far he had wandered on his way home. It's too easy to get turned around when it's so dark out. Especially on grim and foggy nights like these, where the air hangs low and heavy, aromatizing the dank smell of the earth. One wrong turn and he had stumbled upon you. At first, he hadn't seen you. But he noticed how the hairs on the back of his neck rose warily. Then his eyes landed on you, still a good ten or fifteen feet away from him, just off to the side in the treeline.

At first, he thought you were hurt, attacked, and injured. The way your body sits crumpled in the grass, curled over as if you'd collapsed. A deep glistening on the ground that can only be made out in the moonlight's reflection, the same dark blooming in patches down the front of your dress. Unable to properly see the body pinned beneath you, just a dark mass and your form cowering over it, trembling with sobs. Your shoulders jerking up and down slightly in silent cries.

He tears forward through the clearing, closing the distance between him and the emergency before him.

"Wha' happened?! Are ye hurt?" His voice is sheer panic as he places a hand on your shoulder.

You freeze. Keeping your head turned away, as if you think if you can't see him, then he cannot see you either.

"The King of Cups expects a picnic, but it is not his birthday…"

He has little time to be confused by the absurdity you've just trilled out. His heart stills in his chest as you slowly crane your head back up to look at him.

You're covered in blood, but he can't tell from where. It coats your lips, your chin, your neck, and your hands. Deep and slick, dripping from you as your mouth curls up into a sinister grin. Not a grin of someone who had been rescued, a grin like a child who had been caught stealing sweets. Too wide, with teeth too long. He realizes you hadn't been crying but laughing, a silent, deranged giggle. Your eyes gleam red in the dark, feral and ancient.

"Aww, you're quite late." It's spoken with disappointment, as if he had been expected. Your grin turns into a pout. The distance between the two of you shrinks as you suddenly lean in closer, cocking your head to the side, studying him. You take in his scent with a deep inhale through your nose.

"I've already eaten." He follows your gaze as your head suddenly drops, and for the first time, he sees the body beneath you. What once was a man now lay limp, cold, and empty. His dead eyes stuck open, staring up bleakly. A last plea for help lay stale on his lips.

His feet stay frozen on the dirt path. He swallows, and a wave of nausea takes him over for a moment as the relentless smell of metallic finally meets his nose. A short, panicky breath leaves him as he glances side to side frantically. The deepness of the night surrounds him, empty and quiet.

As the blood visibly drains from his face, a giggle of sick delight comes flowing from your lips.

"Hop down the path, little bunny." You warn.

"Maybe I'll be hungry tomorrow…"

He should be scared, wary at the very least. After that first night—after your words. You were seriously demented, and delusional as well. Your nonsense words, the way you were looming over that lifeless man with his blood all over you. It should've chilled him down to his bones, but something heavier sat deep within his mind as his thoughts continued to be consumed by you. Your mouth was stained like crushed berries, your voice trilling in sick delight when you spoke to him. A morbid curiosity for something so horrifying and rare.

You drag your next victim deeper into the woods this time. draining her just enough for her consciousness to slip, then hurrying deeper into the forest before she runs cold. Between two tall. Old trees, you kneel and sink your teeth into this meal. Warmth spurting out in short bursts, her short breaths gargled as her muscles relaxed even further and the life slipped away from her. You savor it, playing with the meal when you've finished. Removing the arms, braiding the long hair she came with, humming a proud motif, a well-pleased smile on your face.

You can smell him long before he reveals himself. Sweat, dirt, natural and unrefined… blood. You suck in from your teeth as your pinky picks out chunks of flesh caught between them, causing him to flinch. The brush rustles underneath him, and now you decide to pay him some mind. You turn gently, waving at him with the disembodied hand.

"It's you again…" you drawl playfully, smiling softly as you shape the hand into a point and direct it towards him.

He nods, his words catching in his throat. Does he say he sought you out? He takes a hesitant step closer, hand covering his nose to avoid the ripe stench of the fresh murder. He doesn't look at the woman's face; he doesn't want to know if he knew her. He doesn't close his eyes to avoid the scene either, though. He still takes you in, standing above the mess of carnage on the ground at your feet. Blood streaking up your forearms as you play with the fingers of the amputated arm.

"Little bunny came back…" you mutter, discarding the arm to the ground without a care. Your attention diverted elsewhere, staring at him with large, wild eyes. drinking him in. Taking in his smell, the sound of his pulse against his skin, and the sharpness of each precious breath he takes in. A dark chuckle leaves you as you rise to your feet, coming in closer to him. Stepping over the gore of your meal, you raise an eyebrow.

He can't bring himself to speak to you. His voice caught somewhere in his throat. So he just nods again, this one coming out more sure than the first one. almost eager.

"I-I…" but the words fall short rapidly when the back of your hand comes out to graze his cheek. It paints him in blood, but the touch is gentle, fleeting. Your hand is back by your side so fast, he only knows it truly happened because he can feel the wind drying the blood against his face. His mouth hangs agape as he admires the sight before him. A deep guilt twists at him for being in awe of this. It's nothing to marvel at. Yet he does. It takes his breath away.

"I've made you pretty…" you muse, eyes on the work of art you left behind on his cheek.

It takes a moment for Remmick to realize what you're speaking about, his hand coming up to touch his cheek and returning with the last wet remnants of blood on the tips of his fingers.

"Aye," he finds himself capable of this, one or two words at a time. In short, simple bursts.

"Very… pretty," he mumbles, averting his eyes down to the ground awkwardly.

"I broke my toy," you tell him with a pout, gesturing down to the remnants around the trees.

He forces himself to look. You had basically asked him to. He let his eyes fall, taking the scene in properly. eyes scanning the mess you had made. Blood paints the trees, parts of person scattered across the grass. The woman's pale flesh contrasted against the dark ground.

"Aye. It seems ye did," he replies plainly. peeling his eyes away and back up to yours, holding the stare you give him. He doesn't avert his eyes; he doesn't want to. The feeling creeping up in his gut tells him that if he dared to look away, you'd be gone before he could look back.

"I need to go find a new one now." a plain statement, your tone indicating this was the closing of their conversation tonight, and not to follow behind you. So he doesn't, just standing there, shoulders hunching in…disappointment? A sense of invalidation comes over him. Why would you want to seek a new toy when he was right there?

Remmick pouts, and you're gone again. And he's just standing there among the bloody mess you had left in your wake. He sighs, already slipping his thin jacket off and placing it on the ground. Then he slowly lumbers around the dark wood, going from tree to tree, picking up every tangible piece of your leftovers. Storing them all inside his jacket, the cold blood sticking to his hands. Thank God for the veil of night, hiding his actions from the world. A grunt bounces off the tree beside Remmick as he drops the torso in his jacket.

He carries the jacket down, across the clearing, and deep past the opposing treeline. He keeps walking deeper until he can hear the faint rushing of the creek. The air was growing cooler as the water got nearer; the sky was going from deep black to a blue as dawn crept into proximity.

The jacket hits the ground with a wet thud. His stomach churns, but not enough to actually stop him. Sighing deeply, he scans the area. Lush, deep green, mossy rocks, sheltered by heavy trees, and a damp, natural smell floating with the current of the stream. Remmick grabs some of the heavier rocks, still small enough to stuff into his jacket. He wraps the oozing red fabric taut around the bundle of parts and sediment, tying the sleeves off as tightly as he possibly can before letting it splash into the water.

"You keep putting my toys away."

This time you're waiting for him. Your outfit is clean—which is new. But you hadn't had time to feed. Not when you'd come back and seen your messes from the past week had been cleaned up, leaving your space neat and tidy. Everything you'd strewn about, down to the last shred of flesh, had been accounted for. The only thing he could not deal with was the crimson streaks and spatters across the tree.

Remmick nods. surprised that you're there, standing at attention, waiting for him with bright, questioning eyes.

Normally, you would hardly acknowledge his presence. Only a few strange words here and there he could never make sense of. Always letting him get close, however. Close enough to see you feed, close enough to hear the nonsense you whisper to your victims before you sink your too-sharp teeth into their poor necks. the wet smacking of raw meat echoing against the trees as you indulge. Sometimes they're not fully dead yet, and he hears the gurgling sputters of their last breaths, their fingers twitching as they reach out for him.

One time, you try to scare him. Pin him up against a tree with a touch hard enough to bruise, grazing your sharp teeth against his neck and your claws grazing his skin just enough to leave a scratch. And then, with just as much force, you'll pull him forward and send him down into the grass at your feet, among all your artistry from the night's activities.

It's always to see if he will run, hide, or protest. But he never does.

It should disturb him, send him running home and locking all the doors behind him. When your face is slick with blood and your eyes are too hungry, too wild. He tells himself that every time he leaves the woods, heart racing, clothes damp with mist and the faintest tang of blood. Your laugh trilling in his ears, mad and deluded. As he gathers up bodies and parts night after night to send down the stream.

But he isn't.

"I did… I didn't want to draw attention to here," he tells her.

A field full of butchery and dismembered body parts would only attract a crowd, police officers, and people sticking their noses in the last place they belonged. In your place. These woods you've seemed to claim and inhabit as of late, a place that felt almost sacred for him to know you linger here. To know you allow him to linger here, permitting his gaze as he watches you.

"I think you like me," you taunt, inching closer. Your pace is slow, looming, daring him to run away.

But he doesn't. He stays, trembling, heart pounding so hard he can feel it in his brain. The way your fingers twitch, like you're holding yourself back; it doesn't go unnoticed by him.

He hesitates, thinking carefully.

Did he like you? Or was this some sick, unexplainable, morbid curiosity?

One night, he really forced himself to pay attention while you fed. You didn't keep your back to him, letting him come closer than he ever had before. Every movement was taken with extreme regard, like you were sharing some intimate act. Relishing in every long, beautiful second as you drank. When you finished, you looked up to him, expectant. Like you wanted him to be sick, revolted—but the only feeling that builds in him is a burning, twisting jealousy.

Jealous of the body beneath your grasp, the way your hands stroke the hair so tenderly. the way your eyes drink them in with a hungry, eager gleam before your lips part and you indulge in the spoils.

He finds himself wanting your eyes on him instead, looking at him.

"I'm… not sure," he admits. "I just don't want ye to disappear."

Then you smirk, and it grows into a wide, unhinged grin.

"Darling," you whisper, a fingernail tracing along his throat methodically.

"I'm going to ruin you."

He blinks.

"I-I'd let ye."

Chat did I cook with this?

[aura-morgenstern]

halloween season's ending. Felt like I have to post these.

[luciacaminoz]

sol behind his back:

[musical-chick-13]

Can somebody please explain to me what the appeal of vampires is.

[jinx-xxed]

I need Remmick being so down bad for his human wife pretty please

Work Song

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*

A/N; I needed this too so thank you for this request 🙏 I love a man that’s down bad and obsessed, those are the best kind ^_^ the title for this one takes after Hozier’s Work Song of course since I was thinking about it while writing this :P I hope you enjoy, and thank you again for requesting!! (Also apologies for me going overboard, I got way too invested in the backstory and couldn’t stop myself :’D)

Summary; Remmick comes home to his wife.

Content; NSFW 18+, AFAB reader, human reader, down bad Remmick!!, soft Remmick, possessive Remmick, vampirism, cleaning him up, married to Remmick, soft sex, fingering, piv sex, cuddling, he doesn’t know how to handle “I love you”, fluff

Wc; 6.2k

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*

The house is dark and quiet when the door opens with the smallest squeak, resting on old hinges gone too long without oil.

The curtains are drawn tight, the material thicker than your typical run of the mill, assuring no light can sneak through the cracks. The air is fresh with recent movement, signs of a home well lived in with pictures hung on the wall and shoes in a small rack by the door. That’s where Remmick leaves his dust covered boots so he doesn’t track red speckled dirt all over your nice clean floors. He tosses his stained button up in the wash bin you set out for him too, just his white tank remaining as his suspenders fall loose around his hips. Stepping inside your place is like a balm on his unsettled, angry soul, letting him leave everything else behind just for a little while.

Your home is the only one he’s allowed himself to become familiar with, the only one he’s stayed at for longer than a couple months. He knows every hall, every creaky wooden floorboard, every small detail at an almost intimate level. He follows the path he’s gone down hundreds of times, the one that leads him right to your bedroom. Your scent brings him there just the same—sweet and flowery like a perfect spring day, a tantalizing whisper of iron hiding beneath.

Remmick nudges the bedroom door open, his eyes flickering in the dim lighting, red simmering in the blue-gray like the last embers of a dying fire. It’s strange how instantly something within him is calmed at the sight of you, something deep and possessive and maybe even predatory that finally quiets when it realizes you’re still here. Your form is tucked beneath the sheets, blissfully warm and cozy and utterly perfect. He sees a book tossed aside to the corner of the bed, like you’d tried to stay awake for him but ultimately gave up and fell asleep. He can hear your gentle breaths, the quiet thrum of your heart that taunts him.

His steps are near silent when he makes his way over to you. You lay on your stomach, a pillow hugged between both arms, your pretty mouth parted just slightly. You look serene in sleep, an angel come down to earth just for a devil like him. Remmick reaches forward, brushing a stray curl from your face with a tenderness most would think impossible for himself—with his hands that have taken too many lives to count, that are stained with blood every night. But with you they’re gentle, able to rediscover a mushy part of him that was buried centuries ago.

Your eyebrows pinch and you mumble indistinctly when his chilled hand rests on your cheek, relishing in the feeling of your soft skin beneath his calloused palm. He’s a little warmer tonight though, with fresh blood still flowing through him, but it’s never enough to completely chase off the cold bite of death. He leans down to pepper kisses across your face, steadily moving to your neck where he pauses, his blunt teeth teasing along your jugular and inhaling your scent like it’s a lifeline.

Under his attention is how you finally wake, shaken from meaningless dreams by frigid fingers and loving kisses. You smile lazily, stretching your arms and twisting so you’re on your back to face him. You paw at him, pulling him in with no resistance—he’d happily follow your touch wherever you wanted him to go. Your lips meet briefly, a pleased noise rumbling from him before you pull away. “You’re back.” You say, sleep still edging your words. You breathe him in contentedly, your fingers coming up to run through his short hair. He still has that signature metallic tang on him despite his efforts to clean up before coming home. “Was worried ‘bout you.”

“Aw darlin’, you ain’t have to do that. You know I’ll always come back to ya.” Remmick says, his deep voice sending a pleasant shiver down your spine. One of his hands rests above the covers on your waist now, the weight of it comforting and familiar. He huffs, shaking his head. “Shit, thought ‘bout ya all night.”

It’s true, he really was thinking about you the whole time—something he finds himself doing a lot recently. He thinks about you from the moment he leaves your house because of the undeniable call of his hunger, all the way to when he finally returns hours later. He’ll think about wishing he could stay around when your eyes start to droop and the mortal need for sleep takes you away, when you subconsciously curl into him searching for warmth that isn’t there. He hates having to move you off of him so he can go, so he can step out into the unforgiving darkness of night in search of a life to steal. You do make the cutest little noises though, something like a disgruntled cat’s. He’ll tuck you in real nice and kiss you sweetly to make sure you don’t miss him too much, and so he can seal the image in his memory to keep him motivated—a reminder of what he gets to come home to.

“You were gone for so long.” You say with a small pout, holding his face in your hands, his light stubble tickling your palms. The gold ring you wear glints in the darkness, a twin to his own.

He tilts his head so his lips connect with your hand, nuzzling into your touch that he always seems to crave. “Just got caught up with some things s’all.” He’d cut it close tonight, the sun appearing like a reckoning seconds after he’d shut the door. “I’m here now, darlin’.”

You smile at that, pulling him in again to kiss him, enjoying the taste of him. There’s always something metallic hiding beneath every bit of him, something too old for your mind to comprehend, something otherworldly. For most it would be unnerving and terrifying but for you, that’s just your husband, your Remmick. You’d accepted that when you agreed to marry him about three years ago, opening your arms and home to him and every unnatural part that came with him.

It was two years before that when you’d actually met him, the memory always sitting clear in your mind like it happened yesterday.

You’d spent the whole day baking—cookies, pies, cobblers, tarts… the list went on as you prepared for the market happening in town the next morning. You prided yourself on your baked goods, and people always bought you out. The whole house smelled of your efforts, the scent carrying out the open windows and into the trees beyond. You hadn’t heard it at first, the whispers in the leaves, the way all the animals went silent, the world seeming to hold its breath for just a moment. You’d been too busy singing a song you knew by heart as you were prone to do whenever working in the kitchen. (Remmick has told you countless times how much he adores your voice, he says it’s like a fine wine).

You were rotating the food left to cool on the windowsill when you saw him, standing out there by the tree line, watching you with eyes that at first gave you the willies. “Hey there,” you’d called, watching as he flinched at the sound of your voice, “what brings ya over?”

He’d taken a few curious steps towards the house, letting you get a better look at him. Worn button up loosely tucked into high waisted trousers, a white tank hidden beneath, suspenders over the shoulders, old boots, and a banjo slung across his back. He looked like a man who traveled often, never staying in one place long enough to learn the style of it. His face looked kind, set with strong features on stocky shoulders that suggested he was no stranger to hard work. His short black hair was messy but in a presentable way, curled bangs sitting on his forehead. Still, you knew there was something deeper about him that was off, that didn’t belong in your realm of living.

His hands were loosely in his pockets and he shrugged. “Smelled somethin’ mighty sweet, heard somethin’ even sweeter. You got a beautiful voice, darlin’.” He’d given you a close-lipped smile, one that made his eyes crinkle at the edges. His southern drawl was thick like syrup, coated across every word with something mixed in that you couldn’t quite place.

“Oh, I‘ve got years of church choir to thank for that.” You’d joked. You’d tilted your head. “Would you like to try anything, sir? I could always use a taste tester.”

He’d hesitated for a moment longer than would be normal, as if debating something serious in his mind, before shaking his head. He chuckled. “Nah, I’m tryin’ to cut back.”

“Aw, that’s a shame. If you change your mind, I’ll be at the market tomorrow. Feel free to stop by.” You’d said. He’d smiled back at you in a way that suggested he knew something you didn’t, told you that you wouldn’t be seeing him at the market or any day after that.

As soon as the sun went down though, he continued appearing in your backyard. He never stayed long at first, only sticking around to strike up a brief conversation. You’d learned his name, Remmick, and he had learned yours. Your name was always soft on his tongue, like he needed to be careful with something precious. He listened to you talk like you spoke the gospel, reverence in those blue-gray eyes as he never missed a word. In turn he would tell you stories of a time long ago, weaving vibrant imagery that made you feel as if you were standing in the green fields of a country far away. It confirmed things about him that you already suspected, like how he wasn’t from here at all, that he came from something hundreds or maybe even thousands of years old.

You’d sit on your little porch swing while he’d remain in the grass leaning against the railing, never truly breaching the line of your home. The night was warm and muggy, and there was a lull in your conversation, causing your gaze to travel to the banjo he continued to carry with him. “You any good on that thing?” You’d asked with a nod towards it.

Remmick huffed. “I like to think I am.”

You smirked. “Play me somethin’.”

He’d given you that signature smile. “Well, can’t deny a pretty thing like you, can I?”

He was always quick to flatter you, and you had to admit it was getting to you a little, something foreign fluttering in your chest. He’d swung the instrument around, resting it in deft hands and idly strumming a string or two as he thought about what to play. He’d then struck the first few chords and you quickly realized you recognized the song, it being one your family had shared together for years. You couldn’t help but sing along, shutting your eyes and letting yourself feel the music within as your body swayed. It meant that you missed the way Remmick looked at you, like you were heaven come to earth, adoration and reverence burning in his eyes like the hottest fire. That was the moment something clicked into place for him, that cemented his need to have you in whatever way he could.

He was downright obsessed with you. He couldn’t stay away from you and your sweet voice, your mouth watering smell, your entire being that seemed to be kissed by the sun. He knew he’d do anything to stay in your warmth, in your blessing. He kept coming by night after night, staying as long as his hunger allowed or until you couldn’t stop yawning and finally headed to bed with a sleepy goodnight. Part of him wished to follow you inside, thinking of how easy it’d be to take you in the carnal way he secretly desired, to lock you to him for eternity, but Remmick always held back, another part of him not wanting to ruin what you have. After all, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a civil conversation with someone that didn’t end with their blood smeared along his face. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been shown such simple kindness, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so human.

You didn’t know how much time passed like that, with easy talks and shared songs into the late hours when everybody else would be asleep. You always kept your physical distance, as did he, like some unspoken understanding. The emotional distance was another story, something that was shortening by the day. Feelings were blooming into something out of control, mixing with your desire in order to make a sickly concoction.

You both knew you were onto him, onto the fact he was something unnatural and ancient, but you never bothered to bring it up. You’d heard enough stories from your momma about things like him, you understood how dangerous they were but… you couldn’t find it in yourself to chase him off. You’d grown too fond of him, of his stupid smile and charming words, his endless stories and soothing voice. He felt much the same and yet… you were at some kind of mutual standstill, neither of you quite knowing what to do with it.

Until the one night he didn’t show up.

You’d waited. You’d sat on the porch with furrowed brows and downturned lips, disappointment sitting heavy behind your heart. Had he gotten bored of you? Decided to disappear without a word? You’d supposed it wasn’t a shock, it happened to you all the time. You gave him an hour before you sighed in defeat, heading back inside so the bugs didn’t eat you alive for nothing. You tried to ignore the hurt you felt, knowing it was useless to feel it over someone—something—like him. He didn’t owe you anything, hell, you were lucky he hadn’t killed you. Maybe it was some kind of sign. You’d gone to bed just as thunder rumbled outside, lightning flickering between the clouds.

You were woken hours later by a knock on your back door. You’d grumbled and wrapped a robe around yourself, trudging down the hall and to the kitchen, eyeing the silhouette hidden behind the mesh screen. There was something whispering to not open it, to protect yourself and just crawl right back into bed. You noticed the silence that had settled around your home, the one that made the frogs quiet and the crickets cease their songs, the one always followed by a familiar figure. You knew something was off, could feel it in your bones, but it didn’t stop you from opening that door.

You’d gasped so sharply that it hurt, your body stumbling back a step. Remmick stood there, blood covering his front half, his eyes gleaming a deep red that reflected in the same way an animal’s did. The whole way he carried himself was different, more predatory and deadly, poised to kill at a moments notice. His clothes were disshelved, his bangs plastered to his forehead from sweat. The wind carried the smell of him to you, ancient earth and leather tainted with the iron of blood. He opened his mouth and you saw the teeth sharpened to fangs, coated with his meal.

He smiled at you, and it was no longer one that made your heart flutter. It sent a cold shiver down your spine. “You gon’ let me in, darlin’? Or just keep starin’?”

He liked the way you looked at him then, like everything finally snapped into place for you. Mixed with your fear was a kind of defiance, like you were trying to tell yourself not to be frightened. He liked you seeing him for what he truly was, liked knowing you still wouldn’t cower. It’s what made you step aside and say those simple words, even though you knew your momma was surely rolling in her grave at your stupidity.

Something heavy shifted when he stepped inside your home. Something that told you it could never be undone and you’d have to bear the consequences, but you found that you didn’t care. “So that’s what you are,” you muttered, “a vampire.” You’d heard of them before from your momma, you knew how to kill one. You were pretty sure there was even some kind of emergency kit hidden in a closet somewhere.

Remmick chuckled low and dark, shaking his head. “You knew this whole time and you ain’t ever run or scream or cry…” He smirked, triumphant. “I knew you was somethin’ special, darlin’.”

He sat in a chair at your dining table like it belonged to him, his eyes traveling around your home as he swallowed down every bit of information he could glean about you. The floral designs on the dish cloths, portraits hung on the walls, keepsakes littering empty spaces, and a thick recipe book sitting on the counter—all of it a testament to you, the woman he didn’t stop thinking about night after night. Your scent was so heavy in your home it made it feel like he was breathing in a drug every time he inhaled and fuck- he couldn’t get enough. He wanted it to live inside him, he wanted you to make your home in his veins, in the space between his ribs. He wanted you with him forever.

He watched with a predator’s gaze as you filled a bowl with water, desperate to do something to keep yourself busy. It was brave of you to keep your back to him, but it was like you knew he wouldn’t do anything unless you asked. He’d get on his knees for you if you wanted, he’d beg just to hear his name fall from your lips.

You grabbed one of your pretty little dish rags, setting it and the bowl next to him while you sat in front of him, so close your knees almost touched. He could tell how much you were trying to hide your fear from your expression but he still saw it in your furrowed brows and pressed lips and your eyes that were just a bit too wide. “I’m scarin’ ya.” He said it like a fact, one without room for dispute. His fierce red irises bore into yours, seeing everything you wanted to hide. You went to protest, your trembling mouth opening before he shushed you. “Don’t lie. I can smell it.” It was potent and intoxicating, seeping from your pores and making drool threaten to fall down his chin.

“I ain’t scared of you.” You said with a false confidence. You dipped the rag into the warm water and suddenly grabbed his face in one hand as if to prove it, shocking the both of you with your boldness. Remmick visibly shuddered under your touch, his eyes fluttering briefly and a small noise coming from him, even as your fingers dug into the plush of his cheeks. Oh, how long he’d waited to feel your hands on him, the warmth of your humanity, the softness of your skin. He couldn’t believe he’d gone this long without it, without something that was clearly so vital to his very existence. He knew then he could never go another day without touching you.

“Don’t want you makin’ a mess in my house.” You muttered like an excuse, dragging the rag across his upper lip and moving down, taking the blood with it. He was more than willing to relax into your ministrations, letting you clean him as if he was a child. Nobody had ever done it for him before, after all. He watched you all the while—the crease between your brows, the determined curve of your mouth, studying every detail and committing it to memory.

“I ain’t a stranger to blood, you know. My daddy used to be a doctor.” You began after a good few minutes, talking to keep yourself distracted from the reality of your situation. Remmick didn’t mind of course, he loved your voice more than life itself. His attention immediately shifted towards the sound like a dog with its ears perked.

“Used to?” He’d asked.

“He died in the war. Momma went soon after, they basically said heartbreak caused her stroke n’ killed her.” Your head shook. “She really loved that man to death. Couldn’t blame her, he was the kindest soul you’d ever meet. Always helpin’ the poor and needy, bringing ‘em into the house to heal ‘em when they couldn’t afford their bills. He’d make me help sometimes, getting fresh water and whatnot. That’s why you ain’t nothin’ special.”

“How sweet of ya.” Remmick teased, his fangs showing with his uneven smile.

You’d ignored him, rubbing the cloth along his collarbones and across the gold chain he wore, clearly beginning to discolor from age. The water in the bowl had long since turned red, your dishrag officially ruined but it was the least of your concerns (and Remmick had gotten you a new one later on).

When you’d deemed him clean enough, you moved to get up and dump the bloody water before his large, cold hand latched onto your wrist, stopping you abruptly. It was like the tension was pulled taught as a bowstring at that moment, some small seedling of doubt in you saying he was about to kill you while he just stared at where your bodies were connected. It was slow and purposeful when Remmick brought your hand up to his mouth and ran his lips along your palm, breathing you in, tasting you with darts of his tongue. You felt the flush crawl up the back of your neck and across your cheeks, watching as he nuzzled into your hand, looking at you with those wide red eyes, every reminder of the last couple months together hanging there. Every shared story, every vulnerability, every song sung together.

“I need ya, sweet thing, shoot- I’ve needed ya since that first day. I’ll treat ya nice and good, I swear it on my dead heart.” Remmick said to you, his words thick, heavy, and gravelly with his desire. “You’ll never want for nothin’, darlin’, I’ll give ya everythin’, I promise. Please, baby, let me prove it to ya-“

He continued to kiss along your arm, so determined to show you the truth behind his words, to make you give in to him with murmured pleas and prayers. He relished in the taste of you, his breaths growing labored from his excitement. You stopped him with your hands on either side of his face to pull him back, his lips parted and shiny with spit, his eyes still glowing red but full of unbridled desire for you. You already knew your answer, had known it the whole time. You were so tired of being alone, so tired of searching for someone, anyone, to love you and understand you. You didn’t care that the only one who did was a monster in the body of a man—there was something about it that made it even sweeter.

So you’d agreed.

There was only a second of pause, like Remmick was processing it, those simple words that tilted his entire world, before he was on you. He kissed you with such ferocity, such possession, his hands roaming all over you, gripping you so tightly you had no choice but to submit to him. He’d swept you up with ease, carrying you into your bedroom where he’d fucked you stupid until the sun rose, pulling more orgasms from you than you thought possible, pinning you beneath his sweat soaked body and filling you again and again, whispering his thanks and devotions the entire time. You’d slept through the whole day after that with Remmick cradling you against his cooled body, encasing you in his arms like he was afraid you’d take it all back if he let go.

That was how you fell into the routine of your relationship. He’d spend the light hours tucked away inside the safety of your house while you went about your day, then he’d leave most nights in search of food before coming back hours later and fucking you senseless, exhilarated from both the hunt and seeing you again. Remmick made you feel more loved and protected than you ever had before, always saying praises and promises into your skin like a prayer you’d hear in church, always giving you everything he had to offer. He’d sometimes even bring you gifts after his hunts, little things he knew you’d like. Fresh berries he stole from a garden or farm, beautiful flowers to go right on the table, a book or two he was able to snag off somebody.

It went on like this for months, and then it became a year, then two, until Remmick couldn’t take it anymore and he decided he needed you in a way that was deeper than what he’d been indulging in. It didn’t mean you getting bit, no, not yet, it meant you got presented with a pretty gold ring that matched his own. He asked you to marry him on a warm summers night, when fireflies were dancing outside and the critters of the moon were singing their songs. You’d said yes without hesitation, flinging your arms around him and kissing him until you both ran out of breath. You’d spent the rest of the moon hours dancing and singing and making love, too full of joy to do much else.

It was the best way for Remmick to have you forever, for every other man to know you belonged to him. He knew that one day he would bite you, he would drain the life from your body, he’d taste the sweet nectar of your blood that he so craved, he’d make you just like him and truly keep you for eternity. But that day wasn’t coming anytime soon.

He refused to be greedy just this once, deciding he wasn’t ready to take away your love of sunny days and the warmth of your skin, the thrum of a pulse in your veins. He wasn’t ready to ruin the simple pleasures of being a human being. But he knew he could never stand to lose you to something as menial as old age, or stand by and let some tragedy befall you. Biting you is like his sick way of protecting you, of showing you his love and devotion, even if you don’t know it yet, even if it takes you time to understand. It’d happen no matter what, he knew, but he’d let you enjoy those bright days in ignorance a little while longer.

Remmick can smell it on you now, the hours you’d spent in the sun earlier today, selling your baked goods at the market. The coldness within his bones seeks out your heat, desperate to bask in it and take it for his own. You give him a pleased hum as he grips your waist, blankets being moved aside to reveal your body to him. You’re pliant in his hold, always eager to give in, always eager to let him take control. It’s nice when you can step outside of yourself and just be, something you’ve only been able to do with him.

You can tell that he’s softer this time, his touch more reverent, something about it full of more longing like he’s memorizing every bit of you. He holds you like a man making love to his wife, not a monster clutching his possession so nobody else takes it. His mouth on yours is sensual, a twin to the hands beneath your nightdress, steadily bunching the material up your body so the air kisses along your flesh and leaves goosebumps in its wake.

“Shit, darlin’, yer too perfect.” Remmick mutters, nearly breathless as he looks down at you, your supple curves, the expanse of your breasts and stomach that nearly has him drooling—not from hunger, but from pure want- no, pure need for you. Even after all this time, his attention still makes you squirm, your thighs squeezing together subconsciously. His eyes track the movement like a predator, the burning hue of red steadily consuming his irises once more.

One of his hands moves lower, parting your legs with ease and running his fingers along your clothed cunt. He hums to himself, feeling the way your wetness has dampened your underwear. “Missed me, huh?” He says, his crooked teeth showing in his smirk. He loves that all you can do is nod, a pathetic little noise coming from you. The scent of your arousal hits him like a truck, a guttural groan tearing from his chest as it seems to ignite his blood with desire. You smell so goddamn sweet, like the ripest fruit sitting ready for him to take and sink his teeth into.

Your underwear is moved aside and you jolt at that first contact, his fingers dragging up through your folds and collecting your slick. You whimper as he buries his face in the crook of your neck again, a deep groan coming from him with his inhale. As his thumb rolls your clit, his other hand comes up to knead a breast beneath his palm, the cold metal of his ring nipping at your skin. You can feel the way Remmick’s chest heaves against you, his desperate breaths fanning across your throat between his open-mouthed kisses.

You gasp when two fingers sink into your heat, your hands coming to scrabble at his shoulders. You always take him easily, your body attuned to him alone, like he’s branded into your very essence. It drives him crazy. “Fuck, Remmick-“ You whine, arching into his touch. He responds instantly to you saying his name; a harsher squeeze to your breast, a little show of his teeth against your neck, his hips rutting against you in search of friction. His name coming from you is like touching two wires together, sending sparks through his rotten veins. He’d happily walk into the sun as long as your voice is the last thing he hears.

You writhe under his weight, pleasure running like a wildfire beneath your skin. He devours every moan, whine, and gasp he pulls out of you, his erection painful in his pants from his lust and need. His fingers draw in and out of your cunt in smooth motions, pressing against the spots that have you keening, scissoring you open while your slick coats his palm. His thumb traces quick circles over your clit, listening to the way your body sings for him. He knows you’re close, your noises raising in pitch, your nails digging into his back, your pussy clenching around his fingers. 

“C’mon darlin’, give it to me.” Remmick encourages, lifting just enough to look at your face, your expression twisted with pleasure. Tears edging the corners of your eyes, your pretty mouth dropped open, your cheeks flushed. Your hands rest of either side of his jaw, drawing him in and kissing him deeply as your orgasm crashes over you. He groans appreciatively while you moan into his mouth, shudders wracking your body. He rides you through your orgasm, steadily bringing you down from that high as he practically engulfs you with his muscled form like he needs there to not be a singular inch of space between you. “My sweet girl.” He whispers against your mouth, a string of spit connecting you, his eyes ablaze with his desire.

As your underwear is tossed to some unknown corner, he fumbles with the buckle of his belt, shoving it aside to finally free his aching cock, precum beading at the tip. He runs his slick-covered hand along his length, happily coating himself in your release. He gives a sound halfway between a hum and a moan. “Fuck, darlin’, I need ya…” He practically gasps against your collarbones, his cock slipping between your folds, collecting the remainder of your cum. “Need ya so bad.”

You both moan in tandem when he at last thrusts into you, his hips flush to yours and filling you so completely in the way he’s done countless times before. His hand suddenly finds yours, your fingers intertwining and gripping on to the other so tightly it’s like you’re scared they’ll disappear if you let go. He draws out to the tip only to then slam back in, ecstasy simmering in his veins now that he can take you. He bites your skin between his blunt teeth, teasing that goldmine of ambrosia waiting just beneath, calling to him. He’s dreamt of the day he can finally drink from you, can finally have more than just the few drops that bubble to the surface from a cut or him biting too hard. He pushes those thoughts away now, not daring to tempt his appetite and instead focusing on the way your pussy holds onto him like a vice.

Your free hand comes up to card through his sweat-soaked hair, his short bangs plastered to his forehead. You grip at the strands for purchase as he sets an unrelenting, steady pace, his desperate pleas and vows to you a constant in your ear. You know for a fact no man’s ever loved you the way he does, no man’s ever been this desperate for you, so willing to get on his knees just for you to look at him. You welcomed him in, gave him something to hold on to and call his own, some place to belong—and he’ll spend the rest of his eternity showing you his gratitude.

You moan loud after a particularly harsh thrust, his grip on you tightening as he hits that sweet spot inside of you, the one that knocks the breath from your lungs and has you seeing stars. “So beautiful, sweet girl, y’sound so nice.” Remmick pants, his drool that’s begun to fall smearing along your skin. “Feel so good, so fuckin’ tight fer me.”

You practically chant his name mixed with a slew of curses, voice punctuated by his rutting into you. He has you pinned to the mattress, his muscles flexing against you with his efforts, making sure you stay right where he wants you. He licks up your neck, tasting the saltiness of your sweat, inhaling the drug that is your scent, heightened by your pleasure and mixed with something intoxicating. His groan falls off into a whine, mind overridden by his adoration for you and his lust, chasing the release he can feel building.

He knows it’s the same for you, he can feel your flutters around his cock, that knot within you growing to the point of soon coming undone. His free hand releases your hip to find your clit, rubbing jerky, uneven circles over the sensitive bud while you writhe in an attempt to get away from the overload of pleasure. Remmick never gives you the chance, your body tensing as that second orgasm crashes over you like an angry wave, your noises becoming broken and breathless.

Remmick’s eyes nearly roll back from the way your pussy grips his cock, his forehead falling to your chest as he tries to laugh and fails. “Shit, suckin’ me in. Fuck, sweet thing- I can’t-“ He manages one last thrust before he cums deep inside you, his words breaking off with a wail, your walls painted white with his spend.

You both lay there for a moment, motionless in the aftermath of release, combined sweat covering your bodies and your hands still locked together. You and him shudder when his cock slips out of you, your shared cum beginning to seep from you in his absence.

Remmick is the first to regain himself, as always, his lips leaving gentle kisses on the space between your breasts and up your throat and jaw before reaching your mouth. He kisses you sweetly, then pulling back to bring your hand to his lips, leaving a gentle kiss on your knuckles, on your wedding ring. “My perfect girl.” He murmurs. “So good to me.”

You smile tiredly, your arms slinging across his shoulders. “Could say the same to you.” You tease. You then sigh contentedly, bringing him in and encouraging him to lay on your chest. “I love you, Remmick, I hope you know that.”

Those three words, so simple and yet so damning, always make him stop. He has to run them over in his mind, like he doesn’t believe they can actually be said to a thing like him. His hold on your hips tightens, his face nuzzling into you as if to hide from that phrase. “‘Course I do. Love you too, darlin’.” He mumbles, the words still foreign on his old tongue. Your smile softens, your fingers running soothingly through his hair. You pull the covers back up around you both, encasing him in the warmth that he lacks.

Outside, you can hear the familiar early morning sounds of the South; the birds chirping, the bugs buzzing in their swarms, and the occasional car sputtering by. The world wakes up beyond your reinforced curtains, basking in the sunlight that Remmick so violently hides away from. He knows that in a few hours you’ll go out and join them, greeting your neighbors and sharing recent news, playing a game of normalcy so nobody asks too many questions about the husband they’ve never seen.

But for right now, he’ll enjoy being able to hold you and feel your body right against his, your steady heartbeat drumming in his ear as sleep pulls you away. He’ll enjoy having you all to himself in the safety of the dark before you step out into the daylight and leave him behind.

[boyfhee]

ㅤㅤ DEVOURㅤ﹑ㅤpark sunghoon

ㅤ ﹙158O﹚────sunghoon is hot and he doesn ’ t know it ｡⠀

𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗋⠀ 雨，⠀loser vampire bf sunghoon x fem readerㅤ゛AMOUR⠀，skinship, fluff, petnamesㅤ﹙◜ᴗ⁠◝⁠﹚ㅤsunghoon biceps meal yeah .. this is very self indulgent ><

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ REBLOG FOR SMOOCHES !

the eerie silence of the apartment doesn’t escape sunnghoon’s attention. his footsteps feel oddly loud against the tiles, a sigh rolling off his tongue as he steps inside the kitchen; and a familiar voice cuts through the quiet.

“i think you should choke me,”

nothing, absolutely nothing could have prepared your dear boyfriend for the words that leave your mouth as soon as he walks out of the shower.

with his head whipping towards you, he freezes in stance— jaw dropped, eyes wide open, head tilted in confusion.

“huh?” sunghoon gives you a questionable look, blinking him to some logic— anything to make sense of your words. “wouldn’t that be life threatening?”

and you shrug. “i could be into that,”

sunghoon doesn��t think he has met anyone like you in his seven hundred something years on earth.

his fangs amused you instead of scaring you the first time he told you he is a vampire. you went around for weeks wanting him to bite you— turn you— but he successfully talked you out of it.

now that you have found a trace of normalcy in the five weeks that you have been dating him, your mind finds amusement in his biceps.

“last time,” he pops a cherry in his mouth, shifting weight from one leg to the other. “you wanted me to headlock you,”

“and that was hot as hell,” you insist, eyes gleaming with mischief. if sunghoon didn’t know any better, he’d think you might have gone insane.

and you could be— evidently— the veins on his arms and hands do nothing except making you gulp, only onto that last string of sanity.

you don’t think your pretty face, vampire of a boyfriend realises just how hot he is, really.

he thinks it’s a plain obsession— well, one is supposed to be obsessed with their lover. he catches you ogling him when he’s changing the bulb and thinks it’s because you want something.

according to sunghoon, there is absolutely no reason for you to zone out while looking at his hands except that they are pretty, well maintained and manicured.

you also don’t think he knows you joined the same gym as him to watch him workout and not to accompany him in following a healthy lifestyle and improving your heart’s health. simply looking at him heals you enough.

even now, he is standing clueless about why your eyes have zoomed in on his biceps. sunghoon stretches his arm, unintentionally flexing his muscles and it drives you crazy. his sweats hang low on his hips and it’s a sight to see.

you need him and he can’t catch a hint.

“so is that a yes or no?” you make your way to the kitchen, standing behind him as he reaches out for the coffee mugs placed on the top shelf.

you wonder if he puts them there deliberately to tease you, giving you that taunting flash of a slip of his waistline as his shirt rides up when he raises his arm.

your boyfriend shakes his head with a sigh, clearly failing to understand the logic behind your request. “you’re weird,”

“just once,”

“no,” a curt reply.

you’re really testing his patience.

“c’mon, sunghoon, it’s—”

“darling,” and it’s quiet again, aside from your heartbeat echoing in your ears when he easily cages you against the counter, between the very arms that make you weak in the knees. “i am not doing anything that risks your life,”

stupid.

you want to tease, explain what you mean, but your words are lost. sunghoon is hot and his lack of self awareness is life threatening because he is standing close— so close, you can feel the scent of his cologne intoxicating your senses.

you can still see the remains of water on his neck, droplets making their way down his skin. his face is a little flushed from the hot shower while yours is from how hot he is making you feel.

sunghoon’s eyes trace your face up and down, almost setting your heart ablaze when you feel his gaze on your lips for a brief second.

“understood?” he mutters, low and quiet, tucking a finger under your chin to make you look at him, eye to eye, soul to soul.

and you can only gulp when he leans a little closer, pressing himself against you. “yes,”

“good girl,” and he’s gone, stepped back, focused on his coffee, once again unaware of how his actions have left you trippy and dazed.

it is quite infuriating because he does not do it knowingly. sunghoon barely tries and your world shifts a little, stomach flipping and chest fluttering.

unaware of your inner turmoil, he turns around and switches on the coffee machine.

your fingers trace over the edge of the counter mindlessly, mind in a trance half because of what happened, and half due to the sight of his muscular back.

another glance— a quiet step in his direction, lower lip tugged between your teeth and your arms snake around his torso from behind, a cheeky grin forming on your lips as you poke his biceps with your index finger. you’ve never been the one to give up. “can i bite?”

and sunghoon gives up, hands up in the air. “babe, i am the vampire in the relationship,”

[hatethysinner]

ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴇᴀʀʏ ʙʟᴜᴇꜱ

ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ x ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ!ꜰᴇᴍ!ʙᴏᴏᴋꜱᴇʟʟᴇʀ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: The bell over your bookshop door rings at midnight, and a stranger steps through. Tired eyes, old voice, and a hunger he tries to hide. He says little, but lingers like he's waiting for permission to need you. You should send him away, but something in you wants to see what he'll do if you don't.

ᴡᴄ: 12.8k

ᴀ/ᴄ: firstly, thank you so much to everyone who enjoyed and interacted with let the wrong one in! i am so proud and so disappointed to be posting this because it's so shameless. if the fbi showed up to my door i'd let them take me to whatever white padded room they had waiting. i was up past midnight multiple times writing this out and it shows. just a completely unhinged self-indulgent mess. do not read without a rose toy (/j). as always, white girls i promise you can have your fun with this too! i don't do taglists personally, so just follow me if you want to be updated when i post c:

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: SLOWburn, remmick is truly a fucking loser (pathetic!remmick supremacy), remmick will not leave the reader alone, reader is a know-it-all manipulative ass thought daughter, she's lowkey evil actually, don't read unless you support womens rights and wrongs, mutual yearning and obsession, vampirism, dacryphillia, overstimulation, blink-and-you'll-miss-it exhibitionism, sub!remmick, dom!reader, cunnilingus, p in v, ride 'em cowgirl, spit kink, praise kink, matching each other's freak, offscreen but confirmed stalking, excessive divider usage, probable excessive usage of "ain't" because i got worried about my accent skills, amateur knowledge of 1930s literature and bookstores, religious undertones if you squint, i think y'all know what to expect i'm not writing out everything

fanart!

You were one of the lucky ones.

That’s what folks said when they stepped through the little wood-framed door, brushing snow from their shoulders or sweat from their brows, depending on the season. They always paused in the entryway. Like the air was thicker inside. Warmer, gentler, laced with something that asked them to hush their voices and unshoulder their weariness. Most folks did. They’d glance around slow, wide-eyed and awestruck, like they’d just wandered into a place stitched together by warmth and paper. Because they had.

Your daddy built it like that.

He opened the shop before you were tall enough to reach the counter, when your shoes still lit up when you walked and your teeth were missing in the front. A modest space, more narrow than wide, with walls that sometimes whispered when the wind pressed in. It was tucked between a shoe repair, where the scent of leather and oil clung to the brick, and a bakery that changed hands too often to name. But the bookstore never changed. It stayed.

He fought for it with every drop of charm he had and a stubborn streak the size of a mule. The bank didn’t make it easy. Nor the city. Nor the neighbors. But he didn’t flinch. Just smiled, signed the lease, and started sanding old shelves he bought for cheap from a shut-down place across town.

It wasn’t grand, but it had room to breathe.

The shelves didn’t match. The floors creaked. The ceiling had water stains shaped like cloud spirits. But the space had rhythm. Light pooled in through the front windows in the early afternoon, catching the golden flecks in the pine wood counter he carved by hand. You watched him do it over the course of a summer. His shirt clinging to his back with sweat, sawdust settling in his hair like snow. That counter had curves in it, places smoothed by a thousand passing fingers, elbows leaned, coins slid, mugs thunked down in thought. It remembered everyone who ever stood there.

The aisles were just wide enough for two people to pass without brushing shoulders, if one of them turned slightly. In winter, the windows fogged from the warmth of breath and the hiss of the radiator under the front table. In summer, he cracked the front door and the back one just right so the breeze cut clean through, carrying with it the scent of magnolia and newsprint. When the light hit right, the dust in the air sparkled, like it was carrying secrets you could almost read if you squinted hard enough.

He dreamed of it since he was a boy, back when books came secondhand and beat-up, passed along like contraband. Borrowed if you were lucky. Bought if you were white. His eyes always got faraway when he talked about those days, like he was watching some other version of himself hiding from the world with a paperback gripped tight like a life vest.

“There’s magic,” he always said, tapping your chest lightly with one thick finger, “in knowin’ a story nobody else does.”

So he painted the sign himself and hung it crooked on purpose, because he said perfection made folks nervous. He sold trinkets and newspapers and penny candy at first, just to keep the lights on. He let local kids read in the back for hours so long as they didn’t dog-ear the pages. And when folks started to drift in off the street, curious, then charmed, he opened the door wider.

People noticed.

Not all approved.

But he smiled at the right times, kept his voice low when he had to, and stayed on his side of town like they told him to.

But inside those walls?

He was king.

You took it over after he passed.

Not because you wanted to. You hadn’t planned for that. You thought you’d leave, travel, study something big with a title hard to pronounce. But when he died, sudden, quiet, the way only the kindest men seem to go, it was like the shop exhaled. And no one was there to breathe it back in.

So you stayed.

Not because you had his gift for conversation. You didn’t. Your voice didn’t carry like his. You didn’t know how to make strangers feel like they’d known you all their lives. But you had his steadiness. His eyes. His love of ink.

And the shop had raised you.

You’d spent your childhood curled between the shelves with your knees pulled tight to your chest, the pages of books flaring open like wings in your lap. You used to fall asleep in the window nook under stacks of fairy tales, the glow of the streetlamp outside pooling on your shoulders. You learned to read by tracing the letters with your fingertip, mouthing the words like spells.

You grew up there. Quiet, clever, a little too serious for your age, and always full of questions. The kind of questions books were made for. You learned the world in chapters, one page at a time, growing taller alongside the stacks.

Even now, the shop holds you like a memory refusing to fade.

The floorboards creak the same way when you step heavy by the register. The bell above the door still dings off-key. There’s a worn spot in the paint where the heels of his boots used to rest, and you never painted over it. The walls know your heartbeat. The ceiling hums with it.

The place smells of paper, cedar, and something floral you still can’t place. Not perfume. Not fresh. More like dried petals tucked in a forgotten book. There are candles flickering low behind the counter, their flames soft and steady, casting halos of gold on the spines of the hardbacks lining the shelves.

Outside, the windows are tinted now. Reflective. You can see yourself in the glass, wrapped in lamplight like a ghost caught in the pane.

It’s not strange for you to be up this late.

You have a habit of rereading old favorites until the pages feel like skin. You like the quiet. The familiar shuffle of turning pages. The low creak of the chair under your legs. The steady tick of the clock in the corner, marking time nobody’s watching.

The radio went quiet an hour ago, the static fading to silence when the last gospel track drifted away. Now there’s only the sound of night outside. The rustle of trees, the distant hum of a train slicing through the dark, far beyond the city line.

But tonight, something feels off.

You don’t know why. Not yet.

But your candle’s flame flutters suddenly, like it’s caught a breath. Not a wind. A breath.

You look toward the door.

There’s no bell. No sound.

But the air feels... thick. Like it’s waiting.

You don’t move right away. You sit there with your thumb hovering over the page, caught between the lines of a sentence and the prickle on the back of your neck.

You don’t want to turn it.

Not yet.

Then the door creaked.

A sound so small it barely pulled your eyes from the page. Your heart didn’t jump. Not right away. It didn’t need to.

The bell rang just after. Clear, bright, and true. Same one you fixed the summer it snapped off in a storm so thick the trees bowed like they were praying.

So that bell was yours. It knew what time it was. It didn’t ring wrong.

That’s what made the sound feel off now. Just a shade too sharp, too clean, like a voice cutting into a dream you didn’t know you were having.

The sign still said “Come In.” Your fault. You’d meant to flip it hours ago but got lost in the pages, lulled by the rhythm of ink and stillness. Still, no one ever actually came this late. Not really. Not unless they were meant to be here.

You closed the book. Not slammed. Just firm. A quiet full stop.

And there he stood.

Tall. Pale.

A white man.

Out of place in every way that mattered.

He filled the doorway like he didn’t know whether he wanted to be let in or turned away. Light from the streetlamps slanted behind him, casting his face in half-shadow, like the world couldn’t decide how much of him to reveal.

You didn’t move.

Your fingers curled around the spine of the book, thumb against the front cover, the weight of it grounding. The silence stretched between you.

He just stood there, breathing slow like he didn’t want to startle anything. His eyes swept the room, not lazily, but searching. Hungry. And when they landed on you, they stayed.

His voice came quiet. Almost careful. “Evenin’.”

You stared.

“We’re closed.”

Your tone was even. Flat. Not rude. Not kind, either.

Still, he didn’t leave.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t move at all, not really. Just shifted the weight of his stare, like he was trying to remember a script. Like he’d played this scene in his head a dozen ways and still didn’t know which one this was. His smile was a flicker. Half-done. It twitched and died on his lips before it could mean anything. But under it, something desperate. Thin and frayed, like he was holding on to a thread he couldn’t name.

“Apologies,” he said with a shaky drawl, dipping his head toward the window, where the sign still swung faintly in the breeze. The porchlight caught the paint in the glass. “Saw the sign.”

You didn’t believe that for a second.

Nobody came here by accident. Not after midnight. Not across town lines like these. Everyone knew where they were supposed to be. Supposed to go.

He was tall, yes, but not in a way that meant anything. His frame was lean, his movements all hesitation and nerves. His coat didn’t fit right, like it had belonged to someone stronger once, someone he was still pretending to be.

You stood slowly.

The book stayed on the chair. Your skirt brushed the floor as you crossed barefoot to the counter, each step deliberate. No rush. No fear. Just weight.

You weren’t afraid of the man. You were afraid of what kind of story this was turning into.

He watched the whole way, his eyes flicking between your face and your hands, trying to read the space between your breaths. Like he expected you to call for someone. To yell. To throw something. To raise your voice.

You didn’t.

You let the silence answer.

“What can I do for you.”

No question mark. A line drawn in the sand.

He flinched, barely, but you saw it. Like a thread pulled too tight.

“I wasn’t tryin’ to cause any trouble,” he said, voice thinning out at the edges. “Just… seemed like a place a man might find a bit of quiet.”

You raised a brow, not moved.

“You always find quiet in closed shops?”

He scratched the back of his neck. A nervous tic, maybe. Or maybe it was just something to do with his hands, which kept twitching like they missed holding something heavier than a coat hem.

“Only the ones still lit up inside.”

He tried for a smile again. It trembled. Didn’t hold.

“Then I’d suggest you pass through quick,” you said. “I need to lock up.”

“Right,” he said, nodding too fast. “Of course. Sorry. I just-”

But he didn’t leave.

He stepped forward, just an inch, like something was pulling him. Then stopped himself and stalled in place, weight shifting foot to foot like the floor might open up if he stood still too long.

“I… don’t suppose you’ve got anything by Hughes?” he asked suddenly. Then, without pause, “Or Hurston?” His voice cracked a little on Hurston, like the name had caught on something inside his throat.

You blinked.

That was new.

You didn’t say anything right away. Just studied him.

A white man. Midnight. The wrong side of town. Asking for Langston Hughes and Zora Neale Hurston.

It didn’t make sense.

It didn’t fit.

Men like him didn’t read voices like theirs. Not unless they had something to prove. Or something to steal.

He met your stare but his hands betrayed him, fidgeting at his sides again, tugging at the seams of his coat like he could pull himself together if he just gripped hard enough.

“You from around here?”

He laughed. Short, sharp, like he didn’t mean it. “Not anymore.”

Then quieter, “Ain’t got much left to be from.”

That silence stretched again. Wider this time. You didn’t try to fill it. You let it grow heavy.

He looked down at the floor like it might offer him a script.

You should’ve told him again to leave. Should’ve flicked the light off and locked the door and gone back to your chair and the soft, safe pages waiting there.

But you didn’t.

You said, “Hughes is second shelf, left of the register. Zora’s in the back, top shelf”

You paused. Watched him.

“And they ain’t alphabetical. You’ll have to look.”

He blinked.

Lit up like you’d handed him something holy.

“Right. Thank you. I- thank you.”

He stepped into the shop like the floor might vanish beneath him. Light. Careful. Fingertips trailing along the spines of the books nearest him, like the wood might spark or whisper if he touched it wrong.

And you watched him the whole way.

You didn’t trust him. Not even a little.

But something about the way he stood there, asking for voices not his, trying not to tremble. Something about his need made you pause.

It intrigued you.

You tried not to listen.

Tried to stay still behind the counter, eyes fixed on the book you’d set aside, though your finger hadn’t moved past the corner of the page. You heard the soft drag of his coat brushing the shelves, the sound of someone trying to move quietly without knowing how. The occasional squeak of a shoe sole. The low shuffle of indecision.

Then his voice floated back.

“Sorry to bother, miss. You said left of the register?”

You closed your eyes.

He’d been in the aisle all of sixty seconds.

“Second shelf,” you called, sharper than you meant it. “You’ll know it when you see it.”

A pause.

“It’s just, uh… the labels are all faded.”

You exhaled through your nose. Not quite a sigh. Not quite not one.

You pushed off the counter and stepped out from behind it, your skirt catching the air as you moved. He was standing a little too close to the shelf, squinting at the bindings like the titles might blink first. His coat hung open now, revealing a loose button-down tucked half-heartedly into worn slacks, belt twisted like he’d dressed in a hurry. His hair was still damp at the edges from the relentless humidity outside. It made you wonder why he was wearing something so warm in the first place.

He looked up when he heard you.

Not just looked. Jumped.

Shoulders startled up an inch, like you’d crept up behind him with a switchblade instead of bare feet and a mild expression. His eyes flicked to your hands again. You noticed that. Clocked it.

“Ain't mean to pull ya from your reading,” he said quickly. “Just didn’t wanna grab the wrong thing.”

You said nothing.

You crouched low instead, running your fingers along the lower shelf until they stopped on the slim spine of The Weary Blues. You tugged it free, checked the inside cover, and stood.

Then you crossed past him, just enough to brush by the nervous way he lingered too close to the wood. At the back shelf, your hand found the worn copy of Their Eyes Were Watching God with the creased corners and sun-faded cover. You held both out to him.

He hesitated.

Not out of disrespect. Out of something else. Like touching them would make it real.

When his hand reached for them, it touched yours first.

Only for a second. Less than. But it landed like heat.

You watched his fingers twitch at the contact. Watched him pull back slightly, then steady himself like a man who’d stepped into unexpected water. His skin was cold, lonely. Like someone who hadn’t had cause to brush against kindness in a while.

You gave him the books anyway.

He took them with both hands, careful not to touch you again. His eyes met yours briefly. Then dropped.

That should’ve been it.

But something in the way he flinched, not in fear, but in startled awareness, left a strange twist in your stomach. Not danger. Not quite.

You narrowed your eyes at him. Watched how he shifted. How he clutched the books like they were lifelines. How still he got under your gaze.

And maybe you should’ve gone back to the counter. Maybe you should’ve left it there.

But you didn’t.

You leaned just slightly closer, voice low. Baiting.

“You always get jumpy when someone tries to help you?”

He looked up again, tongue wetting his bottom lip like he was about to speak, then thought better of it. Instead, he nodded, too fast, like agreeing might save him from saying the wrong thing.

And that, that, made you want to keep going.

Just to see what else he’d do.

You led him back to the front in silence.

He didn’t try to fill it this time. Just followed, books clutched against his chest like they might steady his breath. You could feel his gaze brush the curve of your shoulder, your hands, the soft glow of the lamps pooling on the floorboards.

You stepped behind the counter, but didn't fill the space.

You stayed close. Leaning forward in a way that was probably too obvious.

The register clicked open with a metallic sigh. Your fingers moved slow over the worn buttons, each press deliberate. He laid the books down gently, almost mechanically, their spines aligning like he'd meant to do it. Like he’d practiced.

The light caught his face now, full on.

He looked younger in the shadows. But here, beneath the gold of your lamp, he was something else entirely.

His face was long and wide, covered in stubble that somehow looked neat and unkempt at the same time. Hollowed cheeks. A narrow nose that sloped like it had been broken once and never quite healed right. His mouth was set in a line that kept trying not to tremble. But his eyes...

They were wrong.

Not in a way you could name, not in any way you’d heard told, but wrong just the same. Too dark, too deep. And old. Old. You didn’t know how you knew it, but it pulled at the back of your neck. Some instinct deeper than language whispering that those weren’t eyes meant for a man that looked barely thirty.

Then there were his teeth.

You saw them when he smiled, faint and soft, like he didn’t mean for it to happen. A little too sharp. Animalistic, almost. Pointed just enough to make you question how close you wanted to stand.

And still, you didn’t move away.

“That’ll be four even,” you said, and held out your hand.

He blinked. Fumbled in his pockets. Fingers pulling out a crumpled bill like he hadn’t checked how much he had. When he offered it, your hand met his again, and this time you didn’t let go too quick.

Your touch lingered.

Not an accident.

Your fingers brushed his palm, smooth and dry and colder than before. You watched his throat shift like he’d swallowed something wrong. The money crinkled between you, forgotten.

You dropped it in the drawer without looking down.

Counted back the change slow. One coin at a time. Let your fingertips ghost over his as you pressed each one into his hand, watched how he tried not to flinch, not to twitch, not to breathe too fast.

There was something in his mouth now. A hitch. A tension.

You tilted your head.

His accent. It hadn’t struck you before. Too quiet. But now, with him this close, you could hear the undercurrents. Southern, yes. That lazy hush to his vowels, that slant that curled around the ends of his words like smoke. But buried beneath it was something else.

Not from here.

A roll that didn’t come from any county near yours. A roundness to the vowels that didn’t quite match the cadence of Mississippi. It had weight to it. History. Like old hills and cold winters. European, maybe. English, Scottish, Irish? Or something older still.

But the twang was real, too. Earnest. Like he’d worn it long enough to convince even himself.

You watched him shift under your gaze, trying to shrink inside that too-big coat.

“What’s your name?” you asked.

Simple.

But your voice dropped half a note, low and steady like it was loaded.

His eyes flicked up again. Held yours.

“Remmick, miss.”

Just that. No last name. With an unusual politeness in tow.

You didn’t smile. Nor did you give your name. You wanted him to work for that.

“Right,” you said. “Remmick.”

He shifted the books under one arm, his free hand ghosting over the edge of the counter like he wanted to say more, ask more, be more, but didn’t dare.

“Well… good evenin' to ya,” he said softly. The words caught at the edges, like they didn’t quite belong in his mouth.

You didn’t answer at first. Just watched him take a step back, then another, boots creaking against the old wood floor.

Then, finally, you raised your hand.

Not a wave, exactly. Just a slow lift of your fingers in something halfway between farewell and warning.

He seemed to understand.

The bell over the door chimed once as he slipped through, swallowed by the dark.

You didn’t move.

Not until the sound of his footsteps vanished completely.

The next night came heavy with quiet. Midnight again. And you were sitting in the same chair, same blanket folded over your knees, same book splayed in your lap. Different pages, but you hadn’t turned one in ten minutes.

The lamp cast its familiar pool of amber over the counter, the window, the shelves. Everything was still. Too still.

You hadn’t flipped the sign.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That it was habit, that your mind had simply been elsewhere. The story had you hooked, maybe. Maybe you were chasing some lost line between chapters, maybe that’s why you kept glancing at the door without realizing it.

The “Come In” flickered faintly in the glass, reversed in the dark like a whisper only the street could read.

You licked your thumb, turned the page. Tried to focus on the words. You didn’t remember them, even though you read them yesterday. Or maybe it was last week. Or maybe it didn’t matter at all.

It wasn’t like you were waiting.

You just hadn’t gone to bed yet.

You shifted. Crossed your legs under the blanket. Then uncrossed them. Stared at the “Come In” again. Just a sign. Just a little slanted piece of painted wood that always tilted left because the hinge was loose and you never bothered to fix it.

The wind slipped through a crack in the front window. Barely there, just enough to nudge the edge of the lace curtain and carry in a scent from the dark. Not smoke, not rain, something earthbound. Loamy. Cold.

You turned another page. Didn’t read a word.

Your candle’s flame danced sharp again, almost gleeful. You rubbed your thumb over your palm without thinking, the way you did when something was close. Some old habit from childhood, back when your parents told you to trust your instincts, even when they made no sense.

The bell rang.

Not loud. Not rushed. Just a single chime, clear as a knock to the chest.

He stepped through like he’d been summoned.

No coat this time. His shirt was pressed, collar sharp. Sleeves rolled just past the wrists in that careful way that said he’d redone them three, maybe four times. His hair was a little less wild, tamed with pomade and willpower. His boots were clean. Like he’d stood outside brushing dust from them just to make a better second impression.

And yet, nothing about him looked natural. Not the tidiness. Not the polish. He wore it like a child wore Sunday shoes. Tight across the toes, heavy on the ankles, stiff enough to slow him down.

His eyes, still dark, still glinting, scanned the room like he already knew you’d be there. They landed on you. Lingered. Not just in greeting, not just in recognition, but in reverence. Like he was taking inventory of you. The slope of your nose, the fullness of your lips, the tight, coiled crown of your hair haloed in the light. Like he was memorizing every feature he'd never had the right to admire this openly before.

And when they did, he smiled. A small, practiced thing. One that almost reached his eyes.

Like he was proud of himself for coming back.

And like some shameful, stubborn part of you was glad he had.

“Evenin’.”

Same greeting, but not quite the same voice. Still quiet, still that drawl sugar-coated in something older, something foreign, but this time with the faintest edge of self-assurance. Like he’d practiced it on the way over. Maybe even out loud. Like he hoped it’d sound natural if he said it just right.

You didn’t answer.

Not with words.

You rose instead, slow and smooth, letting the silence stretch as you crossed the shop in bare feet. Your skirt brushed the floor again, soft as a whisper, trailing you like smoke.

He stood straighter when you neared. Or tried to. You watched the twitch in his shoulder when your fingers reached toward him, the way his breath caught behind his ribs. The little gold chain around his neck winked against his shirtfront, barely there, nearly hidden beneath the buttons.

You reached for it without asking.

“It’s crooked,” you murmured.

It wasn’t.

Your thumb grazed the thin line of metal, adjusting it ever so slightly, letting your knuckles drift down the hollow of his chest. Just enough to feel the warmth beneath the cloth. Just enough to make sure he noticed.

He noticed.

Froze like someone struck dumb. Not like he didn’t want the touch. No, not that. Definitely not that. But like he didn’t know what to do with it. His lips parted on a soundless breath, his eyes locked somewhere over your shoulder like he was staring down a spectre only he could see.

The pulse under your fingers thudded once. Hard. Then again, faster.

You watched it.

You leaned in, just slightly, letting your hand linger longer than it needed to. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. But you could feel the tension ripple through him. Tight. Brittle. Wired.

When you finally let go, he exhaled like he’d been holding air since last night.

“There,” you said softly. “Better.”

He didn’t answer right away. His throat moved as he swallowed, mouth opening like he might say something, then closing again when nothing came. His eyes met yours, flicked down to your mouth, then jerked back up with a flicker of something like guilt.

It was a touch.

That’s all it was.

But the way he looked at you now...

It had unmade him.

You let the silence sit for a beat longer, watching how he stood there like he didn’t dare take a full breath without permission. Then you spoke, softly, like an idea you hadn’t quite finished shaping.

“I’ve got a thought,” you said, turning back toward the shelves. “Wait here.”

But you didn’t mean that.

Because you paused, half-turned, eyes sliding back to him, that little hook in your voice coiled just so, and added, “Actually… no. Come with me.”

He obeyed without hesitation.

No question, no protest. Just a nod, and then his steps fell in behind yours like they were always meant to. You didn’t look back to see if he was following. You already knew he was.

You smirked before you even realized you were doing it.

He’s learning.

The rows of shelves narrowed the deeper you went, books stacked tall and mismatched. Some still had penciled notes in the margins. Others bore names and stamps from a dozen different hands. You moved with practiced ease, fingers gliding along the spines, then stopped sharp in front of a little patch of well-loved paperbacks with sun-faded covers and creased corners.

You didn’t say a word. Just stepped aside and gestured.

His brow knit faintly. Then he reached out, tentative at first, letting his fingertips hover above the titles before settling on one with a cracked pink spine and a watercolor couple leaning too close beneath an umbrella.

You raised your brows but didn’t speak.

Interesting.

He held it up like he was asking permission.

You nodded. “Good. Take that. Go sit by the window.”

Again, no hesitation.

He moved, soft steps, book clutched in his hand like it might disappear if he wasn’t careful. He didn’t glance back once as he settled into the reading nook. A curved wooden bench carved into the front window’s alcove, piled with cushions in muted tones, threadbare but clean.

The light from the lamp behind the counter cast the glass in warm gold, bouncing off his hair and skin in a way that made him look more real than he had last night. Less ghost. More man.

You watched him a moment longer, then followed.

Your feet made no sound on the floorboards. You crossed the space and sank onto the bench beside him. Not too close, but not far. Not far at all. The cushions dipped with your weight, the fabric between you folding with tension that hadn’t been there seconds ago.

He sat stiffly, book unopened in his lap, hands folded atop it. Like he didn’t quite know what to do now that he was here. Like he was waiting for something. Or someone.

You.

Your gaze lingered on the side of his face.

The light revealed the fine things. His lashes, full and surprisingly long. The faint lines around his mouth that didn’t come from smiling, but from pressing his lips together too tight for too many years. His skin was fair in a way that didn’t come from the sun but from time, the kind of pallor that hinted at long shadows and colder places. Places you couldn’t name.

His hair had been combed, too. Not just finger-swept like last time, but deliberately styled, though it curled stubborn at the ends like it wanted to fight back. That little gold chain still gleamed at his throat, straighter this time. Not crooked, like you convinced yourself it was.

Still, he hadn’t changed enough to fool you.

Not with those eyes.

Ancient, heavy, and out of place in a face that didn’t look old enough to carry them. They flicked toward you briefly, then darted back to the book in his lap, as if afraid to hold your gaze too long.

“You gonna read it?” you asked, tone soft but edged with amusement.

He blinked like he’d forgotten that was the point.

“Right,” he said quickly. “Yes ma'am.”

You watched him flip it open with care, thumbs brushing the pages like they might bruise. The moment hung quiet, thick with unsaid things and the scent of paper and dusk. His breath was steady but shallow, as if he were still adjusting to the shape of this closeness.

You didn’t move.

You didn’t speak.

You just leaned back into the cushions, eyes on him, letting him pretend he was focused on the words.

When both of you knew damn well he wasn’t.

It was the way he held the book that told you first. Not the usual adulation you got from the diehards who lived and breathed these novels. No, this was different. His hands didn’t cradle it like treasure. They held it like a bomb. Like one wrong shift in pressure might set the whole thing off and scatter the pieces between you.

His thumbs rested too gently on the pages, barely pressing enough to keep them open. Like he was worried his fingerprints might offend the paper. As if the book itself might recognize him as an intruder. He wasn’t turning pages so much as he was coaxing them along, seemingly afraid they’d snap if he asked too much.

He read strangely.

Slow.

Stilted.

Each word passed through his lips like it needed permission. Like it carried weight. His lips parted with the occasional word, mouthed in silence, and then closed again just as quickly, like he hadn’t meant to let them slip. There was something priestly about it. Ritualistic. A prayer offered in secret.

His eyes, those impossibly ancient eyes, scanned line after line not with hunger but with hesitation. A wary sort of awe. Like he hadn’t held a romance novel in centuries. As if the softness written into the pages was a dialect he’d nearly forgotten how to understand.

And every time you moved, even just a flicker of a shift, a breath caught a second longer than usual, he looked up.

Not startled. Not afraid.

Attentive.

You scratched your cheek, his head lifted.

You smoothed your skirt, his eyes snapped upward.

You uncrossed your legs, then crossed them again, he swallowed, too loudly.

At first, you thought he was just skittish. Just someone not used to sitting this close. But then the rhythm set in.

He matched you.

Without realizing it.

Without even trying.

You leaned back in your seat, slowly. Felt the cushion press against your spine.

A second later, he leaned back. One beat behind you, stiff at first, then settling.

You tilted your head, absently, the way you always did when thinking.

He mirrored it. Not perfectly, but close enough to notice.

You shifted your breathing, let it slow. Long inhale through your nose. Shorter exhale.

So did he.

So precisely that it didn’t feel like coincidence.

It felt like mimicry.

Like you were the song, and he was trying to follow along without missing a note.

You frowned slightly, gaze narrowing. Maybe you were imagining it. Maybe you were reading too much into the silence, into the soft rhythm shared between bodies in the same room.

So you changed it.

Inhaled twice quick, then held the third.

Exhaled through pursed lips like you were cooling tea.

He matched it. Exactly. No hesitation. No thought.

Your pulse gave a slow thump. Not fear. Not quite delight.

You did it again, even stranger this time. Shallow breaths, uneven tempo, a stutter at the end.

He copied it like he’d been waiting for instruction.

Not a second too soon, not a second too late.

Not even pretending he wasn’t. As if he couldn't fake it if he tried.

It was eerie.

Unnerving.

You’d had admirers before. You’d had men try to get close. Men with charm and swagger, who leaned too close too fast, who spoke in low voices like they were offering you a secret. Men who wanted something.

But Remmick didn’t want.

He ached.

He ached to stay.

To keep.

To not mess it up.

It wasn’t that he feared you.

It was that he feared what being with you might require of him.

He feared being found unworthy.

And something in you, something cold and clever and mean, maybe, was curious enough to let it keep going.

You watched his knuckles flex where they held the spine. Watched his breath stutter when you shifted forward ever so slightly. Watched his gaze flick to your lips before darting away, embarrassed.

There was devotion in the way he sat.

There was hunger too, yes, but buried under layers of control so tight they might as well have been prison bars.

He wasn’t scared of you.

He was scared of doing anything that might make you not want him here anymore.

He was scared of disappointing you. Of offending you. Of being sent away.

Like he’d never had the chance to be with a woman like this. Not just someone beautiful, Not just someone sharp, but someone who saw him and hadn’t yet told him to go.

Someone who let him sit.

Let him read.

Let him exist.

You leaned back, let your fingers curl loosely around the edges of the cushions. Not looking at him this time. Just listening.

His breathing matched yours again.

You heard it.

Felt it.

Let it echo in your ribcage like a second heartbeat.

He hadn’t read more than five pages. Probably hadn’t retained a single one. But he was trying. Oh, he was trying.

Trying not to ruin the moment.

Trying not to ruin you.

Trying not to ruin himself.

And you watched it all. Watched him struggle to be small, to be quiet, to be acceptable, and something in your chest twisted. Not out of pity. Not even out of care.

Just fascination.

You wanted to see how far this would go.

How far he’d go.

And more than anything, you wanted to see if he could keep it up.

He hadn’t turned a page in three minutes.

You timed it without meaning to. Just sat there, letting your own gaze blur against the shape of his fingers still resting on the edge of the paper, and noted how still they’d gone. How he stared not at the next sentence, but straight through it. Breathing shallow. Body gone tense in the shoulders, like he was bracing.

Then he blinked. Once. Twice.

“Ya always light the window candles,” he said softly, not looking up.

The words were nothing at first. Just air. Noise.

But your stomach still curled.

You didn’t respond right away. Didn’t move. Just let the silence soak it in.

“Every night,” he added, quieter now. “Right ‘round eleven. Even if ya ain’t got customers.”

Still, you said nothing.

He turned another page, finally, but you watched his eyes. They didn’t scan. They didn’t read.

“You notice that just now?” you asked calmly.

He hesitated.

You leaned forward, hands steepled under your chin. “Or’ve you been noticin’ for a while?”

His lips parted. Closed. He looked over at you now. The air between you suddenly sharper.

“I-” he started, then tried to smile. “It’s just… somethin’ I seen. That’s all.”

You cocked your head. “From where?”

He faltered.

“That little inn down the road don’t got a view of this side.”

He tried to laugh, but it came out cracked. “I walk at night. Helps me think.”

“Does it?”

He nodded too fast. “Y-yeah. Sometimes I pass by. That’s all.”

You didn’t blink. Didn’t smile.

“Funny. You said yesterday you just stumbled in here.”

His jaw twitched.

A beat passed. You let it stretch like taffy, long and slow, until it thinned to almost nothing.

“I... did,” he said eventually, voice paper-thin. “Didn’t plan to come in that night. But I-I'd seen the place before. So I guess it felt familiar.”

“Familiar.”

“Mhm.”

“You been watchin’ me?”

His whole frame stiffened. A flicker of shame, or panic, or both, ghosted across his face. But it wasn’t the embarrassment of being caught in a lie. It was older than that. Worn. Like being cornered in a truth he thought he could keep buried.

His mouth opened, but no words came out.

You shifted in your seat, leaned in just slightly.

He didn’t move away.

“You been starin’ at my windows from across the street, Remmick?” you asked softly. “That it?”

He flinched. Not from your tone, which stayed silky smooth, but from the shape of your words. The accuracy of them.

“I ain’t mean no harm,” he whispered. “It weren’t… like that.”

You gave him a long, thoughtful look. “Then tell me how it was.”

His eyes dropped to his hands. You could see the effort it took not to wring them.

“I just… I saw ya. Few nights in a row. Sometimes through the window, sometimes outside closin’ up. You’d have your book in one hand, your keys in the other. Didn’t even know your name. Just-”

His throat moved as he swallowed.

“Ya looked steady,” he said. “A place that don’t change. Like you’d always be here if I needed to come back.”

That should’ve sounded sweet.

But it didn’t.

It sounded like a confession. A possession waiting to take root.

And for reasons you weren’t yet ready to name, you didn’t shut it down.

Didn’t throw him out.

Didn’t call it wrong.

Instead, you asked, poised and deliberate...

“How long you been watchin’, Remmick?”

He looked like you’d just asked him to open his ribs and let you see inside.

But you didn’t repeat the question.

You didn’t need to.

The pause spoke louder than anything he could’ve said.

Then, finally, his lips parted. “Few months.”

Your brow twitched, just slightly. Enough for him to see it.

“I-I ain't mean to,” he said quickly, eyes wide, hands lifted like he was surrendering. “I just- I saw you one night and then… it was easy to keep passin’ by.”

You leaned back slow, fingers dragging along the wood between you.

“You been lurkin’ outside my shop for months?”

His face crumpled like the word hurt. Lurkin’.

“I wasn’t-” He stopped. Started again. “I wasn’t tryna frighten you. Weren’t like that. I ain't know how to come in. Ain't think I should. Thought maybe if I stayed far enough back, you wouldn’t see me.”

“I didn’t.”

He winced.

You could’ve pushed. Could’ve watched him stammer his way deeper into the hole he’d already dug with his own too-honest mouth.

But you didn’t. Not yet.

You tilted your head, voice softer now. “So why now?”

His mouth opened. No sound came. Then...

“I got tired of bein’ scared.”

You stilled.

He didn’t look up. Just stared at the woodgrain of the table, like it might open up and swallow him if he wished hard enough.

“I been scared so long, I don’t know how not to be. But I kept watchin’, and you kept bein’ here. Kept leavin’ that light on. And I thought… maybe that meant somethin’.”

He finally looked at you.

And the way he looked at you, like you were the last fire in a dead city, made your breath catch.

He wasn’t lying.

And that was the strangest part.

You were used to men who talked. Who wrapped their hunger in charm, or cleverness, or teeth. But Remmick… he was bare. He didn’t even try to be anything else.

“You think I leave that light on for you?”

“No.” He shook his head, fast. “I- no. I ain't mean that. Just that… I hoped it meant I was allowed to come in.”

That did something to your chest you didn’t expect.

And suddenly, you didn’t want him to look at the table.

You wanted him to keep looking at you.

Only at you.

You leaned forward again, chin resting in your palm. “Well. You’re in now.”

He blinked. Almost like he didn’t believe it.

“Don’t mess it up,” you added, slow and sweet.

And Lord help you, he nodded like it was a commandment.

You watched his eyes. Watched how they clung to you like a lifeline, like the mere sight of your face was the only thing anchoring him to the moment. You could see it, plain as anything. The panic winding tighter beneath his skin, the quiet horror that he’d said too much. And maybe he had. Maybe he hadn’t said enough.

And then you smiled.

Not warm. Not cruel. Just knowing.

“Well,” you said, slow as molasses, “that still makes you a liar, don’t it?”

His shoulders tensed.

“I ain’t-”

You raised a hand.

He stopped.

“Watchin’ me for months and pretendin' you just stumbled in? That’s dishonesty, Remmick.”

His mouth opened again, then shut.

He looked like he wanted to explain. Wanted to pour out the right words, dig his way out of the pit he’d slipped into. But the silence between you left no room for excuses. And you didn’t fill it for him. You just stood, smooth and sure, brushing imaginary dust from your skirt like you were done with the whole performance.

The way his breath hitched…

You almost felt bad.

Almost.

His voice cracked, desperate before he could tuck it down. “I ain't mean no harm. I swear it.”

You walked to the door.

Unlatched it.

The bell above gave a soft jingle as you pushed it wide, letting the warm night air curl inside like smoke. The light spilled out into the dark, carving a golden archway he didn’t dare cross.

“You can go now.”

He flinched like you’d slapped him.

“I- what?” He stood too fast, nearly knocked himself over. “I ain't mean nothin’ bad. I just- don’t send me off like that. Please.”

You turned, hand still on the doorknob, gaze calm.

His breath was coming faster now, eyes darting like he was trying to find the version of you that wouldn’t be doing this. “I’ll sit quiet, won’t say a word. You won’t even know I’m here. Just don’t make me go.”

He took a step forward.

You didn’t move.

“Please,” he said again, voice ragged now. “Please don’t make me leave you.”

Leave you.

Not the shop. You.

And wasn’t that just the most pathetic thing you’d ever heard.

You tilted your head, quiet.

“I said you could go,” you repeated, soft this time.

That made him stumble.

But not back.

Forward.

Toward you.

But not close enough to touch.

Just close enough to be seen.

And you let him sit in it. That want. That begging.

The humiliation of it.

You could see how tightly his hands were balled at his sides. How his throat bobbed with every failed swallow. How badly he wanted to collapse to his knees and sob at your feet.

“You can come back tomorrow,” you said lightly. “If you behave.”

He swallowed so hard you heard it. Loud in the hush of the room.

Then he nodded.

Not like a man, but like a child handed a punishment he knew he deserved.

He didn’t say anything at first.

Didn’t move.

You gave him time.

Let him make the choice.

And when he did, it was with slow, aching reluctance. Every step backward like a string snapping off of him one by one.

“Evenin’, Remmick,” you said, voice sugar-sweet now, hand still resting on the open door.

He stood there a moment longer. Still. Wrung out.

Then, quietly: “G’night, ma’am.”

You didn’t answer.

You just watched him go.

Watched the dark swallow him.

And made no move to close the door until long after his shadow disappeared.

You knew he’d come back.

There was no need to check the sign. No reason to glance toward the door, or listen for the bell. You didn’t need to do anything at all. The air had already shifted, thickened with the weight of what was inevitable.

You were curled into your chair like you’d been there all night, though you hadn’t been able to concentrate for more than five minutes at a time. You told yourself it was the book. It was always the book. But your eyes traced the same paragraph for the third time, and your fingers tightened just slightly at the edges of the page.

Still, you didn’t look up.

You wouldn’t.

The clock ticked. Somewhere, a train whistled. The candlelight wavered once, then stilled.

And then you heard it.

The bell.

Soft. Perfect. Like a cue whispered by the world itself. The clock chimed midnight.

You didn’t lift your gaze, but you heard him. Felt him. The uneven shuffle of his steps. The small hitch in his breath.

He was back.

You turned the page.

The scent hit you first. Not bad. Just weary. Tired. Like sleep had refused him all night, and he’d wandered instead. Rain-damp clothes. Paper. Something earthy, mineral-like, maybe even metallic. Like he hadn’t meant to be anywhere but had found himself out in the wild with only his thoughts for warmth.

He didn’t speak at first. Didn’t dare.

The sound of the door shut behind him.

“I been good,” he blurted out.

Your lips twitched before you could stop them.

Still, your eyes didn’t leave the book.

“Real good,” he continued, voice cracking slightly with the rush of words. “Ain’t even come near the shop. Walked past it, but that don’t count. That’s just the sidewalk, right? Just pavement. I didn’t linger. Ain’t even look in the window. Well, I peeked, but only ‘cause I missed the smell of it. Missed you.”

That earned a slow blink from you.

He stepped further inside. His boots dragged slightly on the floor like they were too heavy to lift. Like his shame lived in his heels.

“I sat still all morning,” he said. “Didn’t wander, didn’t do nothin’. I thought ‘bout what you said. Over and over. Thought about why it was wrong. What I did. Even wrote it out. I did. Wrote it out.”

You closed the book softly.

Still, you didn’t rise.

Remmick stood in front of you now.

And good Lord, he looked a mess.

His shirt was wrinkled at the collar, sleeves rolled and uneven. His hair had a wild, raked-through look like he’d been dragging his fingers through it for hours. The shadow beneath his eyes was sharp, and the line of his jaw was clenched in barely-held desperation. Not even his chain looked presentable. He didn’t smell unclean, but there was a wildness to him now. Like if you stood too close, you’d hear the hum of his blood vibrating beneath his skin, frantic and restless.

“I didn’t lie, not really,” he said. “Just… held it. In. ‘Cause I didn’t wanna scare you off. Ain’t had someone like you before. Not in a long time. Maybe not ever.”

His accent pulled at the words, thinner now, stretched tight with pleading. That strange, syrupy Southern lilt gave way to something raw beneath. Sharper, guttural, not quite human in the way it frayed at the ends. It slipped, like his mask was crumbling, revealing a voice that hadn’t begged in centuries. Not just a borrowed twang anymore, but a whisper of whatever place had taught him that hunger in the first place.

You finally looked up.

He froze.

Then, slowly, like the world trembled beneath him, he knelt.

He didn’t say another word. Just lowered himself to the floor like it was natural. Like the hardwood was the only place he deserved to be.

Your legs were crossed, the hem of your skirt brushing his boots. He didn’t touch you, not yet. Just sat with his hands in his lap, chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths.

You studied him.

He tried not to move under your gaze. Failed.

You tilted your head slightly.

He flinched.

“I ain’t sleep,” he admitted. “Couldn’t. Just kept seein’ your face. Thinkin’ of how soft your hands were. How still your voice is. You’re not like other folk. You look right through me, and it-”

He broke off, jaw flexing.

“I want to do right,” he said, softer. “Tell me how. Please. I’ll listen. I’m yours.”

You leaned forward.

He didn’t dare meet your eyes, not at first. Not until your fingers brushed the side of his face.

His head snapped up slightly.

You cradled his cheek in your palm, watching as he leaned into the touch. Like the heat of your skin might be the first kindness he’d felt in years.

He was trembling.

Not from fear.

From want.

His eyes closed, lashes fluttering like moth wings. You stroked your thumb along his cheekbone. Cooler than expected, but not cold. Never cold. Not with you.

His hands rose without thinking, resting on your legs. Then his shoulders followed, and soon, most of his weight was against you, folding like a supplicant at an altar.

You didn’t stop him.

Didn’t move.

Let him rest there.

Let him need.

Because that’s what this was. Not desire, not lust.

Need.

He was breathing in sync with you again, like your rhythm had become his only truth.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t need to.

His mouth moved against your knee.

Not in a kiss.

Not yet.

Just a whisper.

A plea.

You cupped the other side of his face, anchoring him.

He let out a sound. Quiet, fractured, grateful.

And stayed right there.

The weight of him on your legs wasn’t light. But it wasn’t heavy, either. It felt like gravity doing what it was always meant to. Like he had been built to collapse right here, in the hollows of your thighs, the shape of him fitted to the shape of your waiting.

You ran your thumb along the corner of his mouth, picking up a string of saliva along the way. Drool, thick and abundant. His lips parted. A breath spilled out.

He didn’t dare look up.

So you said it.

“Kiss me.”

Not a whisper.

Not a barked command.

It landed like a fact. Like dusk falling, like snow melting into earth. A truth that didn’t ask to be believed. It just was.

He didn’t move at first. Didn’t blink. Didn’t even breathe.

He lifted his head like a man surfacing from deep water. His eyes, those beautiful, imperiled, bloodshot eyes, searched your face for any sign that you might take it back. That it might be a test.

It wasn’t.

You didn’t flinch.

And that was all it took.

He surged forward, and his mouth met yours with a force that stole the breath from your lungs.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t the kind of kiss you read about in the first chapter of a romance novel. It was the kind that belonged in the final act. The kind that felt like something was ending just as something else began.

His hands fumbled for your waist, your back, your shoulders. Any part of you he could grab to prove you were real. He held you like he was scared you’d vanish between blinks. Like you were smoke and he’d never had lungs strong enough to keep you in.

He moaned into your mouth. Low and wounded and starved. Not loud. Not filthy.

Desperate.

And grateful.

Like this was more than he thought he’d ever be allowed to have.

You clutched the fabric of his shirt, fingers curling tight in the rumpled linen, and he gasped against your lips like the pressure burned. He kissed like someone who hadn’t touched another soul in a hundred years. Thousands, maybe. Not properly. Not intimately.

Like every part of this might be the last.

He pulled you closer, though there was nowhere left to pull. His teeth caught against your bottom lip, breaking skin. Not intentional. Just too much, too fast, too hungry.

He pulled back immediately, breath hitching in horror.

“I’m-” he started, but your hand curled in his collar and you kissed him again, harder this time, and it unraveled something in him so completely that he made a noise against your mouth, something guttural and ruined.

Your hand tangled in his hair.

His arms caged you in, trembling with restraint, with fervor, with some old broken thing inside him that was only now waking up.

You pulled back just enough to breathe. His mouth chased yours, like instinct, like starvation.

He was panting.

You were panting.

And his forehead dropped to yours.

“I didn’t mean to-” he started again, but you shook your head. Barely a gesture.

He was still gripping your waist like the floor was about to give out.

He pressed his lips to your cheek. Then your jaw. Then your mouth again. Softer now, but still with the same unbearable urgency.

“I dreamt of this,” he whispered, voice all but crumbling. “Every night. Since I saw ya.”

You believed him.

How could you not?

He kissed like this moment was the dream. And he was scared of waking.

His breath shuddered against your cheek as he pulled back, just enough to look at you. His eyes were wide, dark, feral. Stripped down to the fundamentals of human existence.

“Please,” he begged. “I need to- can I-”

His hands were already moving, slow and reverent, like he was scared you'd vanish beneath his touch. They skimmed the sides of your waist, your ribs, the curve of your spine. Like he was learning you through touch alone.

He swallowed hard, throat working. “I wanna see ya. All of ya. Been dreamin’ ‘bout it. Wakin’ up in a sweat, reaching for something that ain’t there.”

His fingers found the hem of your shirt, toying with it. Not lifting. Not yet.

“Please,” he said again, softer. “Lemme see ya. Lemme-”

He cut off with a sharp inhale, like the words hurt coming out. Like they'd been buried in some deep, untouchable place inside him.

“I won't touch,” he sounded so earnest. So wrecked. “Not ‘less you want me to. But I swear, if you lemme, I'll worship every inch. I'll-”

He broke off again, jaw flexing. His eyes were pleading, desperate, broken.

“I'll do anything,” he breathed. “Just... please. Lemme look at ya.”

Your heart was beating too hard, too fast. Like it was trying to reach for him through your ribs.

“Yes,” you whispered. “You can look.”

And that was all it took. The floodgates opened. He surged forward, hands suddenly urgent, suddenly everywhere. He was mapping your skin like it was the only geography he'd ever need. Like you were the only country left to explore.

He peeled off your shirt, slow and cautious, like he expected you to change your mind. Like he expected you to pull the rug from under his feet, again.

But he didn't linger. Didn't stop. Shaking but determined, tugging at fabric, pulling at buttons, dragging clothing aside until there was nothing left between his gaze and your skin.

And then he just froze. Stared. Took you in like a dying man taking his last breath.

“God,” he whispered, voice sapped. “You're...”

He didn't finish the thought. Couldn't. Just looked at you like you were the answer to a question he'd been asking all his life. The beginning and end of every prayer he'd ever whispered.

And you smiled, being looked at like that. Like a God. A deity that commanded his unwavering, exclusive devotion. And like any God, you demanded more.

“Undress for me,” you said softly.

It wasn't a question.

His breath shuddered out unevenly, and he nodded. Not a hesitation in sight.

He stood slowly, like his body was weighed down by the gravity of what was happening. Like he could feel the significance of this moment in every bone.

His hands went to the buttons of his shirt first, trembling just slightly. He fumbled once, twice, then let out a soft, frustrated noise and just tore the fabric open. Buttons scattered.

You didn't flinch.

He shrugged the ruined shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. His undershirt followed, tugged over his head in one fluid motion.

And then he just stood there, chest bare, skin seeming to tighten under your gaze. Like your eyes were a physical touch.

His boots were next, kicked off with barely a thought. Then he went to his belt.

He paused for just a second, looking to you for confirmation.

You nodded.

He exhaled shakily and fumbled with the buckle. It came undone easily, the leather sliding out of the loops with a soft hiss.

He toed off his socks, then shoved his pants and underwear down in one motion, kicking them aside.

And then he was bare. Completely. Not just in body. In everything.

He stood before you, chest heaving.

His cock was hard, achingly so. Thick veins wound up the shaft, pulsing with each shudder of his heart. The head was swollen and pink. Glistening. A bead of precum pooled at the tip before spilling over, tracing a slow path down his length. He twitched, but made no move to touch himself. As if he didn't consider it a possibility until you allowed him to.

And you wouldn't. You had him exactly how you wanted him.

Slowly, he lowered himself back to his knees, hands resting lightly on your thighs, his touch gentle yet possessive. He looked up at you, his eyes laced with desire and something more profound. Veneration is the word that came to your mind.

“Please,” he pressed, as if trying to convince himself that he deserved it more than convincing you to relent. “Lemme taste ya. Just a taste. I swear I'll make it good for ya.”

His lips brushed against your thigh. A soft, tentative kiss that sent shivers down your spine. He lingered there, his breath hot against your skin. He squeezed your thighs gently, urging them to part.

You could feel his desperation, his need for your permission. He was squirming, his body aching for more, but he held back, waiting for your consent.

“Please,” he begged again, sounding tortured. “Need to taste ya. Need to feel ya on my tongue. Need to-”

You cut him off with a nod, a small smile playing on your lips. “Yes. You can taste me.”

The words were barely out of your mouth before he was moving, hands urgent and eager as he pushed your thighs apart, his body leaning in, his mouth already seeking your core.

He started at your knees, kissing his way up your inner thighs, his lips soft but his touch urgent. He was a man possessed. Gripping your thighs. Worshipping your skin. You could feel his hunger, his need, his desperation to please you.

When he reached the apex of your thighs, he paused for a moment, his breath hot against your most intimate place. Then, with a slow, deliberate lick, he tasted you. His tongue slid through your folds, a long, slow lick that made you gasp, your back arching off the surface beneath you.

And then he dove in, his hunger relentless. His tongue explored every inch of you, hands gripping your hips, holding you in place as he feasted. He sucked and licked and nibbled, his movements desperate and urgent, like a man starved and finally given a meal.

His groans of pleasure vibrated against your sensitive flesh, sending waves of sensation through your body. You could feel his enjoyment, his pleasure in pleasing you, and it only served to heighten your own.

He looked up at you, his eyes dark and feral, mouth glistening with your wetness. “Ya taste like heaven,” he growled against your skin. “Even better than my fuckin' dreams.”

And with that, he redoubled his efforts, his tongue delving deeper, his sucks more insistent, his fingers digging into your flesh, holding you to him as he devoured you.

Remmick didn't slow, didn't pause, didn't come up for air. His tongue was a relentless force, moving from your folds to your clit and back again at a breakneck pace. Each flick, each suck, each lick was a testament to his insatiable hunger for you.

You could feel the tension building in your body, a coiled spring ready to snap. Your hips bucked against his mouth, meeting his movements with your own desperate rhythm. Your hands found his hair, gripping tightly, holding him to you as if he might try to escape the torrent of pleasure he was creating.

His groans vibrated against your sensitive flesh, sending shockwaves of sensation through your body. He was as lost in this as you were, his actions fueled by a primal need to satisfy, to please, to devour.

“Remmick,” you gasped, pleading. “Don't stop. Please, don't stop.”

As if to answer, his tongue moved faster, his sucks more insistent. He pulled your hips tighter against his mouth, gripping your waist, holding you to him as he feasted.

You could feel yourself falling apart, your body tightening, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The world around you narrowed to the point of his tongue, the suck of his mouth, the grip of fingers

And then, with a cry that tore from your throat, you shattered. Your orgasm crashed over you, a wave of pleasure so intense it was almost painful. Your body convulsed, your hips bucking wildly against his mouth as he rode out the storm with you, his tongue never ceasing its relentless assault.

But Remmick didn't stop. Even as your body began to relax, he continued, his pace slowing but his hunger undiminished. You were overwhelmed, your nerves on fire, every touch sending jolts of pleasure coursing through your body. The sensation was almost too much to bear, your skin hypersensitive, your mind a blur of ecstasy. He looked up at you, his eyes wild, mouth soaked, a sinful smile giving you another look at his predatory canines.

“Again,” he was near unintelligible, now. “I wanna feel ya come again.”

“No,” you whispered, hoarse from your cries of pleasure. “Remmick, no more.”

He froze, his body tensing, his eyes widening in alarm. The fog of lust cleared from his eyes. Replaced by a look of concern and uncertainty. “Did I hurt ya? Did I do somethin’ wrong?” That tone of genuine, unabashed fear returned. As if he was standing in front of that open door again, begging you not to send him away.

You smiled gingerly, your hand still cupping his cheek. “You were perfect, Remmick,” you assured him, gentle yet firm. “Now, I want you to move to the reading nook. I want to see you there.”

He nodded immediately, a mix of relief and eagerness in his eyes. He stood up hastily, his body still glowing with a sheen of sweat and desire. But before you could even think about moving, he was there, offering his hand to help you up. You took it, appreciating the strength and support he provided as you stood on legs that felt like liquid.

He didn't just lead you to the nook. He made sure you were steady on your feet the entire way. His arm wrapped around your waist, holding you close as he guided you to the cozy corner by the window. The nook where he read to you. Mimicked you. Begged you.

His body was still tense with anticipation, his breath slowly returning to normal. You could see the mix of emotions in his gaze. Desire, fear, hope. Something deeper, too.

“Remmick,” you said softly, your voice a soothing balm to his frayed nerves. “I'm not goin' anywhere. Not tonight.”

He let out a shaky breath, a deeply insecure smile playing on his lips. “I wanna make sure you're happy. That I'm doin' this right.”

You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “You are. Now, just relax and enjoy this. Enjoy us.”

He nodded, a small, content smile playing on his lips as he leaned back, though not fully. You followed, straddling his hips as you positioned yourself above him.

“Lay down,” you commanded softly, and he complied without hesitation, his body molding to the contours of the nook as he stretched out beneath you. Those prismarine eyes bore into you, filled with nothing but adoration.

You could feel the length of him, hard and ready, pressing against your entrance. You took a moment to admire the sight of him, his chest heaving with each ragged breath, his muscles taut and defined.

“Hold my hips,” you instructed, and his large hands immediately gripped your waist, his fingers digging into your flesh, holding you with a possessive, desperate strength.

You began to lower yourself onto him, inch by slow, agonizing inch. You could feel every vein, every ridge, as he filled you completely. His eyes rolled back, a guttural, incoherent moan escaping his lips, a sound so primal and raw it sent shivers down your spine.

You bottomed out, your body flush against his, your breasts pressing into his chest. He let out a shaky breath, body trembling beneath you. “Please, move, please,” he begged, hoarse with need. “I need to feel you move.”

You smiled, a slow, sensual curve of your lips, and began to ride him. You started slow, a gentle rocking of your hips, feeling him slide in and out of you, the friction building with each movement. But it wasn't enough. Not for either of you.

You picked up the pace, your hips slamming down onto his, taking him deeper, harder, faster. Each impact sent a jolt of pleasure through your body, your nerves alight with sensation. You could feel his hands on your hips, guiding you, urging you on. His fingers digging into your flesh, leaving marks that would fade but never be forgotten.

He chanted in an old language you weren't familiar with, likely the mother tongue of the faraway place you guessed he came from. His head thrashed from side to side, eyes squeezed shut,

You leaned down, your lips capturing his in a fierce, hungry kiss, your tongues dueling as your bodies moved in sync. You could taste his desperation, his need, his sheer, unadulterated ecstasy. You pulled back, looking down at him, his face a portrait of pure bliss and agony.

“Open your mouth,” you commanded, and he complied without question, his lips parting, tongue resting heavily in his mouth. You spit, a slow, deliberate stream of saliva that dribbled down his tongue, pooling at the back of his throat. He swallowed reflexively, his Adam's apple bobbing, his eyes never leaving yours.

You could feel his body coiling tight, his muscles tensing, his breath hitching. You changed the angle, your body leaning back slightly, giving him a new depth to explore. He let out a low, guttural groan, his body quaking beneath you as he found his release, his hot seed spilling into you, filling you completely.

But you didn't stop. You kept moving, your hips slamming down onto his, riding out his orgasm, drawing it out, milking every last drop of pleasure from his body. His cries turned to whimpers, body shaking and trembling beneath you, hands gripping your hips with a desperate, almost painful strength.

And then, the tears came. Silent, shuddering sobs that wracked his body, tears streaming down his temples, disappearing into his hair. You leaned down, your lips pressing soft, gentle kisses to his cheeks, tasting the salt of his tears.

“Shh, it's okay,” you cooed, almost taunting. “Let it out, baby. I've got you.”

He looked up at you, his eyes filled with unshed tears, body still shaking with sobs. “You're so f-fuckin' beautiful,” he managed to choke out, completely spent. “So fuckin' p-perfect. I can't… I can't even…”

You smiled, merely shushing his whines. You had never seen anything so beautiful, so raw, so real.

You could feel your own orgasm building, nerves on fire as your muscles instinctively clenched. You changed the pace again, your hips moving in a slow, deliberate grind, feeling every inch of him, the way he filled you, the way he completed you.

“I'm close, Remmick,” you gasped, raggedly so. A far cry from the steely demeanor you always carried.

He looked up at you, his eyes wide and intense, body still trembling with exertion. “I know, darlin’. I-I can feel it. You're somethin’ else when you're like this,”

His hands gripped your hips tighter, his fingers digging into your flesh, holding you to him as you moved, as you chased your release. He was still hard, still pulsing inside you, but you could feel the tension, the strain, the sheer effort it was taking for him to hold on. To be there for you in this moment.

“You're doin’ so good,” he encouraged. “Just let it go. I'm right here with you. Ain't goin’ nowhere.”

And with that, you shattered. Your orgasm crashed over you, body trembling, hips bucking, nails digging into his chest. He let out a low, guttural cry. A sound of pure, selfless pleasure. His body tensed as he rode out your orgasm with you, hips moving in sync with yours, giving you everything he had left to give.

The world outside the window was still black.

Not the kind of black that came with sleep or stillness, but that deep, oceanic kind that pressed against the glass like it might swallow the shop whole. A cold wind tapped once, then again, against the panes, but the sound was too soft to pull your focus. The only thing you could hear was Remmick’s breathing. Still ragged, still uneven, like he hadn’t quite landed back in his body yet.

Your own chest was rising slower now.

The adrenaline had drained out of your limbs, leaving only warmth behind. Thick and heavy and strange. The cushions beneath you were slightly askew, the throw blanket hanging off one edge like it had tried and failed to cover something uncontainable. The air still smelled like him.

You weren’t sure you could breathe without pulling him deeper into your lungs.

Your hand rested low on his abdomen, where the tremors hadn’t stopped yet. He was flushed, head tilted back, mouth parted slightly as if waiting for something. Maybe breath, maybe words. The slick between you had cooled slightly in the open air, but neither of you moved.

The moment didn’t ask for motion.

Outside, the wind howled once. Higher this time, almost mournful. But no lights flickered. No car passed. No one knocked.

You were still alone.

Still unseen.

Still safe.

There was a thrill in that. Not just privacy, but secrecy. The knowledge that the two of you had made something here, something raw and holy and utterly indecent in a world that would never, ever be able to comprehend it. No one would guess. No one would imagine it.

You leaned forward slowly.

His eyes fluttered open. Glazed, desperate. Still begging, but quieter now. Not for forgiveness. Just for the chance to stay.

You kissed him.

Gently, firmly, like sealing a letter before sending it somewhere far away. He melted into it. Helpless again, the way he always was with you. And you tasted the salt at the edge of his mouth, not knowing if it was his tears or your sweat, and not caring either way.

When you pulled back, he followed instinctively, chasing the kiss without knowing he was doing it.

His breath hitched.

“I…” he started, but couldn’t finish.

You rested your forehead against his.

He let out something between a sigh and a sob.

“I wanna be better,” he whispered.

“I know.”

“I wanna deserve this.”

“You don’t.”

He froze. Just for a moment. Then his throat worked, and his whole body shuddered.

But you weren’t cruel about it.

You reached up, brushed your fingers through his hair, and let your voice drop to a hush. “You don’t need to earn me, Remmick. That’s not how this works.”

He blinked at you like that didn’t make sense.

But he didn’t argue.

Didn’t say another word.

You let him stay there. Small and grateful and unraveling against you. One hand resting at your hip, the other fisted weakly in the blanket like he might drift off if he didn’t anchor himself to something.

You stared past him, at the darkness beyond the window.

There was no morning yet. No birdsong. No hint of light. The world hadn’t returned.

And you liked it that way.

His breathing was steadier now. Shallower. Slower.

His lips moved once, not quite forming a word. He was trying to stay awake. You could tell. Trying not to miss anything.

“Hey,” you said softly, pulling his attention back.

His eyes opened again.

You traced a slow line across his jaw, following the path of stubble like it meant something. He watched you like it did.

Then, finally, you said your name.

Quiet.

Careful.

Deliberate.

Just that.

Just your name.

His eyes went wide, and then impossibly soft. His mouth parted in disbelief.

You’d never told him before.

You weren’t sure why. It had always seemed too personal, too final. Like once he had it, he’d have a piece of you no one else did. But now that you’d said it, now that it was in the air between you.

You didn’t regret it.

He mouthed it back to you.

Once. Twice.

Then again, this time with sound. Reverent. Fragile. Yours.

You smiled.

Not the kind you gave to strangers or ghosts.

The real one.

And in that tiny, echoing silence, while the window fogged from the heat of your bodies, and the shadows stayed long and untouched, and the world outside forgot to turn, Remmick finally let himself exhale. Finally let himself rest.

You held him through it.

And didn’t let go.

[caffeinewitchcraft]

AITA for divorcing my vampire husband because he lied to me about his human job?

I (542 vampire) and my husband (260 vampire) have been together for a little over two centuries. There’s a saying in the vampiric community that it takes a century for a tryst to become an enduring partnership and another century to become soulmates. I thought that was true and that Matthew (using his real name because fuck you, Matthew) and I would be together forever…until this week.

First, let me explain a few things to the mortals here. I don’t mean that negatively – I came here specifically to get the opinion of those with a finite lifespan. However, I want to be fair to Matthew as much as possible and some of his decisions are very immortal-minded.

Both Matthew and I are vampires who have chosen to forsake some of our powers in exchange for the ability to daywalk. We made the transition together on our 100th anniversary almost 115 years ago. It wasn’t an easy transition for me. I was very dependent on human blood and I spent the first twenty years in almost constant sleep as my body adjusted to running off of less lunar magic and more solar magic.

It really felt like I was losing everything. My body got physically weaker and my powers began to disappear one by one. It felt like every time I woke, another part of me was missing. One day I could turn into a wolf, the next I could barely turn into a vapor. I could command a legion of undying servants, and then I could barely convince the mailman he didn’t see me levitate down from the second floor.

Matthew, however, took to daywalking like a werewolf to a sheep farm. He barely seemed to feel the pain of losing his power, maybe because he was so much younger than me. Whatever the case, he was out all the time once he stabilized. He would be gone for days sometimes and when he came back it was with fantastic stories about the humans’ new inventions or the new structures being built in whatever town we were in.

I’m not saying I regret transitioning. Just that Matthew and I had very different experiences. It felt like he barely changed at all while my entire being got rewritten. Being immortal makes you comfortable in your own skin. I never doubted myself or my power after I turned 100. But becoming a daywalker made me feel like I was being born as a human again. It was humiliating and vulnerable. I have to admit there were times I resented how easily Matthew did it. I blamed him for not supporting me like I thought he should. I would daydream about draining a human in front of him, showing him what I thought of his fascination with them. I had all sorts of vile and vengeful thoughts. I’m not proud of the person I was and now I’m grateful Matthew wasn’t there to see the lows I sunk to.

Despite all my awful thoughts, I didn’t quit. I don’t know why, but I didn’t. I stuck with it and, day by day, things got easier.

After 26 years I began to stabilize. The benefits of being a daywalker slowly blossomed before me.  Now I can say that I am completely happy with my daywalker status and all the changes it’s brought.

I am the most mentally stable I have been since my Turning in 1482. It’s like I’m awake. The fits of rage that used to consume me for months at a time have completely disappeared. I don’t experience the same level of obsession I used to which has freed up a lot of my time that I used to spend stalking my victims.

However, that drastic of a change would be challenging in any relationship. Matthew and I ended up together because of my obsessive nature. Our relationship became strained when that part of me went dormant. He expected me to follow his immersion into the human world just as I had followed him in his revenge quest against his Master. He expected me to support him wholeheartedly and with everything I was. He wanted sacrifices from me that I used to not even flinch at before making. But something was just…different. We wanted different things. I wanted different things.

Matthew was obsessed with being the perfect human. He craved full immersion. He still makes it a point to get a human job every twenty years or so. Me? I’m happy to live off our investments and some mild mind control while enjoying the art and theater community the humans have evolved.

It got bad. Some years, we spent like ghosts in our own house, drifting by each other without a glance. Other years, it was like we were spies behind enemy lines. He would do whatever he could to thwart me and I would go out of my way to ridicule him. Our vitriol poisoned the earth. Matthew didn’t speak to me for a full decade when that poison killed off an entire town.

About twenty years ago, it all came to a head. We had a serious sit-down talk about our relationship. It wasn’t easy. What they say about teaching an old dog new tricks is sometimes true. Matthew wanted me to be as involved with the humans as he was. He wanted me to care about them like he did. I wanted him to travel with me like we used to and not just hop from town to neighboring town (which he did to maintain a human identity with references so he could keep working). When it became clear that we were at an impasse, I brought up the idea of separation.

Separating in the vampiric world isn’t easy. There are a lot of alliances and blood oaths to be considered. Over the two centuries we spent together, we became known as a unit to a number of supernatural entities that we maintain an uneasy truce with. Separating would mean creating new oaths and alliances with the same individuals. And there was no guarantee that those individuals would make new pacts with both of you. A LOT of vampire couples end up in blood feuds while separating. Neither of us wanted that.

There was also, of course, the emotional side of things. While a lot of immortals tend to only feel muted emotions (especially vampires as old as me), Daywalking had made both of us more sensitive than we’d been before. We were both attached to the memories we shared and neither of us could imagine life without the other. After 200 years together, it felt like Matthew was my right arm, and I his. When I brought up separation, we both felt it like we were discussing an amputation.

After about a year of talking, we finally reached an agreement. We didn’t want to separate, and so we would compromise. I wouldn’t interfere with any of Matthew’s human jobs for the 15-17 years if he could hold them without arousing suspicion. In exchange, he would take a year off to go traveling with me before finding another town for us to live in. In between my trips, he would go to plays and galas with me to enjoy human artistry at least once a month.

Maybe our deal was in his favor. At the time, it felt practical and fair. A year of traveling wouldn’t undo Matthew’s string of connections. We would still see each other frequently by going on dates that I liked. Matthew would get to stay immersed in the human world at the level he wanted, and I could stay within my comfort zone.

Which brings me to my current problem.

We are currently at the start of one of Matthew’s work cycles. He’s been everything from a fireman to a politician to a subway worker to a barista. He craves knowledge and connection to a terrifying degree. If it weren’t for how we move every 20 years and he goes without protest, I’d call it obsession.

This cycle, Matthew told me he was going to be a teacher. I was hesitant. While the humans have become more tolerant and less violent over the years, that doesn’t mean they will tolerate us near their young. Enough humans know about vampires that staking in the modern era is a real possibility. Matthew could incite an angry mob against us or, heaven forbid, get a vampire hunter on our tail. I have yet to be shot, but I hear that they have silver bullets that hurt like Hell.

When I voiced my protests, Matthew reminded me about our agreement. He said that I wouldn’t interfere with his jobs and he’d go to all the plays I liked. He even pointed out that, as a teacher, he could get us into high school plays and expositions. I was uneasy, but agreements are penultimate to immortals. I silenced my objections and let him get a job as a science teacher at a local high school.

When Michael has had jobs in the past, I’ve never really paid attention. One time he was a state senator for ten years and I never even heard him speak. I didn’t consider it worth my time to hear whatever his facsimile of a human would say. Real humanity is in the art they create, not in the parody Michael enacts.

But this one…I couldn’t ignore this one. Maybe it was because I was still uneasy about his proximity to human young or maybe I could sense his lies even at the beginning. Whatever the case, I watched him.

The first thing I noticed was the hours. He would go to work early and would often come home when it was time for us to sleep. When I asked him about it, he said that he wasn’t used to grading and that he had underestimated what it took to put a good lesson plan together. I visited some online forums and that’s apparently reasonable for first year teachers.

He would also sometimes go in on the weekends. He missed one of our dates because there was a “grading emergency” that needed his immediate attention. Something about a student’s test getting lost and then found and he needed to input their grade before the deadline which was on Saturday. Humans like silly rules like that so I didn’t even look that one up. I just reminded him that he couldn’t miss our dates again or else he was breaking our deal. He apologized and said it wouldn’t happen again.

Then about three months into his new job, the phone calls started. We have a private room in our house for when we need to talk without any visitors overhearing. Michael moved all his school supplies in there, saying that he needed a silent space to concentrate on his grading. Whenever he got a call, he would never answer it in front of me. Instead, he’d say “Sorry, work” and just go into his office.

I also noticed that he didn’t dress very professionally. Human fashion changes quickly so it didn’t register at first. A sweatshirt here and there slipped past me, and also the Gucci slides. When he started wearing baggy jeans and jerseys to work, I noticed. I may not be up to date on all the newest fashions, but I do go to classy events. I know what a slob looks like and it didn’t sit right with me that he was wearing that to school. When I asked him about it, he always had an excuse. “This is what everyone wears” and “It’s a theme day” or, bafflingly, “It’s spirit week!”

I tried to leave it alone. The reason we have stayed together for so long is because of our agreement to not interfere in each other’s lives. But between his hours, the phone calls, and his appearance, something didn’t add up.

Then, last Thursday, he missed another one of our dates. We were supposed to go to the Nutcracker together. Even though I prefer matinees (when the cast is fresh), I agreed to get us tickets for the evening show so that he wouldn’t have to leave work early. When he wasn’t there at 7pm, I called him and he didn’t answer. Then, when I called him again, his phone was switched off.

I was furious. I spend nearly two decades in these tiny towns so he can live his human fantasy and he can’t even show up for one two hour show? It was the first time since becoming a daywalker that I felt that angry. I was scared about what I might do, so I made myself go home to wait for him.

Only, he never came home that night. At 3am, he sent me a text apologizing and promising to make up our date on Saturday. But the Nutcracker was only playing until Friday and that would be too little, too late. To be honest, it already was. I texted him that and he never responded.

He never ended up coming home last weekend. I texted and called him probably a dozen times and he never responded. I got angrier and angrier as the days dragged by. Did he think I was someone to be taken lightly? Did he not realize that the fragile agreement between us was all that was keeping us from separation?

Yesterday (Monday), I couldn’t take it anymore. If he wasn’t going to come home or respond to my messages, then I would go to him. If he was so obsessed with this new job that he would ignore me for it, then I knew exactly where to find him.

I arrived at his school at 10am. I researched enough to know how to go to the office and sign myself in. I asked the office assistant which room Mr. Duetto was in.

The lovely young woman looked confused. “I’m sorry, but I can’t give that information out to anyone but family,” she said.

“I am his only family,” I said.

She clicked a few more keys and looked more confused. “His paperwork only shows his mother, Delilah Duetto.”

That’s right. His mother. But I still didn’t understand then.

“That’s me,” I said.

“You are not the mother of 17-year-old.”

“I’m his wife,” I said.

She was upset by that. I won’t bore you with every detail, but I had to alter her memories so she wouldn’t call the police. I may not look like someone who has a teenager, but I also don’t look like a teenager. I ended up having to alter her memories so she wouldn’t call human CPS on an apparent adult swearing she was married to a minor.

I went home and broke into his office. There weren’t any lesson plans. There were no graded papers. There were syllabus from different classes, homework with his name on it, and a few polaroids taped to the bottom of his desk of him at a party with children.

Human children. I don’t honestly know which is worse.

(EDIT: I know the child part is the worst part. I misspoke because of my anger. It’s not the humans’ fault that my husband is a pervert.)

I broke into his laptop and used that to check his text messages. He’s been texting like a high schooler. He’s been to parties with them, listened to their problems and even fabricated a few of his own. He’s caught in some sort of weird love triangle where a freshman girl likes him but his “best friend” likes her. He has texted both of them about it, promising his “bro” that nothing is happening and then turning around and leading this girl-child on.

Some choice quotes: I should know better than to get close with you. You and I come from very different worlds

To which she replied, lol maybe we should let our worlds collide

!!!!

I find the entire situation disgusting. Matthew is several centuries older than them and he definitely knows better. He’s literally wearing the sheep’s fleece amongst the flock. He has no business forming relationships with human children and even less pretending to be one of them. He’s not a baby. He is over two centuries old!

What is he doing flirting with a child? It’s vile and disgusting and I was set to kill him for it.

I confronted him about it when he came home last night. I told him that he was sick and dangerous and if he loved humans then he needed to stop immediately. I told him we either left town today or I would make sure he never set foot back in that school in a way he really wouldn’t like.

 He threw a huge tantrum over my invading his privacy. He shouted at me that I had broken my promise to never interfere in his job. He called me controlling and crazy.

I told him he was the crazy one for chatting up a child. He told me he wasn’t, she was just his friend. I asked him to read their texts out loud if he was being so friendly. I also pointed out that there was no way a 260-year-old vampire is a child’s friend.

He told me I was a hypocrite because I basically cradle robbed him (we’re almost 300 years apart.) He said if anyone was disgusting, it was me for taking advantage of him.

I pointed out that he wasn’t a child, he was over 60 and had already been a vampire for four decades. He argued that that was basically being a child in vampire terms.

I was so angry at that point that the house was shaking. I told him if he felt that way, then we could get divorced right then and there. That that was what I wanted to do anyway because I couldn’t be married to a pedophile.

He asked me if I was seriously going to start a blood feud over him immersing himself in human society. I said no, I’m starting a blood feud because he’s become every predatory stereotype humans have of vampires.

He called me a hypocrite again and told me he was leaving. He said not to call him unless I was ready to apologize. I told him that the next time he sees me, he’d better run before I showed him the real difference between us. And it wasn’t just 300 years.

When I calmed down, doubt started creeping in. From an immortal perspective, what he’s doing isn’t really wrong. I hate to say it, but most immortals don’t view human lives as significant. I know a few vampires who would say that divorcing because he’s playing with his food is idiotic.

Plus, there’s the agreement to consider. During our fight, Matthew pointed out that being a student is a job to humans. So therefore I didn’t have the right to interfere. A big part of me thinks that’s bullshit, but a small part of me wonders if he’s maybe right about that?

I also have to ask myself why this even bothers me. I’m the one in the relationship that is aloof from humans. I’m the one that’s always saying we are from different worlds (Yeah, he stole that from me) and for good reason. 

But over the years, I’ve become fond of humans. No immortal makes art like them. I may not remember my time as a mortal, but there are works that give me a sense of nostalgia. Sometimes I think I can remember being a child myself, standing in a field like in Monet painting, staring at the wheatstacks and waiting for the miller to come. 

The thought of Matthew playing with them makes me sick. It’s like even after all the years of him living amongst them, he thinks of them as props in his twisted play. It’s even worse that he’s doing this to children. 

I can’t help but think something went really wrong with my husband when I wasn’t looking. At the very least, I’m planning on divorcing him. But would I be the asshole if I killed him too?

 Separating from him will be violent and messy. There will likely be human casualties. But I don’t see any other way. So, I ask.

AITA for divorcing my husband for lying to me about his human job?

----

Thanks for reading! I loved answering some of the responses I got when I first posted this over on my Patreon (X)!

These collaborative story telling pieces are the highlight of my week. Next week's story is about a witch who wants to know if she should attend her high school reunion even though she's responsible for stripping two former classmates of their magic...

Please check that out here (X) if you''d like early access! Otherwise I'll see y'all next week :)

[k-hippie]

k-707 ( 2025 EDITION ) RELEASE - FIRST WAVE

It’s finally here! Well, the first part of it—because let’s be real, this beast of a project is too massive to drop all at once ( unless we suddenly gain the ability to compress/expand time ) ;)

For now, we’re rolling out the first wave of k-707, covering :

- Base Game/Seasons ( Willow Creek, Oasis Springs, Newcrest ) - Get to Work ( Magnolia Promenade ) - Outdoor Retreat ( Granite Falls ) - Vampires ( Forgotten Hollow ) - Cottage Living ( Henford-on-Bagley ) - High School Years ( Copperdale ) - Life & Death ( Ravenwood )

Yes, we know ... you want more—but trust us, this is already a lot. The rest will come soon-ish ( don’t ask for dates, we’re not EA ) and as we say again and again, this is a work in progress, time for us to understand some more things with blender managing vertex painting and so on ;)

For everything related to instructions, how-to and so on, see the previous post or the "Download Page" of the k-707 on our website.

We replaced, reshaped, optimized, and obsessed over hundreds of trees and plants. Everything is optimized for directX11 ... Now, in theory, all should move right, look right, and fit right :D If you encounter a purple question mark on this new release, just send us a message. We'll see this together :)

Do not be surprised, some trees ( very very few ) are not yet modified ( -> I think about topiaries ) and some others have been fully replaced ( such as the ugly majestic and royal palms in base game )

Never forget this is still a work in progress and some changes will be done later ;)

As soon as we do some minor modifications and checks, we'll release a SECOND wave ( which should be very soon indeed )

Later ( End of February ) a THIRD and final wave will be released ...

Installation & Warnings

Each Expansion has 2 folders : one for plants, one for trees

The base game is split into 4 folders : 2 lots + 2 debug

Expansions with minimal greenery ( City Living, University, Get2Work ) are in single folder named k-hippie-k707-multi-greeny-2025

Do NOT mess with the folder structure unless you love chaos. If you merge files and something breaks, that’s on you. We won’t be able to troubleshoot Frankenstein mods ... More information on our website or into the previous post ;)

Final Notes

K-707 isn’t perfect ( yet ) :D We’re still tweaking, improving, and fixing things. We are aware some textures and styles need to be refined/modified. It will be done in time. But this is already a massive upgrade. So, enjoy your lusher, greener, better-integrated Sims world—and if you spot a tree acting weird, just pretend it’s haunted until we fix the green :D

Remember the k-mods are still and always free. Thanks to freely give a little something if you can. This is a massive piece of work and so, a massive piece of time ;)

If you think it’s good enough to drop our way : PayPal link

...

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - > UPDATE ! February 25

We added few missing plants to the base game ( both lot & debug ) and some modifications to some plants ( azalea - hydrangea ) ... Some textures have been fixed. As we said, there will be adjustments and tiny updates. You know, a work in progress ;)

Tonight, a bit in advance, we release too :

k-707 ( 2025 ) for Sulani ( Island Living )

k-707 ( 2025 ) for Tomarang ( for Rent )

We know the gameplay bug related to for rent expansion but we finished trees & plants for this expansion, so better to release :)

By the way, as Windenburg and Britechester, Sulani will get a small k-505 redux quite soon. It won't be huge but it will correct details here & there. That was the Sunday late news and releases. Have a great week everyone !

Sorry for the delays but real world got massive changes and I confess I didn't have time to make more k-707 stuff this time ...

See you soon fellows :)

Download the K-707 mod HERE

...

[hislittlesparklejumpropequeen]

Such a wondrous and painful thing to be loved

Remmick x female!reader

Warnings; somnophilia, non-con touching, non-con oral sex, messy kissing, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, creampie, bodily fluids, blood exchange, SELF HARM, SUICIDE, murder, vampire transformation, mentally unstable character, bad parent-child relationships, awful family dynamics, stalking, obsession. Summary: Remmick survives that night in Mississippi and wonders around the world for decades. Until he sees you, a quiet girl from a dysfunctional family. Word count: 11.8 k A/N: very little proofreading, sorry if there are mistakes. Don’t forget the check the warnings pls.

“Get the damn suitcase girl.” Your mother’s loathsome voice echoed in the open field as your father was walking back and forth between the old car and the house. You picked up the suitcase from your mother’s hand and looked up to the house your parents bought just few days ago. Your dad was swearing under his breath about the amount of things your mother packed, and your mother was screaming in the house about how everything was broken.

You took a deep breath as you watched your father enter the house to scream back at her. When you were left alone outside, you looked around the field. You were middle of nowhere with closest neighbours an hour away with car. No cars drove past. No electricity. It was quite literally pure silence. Nothing at all. The thought sent shivers down your spine as the cool wind surrounded you. The weather was chilling out here, grey clouds covering the sun light that barely reached the surface.

Your hair covered your vision for a moment with the wind and you felt like seeing a silhouette in the horizon, near that one big tree that was slowly dying yards away from your new home. When you were seeing clearly again, there was no one. You blinked once or twice before your feet moved to enter the house.

“Cannot believe you dragged us with you into this shithole.” Your mother spoke aloud, almost like a scream as she was trying to move the old, creaking rocking chair into the corner of the living room. You moved quickly to help her which she responded only with a grunt.

“Ya can go back to your own shithole if you want, bitch.” Your father said from the kitchen that was right next to the living room. You saw him standing next to the window and smoke his cheap cigarettes. Your mother said something under her breath which you did not pay attention to.

That was your normal at this point. Since you knew yourself, your father and mother hated one another. Yet none of them had dared to part their union as they knew no one could put up with their shit as each other did. You did not know if there was a time they loved one another. Maybe it was before you came into this world. You were not asking questions about their relationship or your family dynamics anymore. The questions were not fixing them, only giving you headaches.

You all sat down and ate dinner together. A dinner that was full of your silence and their bickering. After dinner everyone found a place for themselves in the old house and ended the night.

You had chosen the bedroom on the second floor, end of the corridor. It was a small room with a double sized bed, a small wardrobe and a very tiny desk that looked like it was about to collapse. You walked to the window that was at the foot of the bed and saw the backyard. Like before, it was just nothingness for kilometres. The sun was setting, and the chilling weather was getting proper cold.

You changed into your nightgown and got into bed as moonlight already filled the room. You knew you were going to struggle to sleep in your new bed, new room. The place gave you the creeps but you had no other choice. You were already missing your life in the city and would go back if you could. If your whole family wasn’t searched by the money collectors your father was in debt to. You knew about his gambling and alcohol addiction. And you knew how it always got him and rest of you in trouble. Your family was always in debt to somebody. A friend, a neighbour, the bank, the boss… but it was a different matter when they were trying to get either their money or your life. So the only choice left was collecting everything you owned and move into a countryside house that your parents bought in the time of life and death.

You had no friends to tell about your departure, no boyfriend to give you a goodbye hug. No one cared if you just disappeared or died. You took a deep breath and closed your eyes. And your breathing slowed down with the exhaustion of the day.

—

A hand was on your thigh. The touch was cold as ice and soft as feather. It went up and down on your skin, caressing so gently that you felt your breathing get stuck in your throat. Then you felt nails, sharp nails like claws dig into your skin, deep enough to draw blood. You hissed with the pain before a hand covered your mouth. You opened your eyes immediately, only to be greeted by a pair of red eyes looking down at you.

Your heart was beating so fast that you wanted to cry with the pain in your chest. The hand on your thigh moved up, until it reached your stomach then your breasts. Cold, cruel fingers pinched your perked nipple, twisted it until your body trembled in pain again. The red eyes were so close to your face that you could not see the owners of them.

That was a demon on top of you, you were sure. A demon from hell, came to ruin you. Tears spilled from your eyes and dropped to his hand that was covering the half of your face. You heard him hiss when your tears touched his skin. Then you felt him press himself down, letting his body go on top of yours. You were sure you were going to die tonight, in seconds maybe. He was going to kill you or your heart was going to fail.

“Do you think you know what it means to be loved?” He leaned in closer, until there was only inches left between your eyes and his own. His whisper came in like a dagger, cutting, butchering trough your senses. You felt your skin tingle and burn. Your tears were burning your eyes and his touch on your skin was making you shake like you were freezing.

This was something unholy. This was something from hell. This was something that made you feel unclean.

“It is such a precious thing to be loved.” He spoke like a snake hissing. His words and his eyes were making you want to cry. Was this a punishment because you never knew how to love? Was God this unfair when he was the one who cursed you with this life?

His hand traveled to your throat and his finger wrapped around your delicate neck. The pressure made your breath get stuck in your lungs, unable to escape. It was then, the hand that covered your mouth lifted. You could not speak, you could not breath. Your lips were parted, your tongue slightly sticking out with the hope of getting any oxygen. Instead you felt something foreign on your tongue. Something that felt like sin.

His tongue was on yours. He was not kissing you, no. It was just his tongue entering your mouth and taking the last breath in your system away. Unlike his hands, his tongue was warm. So warm that it made your loins burn. His body between your legs, pressing himself hard against you and his warm tongue in your mouth made your underwear get wet in seconds. His tongue played with yours, his spit dripping into your mouth and making you open your lips more.

Your tongue traced over his lips and his teeth. You winced in pain when his sharp teeth poked the flesh of your mouth. Then you realised what you were doing. This was not a man on top of you, it was the devil. You heard him laugh when your body trembled under him in terror.

“What a beautiful girl waiting to be loved.” He whispered and you opened your eyes, drenched in sweat and moonlight filling your room, making you almost blind.

You sat ip on your bed in rush, hands finding your throat as your breathing echoed in your new room. Your whole body was burning and your legs were shaking. Your fingers found your underwear, and met with the wetness of your arousal, bringing the rosy tint of shame onto your cheeks.

You looked at your window, it was still dark outside early in the morning. Was it all a dream? No, a nightmare. A nightmare that felt too real. A nightmare that messed with your body. You threw the covers away and got up. Your gaze immediately found the blood stains on your white nightgown. You stopped breathing as you lifted the skirt up. There they were. Wounds that were freshly cut on your legs, blood smeared around them. Your heart started to beat faster, your fight or flight instincts kicking in. How could this be happening?

You jumped in the spot when your mother’s voice echoed in the house, reaching up to the second floor and you. She was calling your name. What time it was? Barely 5 in the morning and she was wide awake which was unusual.

“Come down, help me with this shit.” She spat out as you heard a loud knock at the front door. You quickly changed into your daily clothes and tossed the bloody nightgown into the corner of the room.

As you were going downstairs, you heard your mother and father talking, rather arguing about something again. They were at the entrance, the door wide open, wind blowing into the house and making the long white curtains of the living room float. They did not pay attention to you as you stood next to stairs and listened to their conversation about the kitchen sink not working. Then someone appeared behind your father, a man holding a box. Your father moved to side with the noise behind him and you saw him have the biggest smile you have ever seen in your entire life. Your cold, piece of shit of a father was smiling. Genuinely smiling at this man at the door.

“Come on in son.” Your father said and you looked at the man carefully for the first time. He had dark blonde hair, blue eyes that pierced trough your soul and a smirk that made the hairs on your neck stand up. He did not look at your father, or your mother. For those few seconds his gaze found you and never left you. You wanted to run up to your room and hide under your blankets. You wanted to get behind your mother and beg your father to shut the door to this man’s face.

He stepped into the house and left the box next to the door. Then your father turned to you and your mother, his hand on the man’s shoulder, patting softly. He was so gentle with him that it felt strange. It was like you were seeing another side of your father. It was like this was not your father at all.

“This is Remmick.” Your father uttered the words and your chest got tight. “He lives in the town. He helped me carry some things and gave me a lift.”

“My mama always said that I should help my neighbours, sir.” He said, and hearing his voice made you want to vomit.

“What a good son she had raised.” Your mother said, cheerfully, her earlier grumpiness long gone. Remmick smiled shyly at your mother's words and he kept his smile on his face until he looked at you again.

“My daughter.” Your father introduced you to Remmick. He gave you a small nod, his smile still stretching his lips and his eyes shining with something you could not name. He did not look genuinely happy nor kind. He looked like he had something sinister in his eyes. The way he gazed at you made your stomach twist.

“Hello.” You said, your voice cold compared to your parents who were watching the interaction between you two.

“Hi.” He said, his voice low and deep, coming from his throat. You felt chills run down your spine. “Nice to meet ya.” He extended his hand out.

You looked at his hand, your throat going dry. Then your palm found his own, his fingers hugging your hand and holding tight. Your lips parted with need to suck a breath in. The coldness of his hands made your body shake and the make the pit in your belly grow. It felt like he opened a black hole somewhere in you, and it was swallowing everything.

“Come, have breakfast with us, son.” Your father said as he kept patting Remmick’s shoulder. For a moment you saw Remmick frown in annoyance, as if your father disrupted something. Then his mask came back on, a smile widening on his lips. You looked at his lips for a second. They were pale and looked dry. You felt your mouth water.

“I cannot sir, I gotta head back. Thank you. Welcome to town.” He said as he escaped from your father’s hands and stepped outside. The sun was slowly rising and bringing the new day. Three of you stood at the entrance, your father and mother looking at him with a smile as he walked to his truck. You could only watch as suspicion and fear creeped into your heart. You heard your mother and father walk back into house as his truck’s engine started to work.

Before he drove away, he looked back at the door. When his deep blue eyes found your figure, standing, looking at him with curious eyes, he smiled again. A smile that was vastly different from the ones he gave to your parents. You felt breeze hit your skin as he looked up and down at you, like some wild animal examining his prey and trying to decide if you were worth the hunt. You shut the door as your breathing quickened. The sounds of his wheels filled your ear.

After breakfast you picked up your book and notebook, made your way outside. You could not stay in the house, with your parents who seemed to go back to their usual selves after Remmick left. For the whole breakfast, he was the only thought that occupied your mind. You could not erase the image of him looking at you, deep into your eyes and holding your hand in his own cold ones.

It was strange, very strange. For some reason meeting him right after waking up from that horrible nightmare made you feel sick. Your mother made some comments about you not helping her settling down in the new house but you did not say anything back as you left. You looked around the empty countryside. The sun was at the top, burning mercilessly and making it difficult to breath. It was a nice day compared the yesterday. You held your bag in your shoulder tighter and started to walk on the sidewalk. Your attention got caught by the big, old tree that was few acres away again.

You sat down by the tree and leaned against the trunk. It was nice under the shade. You grabbed your book and continued from the chapter you left. The sweet autumn wind cooled the heat of your body and the sounds of birds filled your ears. This was peaceful, you thought. Far away from the arguments and screams of your parents, far away from the questions that busied your mind, far away from the dangers of the world. It was just you and the silence.

“Hi.” You jumped with the voice of the stranger that came from somewhere close. When you turned around quickly, it was a young man in a jumpsuit and large hat, looking at you under his long eyelashes and smiling awkwardly.

“What the hell?” Your voice came out shocked and scared when you stood up and took a step away from him. His expression changed immediately and a look of concern filled the lines of his face.

“Sorry for scaring you.” He said as he took his hat off and pressed it against his chest in the kindest way possible. “I live down the town. I’m the preacher’s son.”

His accent was strong and from the clothes he was wearing, you could see that he was from this area. You took a deep breath before you introduced yourself.

“I’m Jimmy. Nice to meet you.” He said and looked at you shyly.

“You scared the hell out of me Jimmy.” You said as you sat back down. He giggled at your words before he took his place next to you.

“Sorry. I just got excited when I saw a new face around here. Not many people come to countryside these days.” He pointed at the open field as he spoke. You could see your house from the point you were at. And it felt liberating to be away from it.

“Is that so Preacher’s son?” You said with a small smile on your face. Jimmy laughed with your words before he looked at you. His eyes were emerald green and his eyelashes were dark as night. His nose was straight just like his defined jawline. You could see the freckles and little sunburn over his cheeks. God, you thought to yourself, he was very much beautiful.

“Are y’all planning on staying long?” He asked. You shook your head to confirm.

“It looks like it.” You answered as you looked back at the house. The thought of staying at this place with your parents for long time sounded dreadful.

“You should be careful around this place.” You frowned with his words. Then the pit in your stomach seemed to come back when you looked at him again and saw his shy, playful expression had faded away.

“What is that mean?” He seemed to not to know how to answer your question. Yet he knew he had to answer it now since he changed the mood of the conversation.

“How to say… there are things in this town, I mean that’s what people around says. I personally never saw something but we always lived by some rules.” He took a deep breath and pulled out a cigarette from his jumpsuit’s pocket before he started to speak again. “Don’t let anyone in that comes to your door after sunset. Don’t even open the door. Don’t talk to them.”

The seriousness of his voice sent shivers down your spine. He took a deep breath from his cigarette. You opened your mouth to speak yet no words came out of your mouth. What was that mean? Who could knock on your door after sunset when there was no one living around? Or why shouldn’t you let them in? Were people that dangerous in this area? You felt cool breeze shake the branches of the tree above you.

“It’s getting late. You should head back.” Jimmy said as he tossed the finished cigarettes to the ground. He got up and offered his hand for you to hold. His calloused hands felt warm against your skin. He grabbed your book and bag before he smiled and looked at your house.

“I can walk you home.” He said as you were fixing your dress. You shook your head to decline his polite gesture.

“Thank you. I wouldn’t want to bother you. Thanks for the company.” You said before you started to walk away. You could feel his eyes on your back as you got away from the tree. Before you were not too far away, he called out your name.

“Remember the things I said. Maybe it’s just superstitions but it wouldn’t hurt to follow them.” He said as he put his large straw hat back onto his dark brunette, wavy hair. The sun was setting and the orange lights were washing all over you. For a moment you saw his green eyes shine under the sun light and realised he could be one of the most beautiful humans you ever saw.

“I will.” You said with a small smile and walked away from him and the tree.

The days were coming to an end quickly with the upcoming winter and you hated it. It was getting dark very early and it was not getting any brighter until it was late in the morning. There was nothing to do other than reading, writing and sleeping. The days were warm enough yet the night was freezing cold.

After dinner with your parents who seemed to be very calm after you got back, you found yourself in your room, in your bed again. The blood covered nightgown was still in the corner, tossed around on the dirty floor. You could not bring yourself to pick it up and see the small blood stains again. For some reason not seeing them made them feel unreal and did not remind you of the nightmare. You got under the covers, bringing your book with you. it was easier to fall asleep when you were not thinking of other things.

As you were embraced by the comfortable arms of sleep, you felt like floating. There was a noise that sounded like wind in your ears. Every breath that you took in, you felt like rising up and up. The weight of your body was not there. The weight of your thoughts weren’t there. Everything was light as feather. There was a warmth all over your body. There was warmth between your legs. The tingling sensation under your belly made you squeeze your thighs in need for some sort of friction. You could feel yourself getting wet and your clit throbbing in need.

Then came the warmth of something unfamiliar. The wet, warm thing went between your folds and made you shriek like an animal in heat. You threw your head back when the unfamiliar tongue licked up and down between your folds. The lips that wrapped around your clit in the most delicious way brought you into the high levels of pleasure. He sticked his tongue into your clenching, awaiting hole, his skilful muscle moving in and out as if it was made for it. A loud moan escaped your mouth when his nose was nudging against your clit. The pleasure was too much that you tried to close your legs and get away to breath properly.

Yet his strong hands grabbed your hips harshly and he pressed his head deeper into your cunt. He was just breathing in your scent and getting drunk with your taste. You were about to pass out with his tongue deep in you. Then suddenly the tip of his tongue hit that one spot that made you scream until your vision went completely black and you stoped breathing. Your body was shaking uncontrollably as you tried to catch your breath and open your eyes.

It felt like you were in another dimension. It was so dark in your room that you could not even see your own hands.

“Look at me.” He said, his voice low and deep in the darkness of night. Your gaze met with pair of red eyes and the bliss of your extraordinary orgasm left you in seconds. You wanted to scream for help and get away from him. Yet your body was not moving nor a sound was coming out of your mouth.

“When you were young you wished that someone loved you. All those nights you cried yourself to sleep as a little child and expected someone to come to your room.” He said as he leaned closer to you, his cheek pressed against yours and his lips right next to your ear.

“Expected someone to ease your pain and soothe your heart. Yet no one came.” He whispered, his voice is cold. You could hear the smirk in his tone. He was smiling as he spoke your pain out. You wanted to throw up and cry until you could not move anymore.

“No one loved you. But I do.” He said as the weight of his body suffocated you. There was a musky smell that came from his body. It was dominating and off putting. He smelled like death and it was filling all your senses. Only thing you could feel on your exposed skin was him. Only thing you could smell was him. Only thing you could hear was his cruel words and only thing you could taste was him when his lips found yours. His mouth tasted like you and every life he had consumed to this day. You kissed him back with a hunger that scared you. His warm tongue entered your mouth just like it entered your hole moments ago.

His sharp teeth cut your lips and tongue yet you did not care. All you wanted was kissing him until he consumed you too. There was an urge in you that wanted to be eaten by him. You imagined him feasting on your flesh, his teeth crashing into your bones and your beautiful, thick blood flowing down his chin as he ate. The image made you moan into his mouth.

“I’ll come for you, little dove.” He said and you gasped as you rose in your bed from your sleep. Your hands came up your chest immediately to ease your fast breathing and heart beats. It was broad daylight outside. The sunlight was creeping into your room and warming your skin. You just looked at the white covers of your bed as the moments from your dream filled your mind. Your breath got stuck in your throat when you remembered his red eyes looking at you from between your legs. Your body trembled when you remembered him looking down at you as you crawled underneath him, your mouth covered in your own blood.

These dreams were getting so realistic that you could feel the effects of them all day. Your gaze met with the tossed nightgown in the corner. You wondered if you were getting possessed by some kind of demon or you were just going insane in the countryside. The second option seemed more reasonable.

You walked downstairs to be only greeted by your mom smoking in the kitchen, sitting by herself with the most sorrowful expression you have ever seen.

“Where’s dad?” You asked as you made yourself a bowl of cereal for breakfast. You heard her scoff as you sat down in front of her. Her under eyes were purple and hallow, her cheeks sucked in and her face pale like she was sick.

“God knows where that bastard is.” She said, her voice stern and angry. She finished her cigarette and lit another one right after. You looked at her with a confused expression as you ate your cereal.

“Did he not come back this morning?” Your mother nodded as she looked out of the window. Why this was a big deal this time? He would always leave and not come back for some days, drink himself to death on the streets and get into some sort of trouble.

“I’m sure he will be back by afternoon.” You said to reassure your mother. But she did not look like she was convinced. She just kept looking out of the window as her cigarette burned.

And in fact your father did not come back. At first you did not pay much attention to it. It was actually nice without him in the house. There was silence and no arguments which was something you craved for. But your mother grew restless every passing hour. She wanted to call everyone possibly could know where he was yet the phone wasn’t working. You were not surprised that there was no signal out here. Even though your mother was losing her mind over this for some reason, you did not mind, truly.

Until sun was setting and the countryside got swallowed by dark again, days after your father’s disappearance. Those few days you could truly sleep with no nightmares unlike your mother who did not even eat something healthy. That evening your mother took a sleeping pill and locked herself into her room. You were down in the living room, reading your book. You could not get yourself to sleep, your mind now occupied by your father and his strange absence that took too long this time.

It was quiet in the house. Yet it did not make you feel comfortable or peaceful as it usually did. There was not a single sound even outside of the house. No birds singing, no foxes screaming, not even crickets. It was just pure darkness covering your house. You could not look out of the window as you just kept reading your book. Your head down and facing away from the entrance.

Someone knocked on the door.

The sudden noise made you jump on the couch, your book falling into your lap. Your head turned to the closed door immediately. After the knock there was a silence as if both sides were trying to hear something from behind. You slowly got up and walked to the door. Your hand was reaching for the handle before the person at the other side knocked again. This time it was louder and harsher. You saw the door wiggle in its frame with the amount of force. You gasped and took a step away with shaky knees. A familiar voice from the other side called out your name.

“It’s me, dad.” Your father said with a cracked voice that sent shivers down your spine.

“Dad?” You asked as you got close to the door again. You heard his raggedy breaths.

“Yeah, yeah. Come on, open the door and let me in.” He said, the words coming out of his mouth rushed and breathless. He sounded like he was in pain and the thought made your heart ache. Your hand went to the handle again, and your fingers grabbed the cold metal tight.

“Do not open the door!” You heard Jimmy shout from outside suddenly. Your hand on the handle froze as you heard screams and grunts on the other side. Your father was swearing, Jimmy was swearing back. You rushed to the window that was facing the front porch. Your father was on top of Jimmy, his face close to his neck. Jimmy was holding your dad away from himself by trying to push him trough his shoulders. You saw them rolling over the porch, fighting like animals. You could not speak or move.

Jimmy threw your father away from himself and rushed back to his small van. Your father distracted by the fall, his gaze found you watching them trough the window. He run towards you, his hands pressing against the glass, alongside his face right in front of yours. You felt like your world shatter, when you were greeted by a pair of red eyes looking back at you. Red just like the ones that gave you sleepless nights and brought endless amount of shame to you. Your breath got stuck in your throat as your father looked like some starving feral animal with drool flowing down his chin, his teeth sharp abnormally, and his eyes mirroring a demon.

“You used to listen to me when you were my little girl.” He said, his voice now sounding foreign to your ears. You shook your head as tears started to fall down your cheeks.

“Be my good little girl again and let your father in before this fucker-“ his words got cut with a sound of gunshot. You felt like your heart stopped beating. Your father’s eyes were locked with yours before more gunshots were heard. Last one was straight to his head, shattering his brain and making it explode right in front of your face. Blood and brain pieces hit the glass that separated you and your father. His lifeless body sunk into the ground. You could not look away as his blood was forming a pool beneath him.

Jimmy walked to him, the shotgun on his left hand, and a piece of sharp wood in his right. He didn’t look at you as he kneeled by your father’s body and stabbed him trough his heart with the wood. Your father’s body trembled, shaking as Jimmy sinked the wood deeper into his chest. When he was satisfied with his work, he looked at you for the first time since you heard him. There were drops of sweat flowing down his temples, his eyes looking tired and his face covered in blood. You didn’t know if it was his own blood or your father’s. He stood up and looked at you from the exact spot your father did moments ago.

Your tears were making your vision blurry. Your jaw was shaking and you did not know how long your legs could keep you standing. This was all a nightmare for sure. A very realistic one that you would always have since you came to this place. Jimmy gave you a look, as if he was pitying you.

“Do not open the door to anyone until sunrise.” He said before he walked to his van. You silently watched him walk away from your dead father’s body and you. Your chest was aching and your tears were keep flowing down your face without your control.

You couldn’t look at your father for last time before you started to walk upstairs. Your steps were silent, like a ghost as you walked passed your mother’s room and entered your own. Window was open. The chilling wind of the night was filling your room. The bed sheets were cold and your pillow was too hard to sleep on. It felt like laying on spikes. Your body was hurting, your soul was hurting. Yet there was no thought on your mind. Your piece of shit of a father was dead.

You woke to an eery silence of the house. You rose from your bed, catching a glimpse of your swollen eyes and purple under eyes in the mirror before you left your room. The long corridor of the second floor was empty, as it always was. You walked to your mother’s room and knocked on her door. Yet she didn’t answer. She was probably still asleep or didn't want to be disturbed, you thought to yourself. Then made your way to downstairs.

It was just like how you left last night. Your book was on the couch, next to your mother’s favourite blanket and your father’s favourite mug that you used to drink tea last night. You walked to the kitchen to open the window. The weather was cloudy and rainy. You wished to see a glimpse of sunlight yet walked away disappointed. You checked the fridge to make some breakfast for you and your mother yet the fridge was empty.

You sighed with annoyance before you walked upstairs again, to alert your mother of lack of food in the house and ask to go to shopping to town. You knocked on her door. There was no response. The pit in your stomach was there again. It was eating away your insides with worry and fear. You slowly opened the door and stepped into her room. She wasn’t here. Her bed was tidy, as if she never slept on it last night. The windows were shut, the air was suffocating with the lack of oxygen. You saw her glass of water, untouched on the nightstand next to her bed.

Your steps were slow and steady as you walked to the small bathroom in her room. The door was shut yet you could hear a sound of water dripping. You frowned in confusion as you reached for the handle. The first thing you saw was blood. The blood mixed into water that was flowing down the bathtub reached at your feet in seconds. Then the smell. The metallic, heavy smell of blood hit your nose. The sight of it came last. Your mother, your own mother was laying in the overflowing bathtub, in her own blood, her eyes wide open just like her mouth, facing the ceiling and looking into nothingness. You saw her slit wrists on either side of her, blood still dripping down in a thick form. You wanted to throw up yet nothing came out from your mouth. No words, no scrams, no cry. You silently looked and looked at her.

There was a strange silence in the house. Silence was something you had always craved. Yet in this moment you wished nothing more than the chaos that was always present in your household since you knew yourself. You wished to hear your parent’s argument again. Wished to carry your drunk father to his bed with your mother’s help. You wished to separate your mother and the neighbours fight. You wished to scream back at them when they decided to mess with you after getting bored of messing with one another. You craved for what you always knew. Was it possible to ask for the pain you knew because the comfort was a too much of a stranger?

You walked back to your room, your body was about to collapse. You sat on your bed. Maybe minutes, maybe for hours. You just sat there. Your eyes were on the nightgown that was tossed in the corner. You sat there until sun was setting, until darkness of the evil came rushing back to the countryside. You sat there until someone knocked on your door. The sound from downstairs echoed in your house. Your heart beats fastened again, your lips going dry.

“It’s me Jimmy. I came to take you to town. I spoke with my father. We’re concerned for ya.” He said as you walked downstairs silently. You stood right in front of the door, your heart at your throat, your palms sweating and drops of sweat flowing down your back.

“You said never open the door to anyone after sunset.” You spoke for the first time since yesterday, your throat hurting as the words left your mouth. You heard him grunt and swear under his breath. You looked around your living room to see if there was something you could use to defend yourself.

“Not me, I won’t hurt you. Would you not like me to take you somewhere safe? He might come any moment.” He said with clear worry and fear in his voice. You wondered what he was so scared of after he killed your father right in front of your eyes. What if it was also him who killed your mother? Why would he want to destroy your family, your life like this?

‘How to say… there are things in this town.’

His words echoed in your head. Maybe the things were him from the very start? You felt like throwing up when he knocked the door loudly. He was trying to open it. The tears formed in your eyes when you felt the hairs on your neck stand up.

“Open the damn door and let me help you. You will die out here.” He screamed as he tried to break the door by kicking it. Your feet carried you to the kitchen, to the backyard door that you kept shut since you moved here. You tried to open it yet it was locked. Jimmy threw another kick to the door and the lock broke down immediately, letting him in. You turned around and saw him standing at the entrance, his shotgun in his hand, looking at you who was struggling to open the back door. As he was about to step into the house, you screamed in terror and forced the door more. But he didn't come in. You dint hear any footsteps approaching you or his voice calling your name.

You slowly looked back at the front door over your shoulder. He wasn't there. There was in fact no one looking at you or stepping into the house. It was just darkness and cool wind blowing in. You walked to the door after grabbing a knife from the kitchen. You would kill him if you had to, if he didn't shoot you first. The porch was empty. His van was parked in front of your house, engine on yet no one at the driver seat. The small light at your porch was flashing fast but weakly.

You walked away from the porch, made your way to the right side of your house that was facing the main road to the town. You kept your back on the wall and moved silently, checking your back and corners every second to see if he was coming back or hiding somewhere. Was he trying to lure you outside so it would be easier to kill you? You shook with fear and cold weather. You weren’t feeling pain or hunger anymore. You wondered if you were going to survive this night and see the run rise one more time.

There were no cars passing. Was it possible to walk to town all that way and find someone to help you? Your eyes found someone in the darkness. There was someone standing next to the tree that you sat by just a day ago. He was shorter than Jimmy and had broader shoulders. Yet it could be just you trying to convince yourself. You wanted to walk to him and beg him to help you to get away from that psycho.

“There you are.” You heard Jimmy’s voice right next to you as you were still looking at the strange figure. You screamed in terror and started to run away before he could catch you. The man next to the tree turned to look at you with the shouts and screams. It was this Remmick guy. You felt relief settle into you as you run towards him. He smiled when he saw you, his eyes not even looking at what was behind you. He opened his arms as you got close. You were crying your lungs out when you found yourself in his arms.

“No! Get away from him!” Jimmy raged when he saw Remmick holding you against him. Remmick’s grip was tight and cold. His body against yours cooled you down, your breathing going back to normal and your heart beats getting slow. You felt Remmick move your body slightly.

“No, no, no preacher’s boy. We wouldn’t want to have you hurt this precious girl.” He said as his hands went up and down on your back. You took a deep breath of calmness when your face found a comfortable place in the crook of his neck. Just like you remembered, he smelled strange yet this time this smell brought you the feeling of safety and security. You didn’t question why you remembered how he smelled like. He giggled when you snuggled against him more. You were going to survive.

“You made me work hard for you, little dove.” He said, his voice calm yet playful. The peace lasted short when you heard the last words he said. You wanted to pull away yet he didn't let you. You were not thinking of Jimmy anymore. Only thing you could think of was Remmick. As if he was conquering your mind, your senses and making you unable to think of anything else.

“It is such a precious, magnificent thing to be loved.” He whispered to your ear. His warm, flaming lips moving down to your neck. You felt him leave a small, soft kiss on the skin of your neck. His kiss, his touch didn't feel unfamiliar. Your body knew his touch, your body knew his words.

“W-what?” You managed to bubble a word out of your mouth. He laughed at your state, his chest falling and rising against you.

“The preacher’s son Jimmy wanted to be your hero. But I cannot let him, unfortunately.” He said, his mouth right on your pulse. You felt your heart sink when you felt his sharp teeth on your skin. These were the teeth you had already felt on you for nights. They were not dreams. It was him.

“I met a preacher’s son long time ago. They’re always, how to say… interesting. Maybe he is still out there somewhere.” He said, his voice curious, still playful, scratching your brain. His arms got tighter around you, until you could’t breath anymore. You held his arms, tried to break away from him yet you couldn't do anything against his inhuman strength. You wished that Jimmy would shoot both of you in this moment.

Your vision went black when you felt sharp, stinging, burning pain on your neck. It was so unbearable that you couldn't even scream when his teeth sinked deep into you. You could feel blood flowing out of you, filling his mouth and rest spilling down his chin. The coldness of his fangs burned the fresh wound on your neck. The air that was hitting the wetness of your blood made you dizzy. He sucked on your neck like he was starving as his hands roamed all over your body.

That wasn't a demon or it wasn't you getting possessed by some kind of entity. It wasn't your brain making up things either. It was Remmick from the very beginning. You realised it was him Jimmy was warning you about. It was his voice that was making your heart skip a beat in the dead of the night. It was his hands touching your body and making you tremble under him.

“You taste better than any mortal I have ever tasted, little dove.” His voice echoed in your mind. You didn’t know if he was actually talking or you were going insane at this point. Your legs gave up but his arms held you up in the air. You were floating in his arms as he started to kiss the wound on your neck. The pain was too much that your heart beats slowed down alongside your breathing. Your ears were ringing, your mouth going dry.

“I’ll love you forever.” He whispered as your consciousness slipped out of your body. Everything went black. No sound, no light. It was pure nothingness. Your senses were dull and you couldn’t feel your body. Everything was too light around you. There were no feelings. You were not scared anymore. Nor you were calm.

When you opened your eyes again, the darkness of the night seemed brighter than any other time. Your eyes scanned the field, seeing small animals hidden amongst haystacks. Your ears filled with the sounds of small crickets, birds breathing on the tree branches, people laughing in the distance, your mother’s blood dripping down in the bathtub. You felt the dryness of your throat first. It hurt so much that you wanted to scream out. Remmick rocked you gently in his arms. He was saying something yet you could not focus on his words.

The delicious smell of him hit your nose so suddenly, with the wind carrying his scent to you. You pushed and manage to get Remmick away from you. There he was. The preacher’s son. The poor boy Jimmy who only wanted to help you and risked his life for you. He was standing not so far away from you, frozen and shaking in fear. You wondered if your eyes were shining with the soul of devil within you. Remmick was in you from now on, from the moment he sinked his teeth into. From the first moment he laid his eyes on you. From the first moment he tasted your skin.

You took a step towards Jimmy only for him to raise the shotgun to you. You did not care if you were going to die. The urge to feed yourself was so strong, almost blinding. You took another step, and he pulled the trigger. The bullet hit your shoulder. It felt like a bee sting that was spreading over your flesh. Then the bullet slowly fell off the wound, dropping to ground. You heard Jimmy gasp, start to whisper prayers under his breath as you walked to him. Your hands found his shoulders, forced him to get closer.

“Jimmy…” You almost pleaded as your teeth cut trough his skin. He screamed and tried to push you away in terror, yet everything was happening too fast. Before you could even stop yourself from harming him, his tasty blood touched your tongue. And you felt a wave of energy travel trough your body. Life was breathed back into you with his sweet liquid of life. You felt it burn trough your throat and mix into your system in seconds. Every drop of his blood was burning your insides in the most pleasurable way possible. You drank it like madwoman. It was dripping from your mouth, escaping from the corner of your mouth. You tried to catch it as if your life was depended on it, licking everything possible. You were so hungry, the feeling in your stomach hurting you, making your headache and your fangs sizzle with soreness.

“That’s enough little dove. You drained the poor boy.” Remmick said as he laughed. He wrapped his one arm around your waist and picked you up easily. The lifeless body of Jimmy dropped to ground as he slipped away from your grasp. You saw him fall, his face pale, his lips colourless, his once cheerful, shy eyes looking dead more than ever. You jaw dropped, tears filled your eyes as Remmick carried you away as if you were piece of feather. You tried to push him away, get away from his touch but he looked unbothered by your attempts.

“We can go back to your house and spend the day there until sunset. What do you say little dove?” He asked, his face close to yours, his eyes twitching with mischief. He disgusted you beyond imagination with the smirk on his face.

“Get away from me!” You said, your voice coming out like an animal growl. His eyebrows raised in curiosity when you tried to scratch his face. He put you down suddenly when two of you were on the porch, holding your arms tight enough to break your now very strong bones. Every sensation was still too new. You could still smell Jimmy’s blood, still hear the noises coming from afar, still feel Remmick’s bite burn and ache.

“I have waited for you for so long.” Remmick whispered with a gentle voice you didn't expect to hear from him. His fingers found your face, caressing your cheek that was wet because of your tears. His fingertips that once felt ice cold now felt like they were belong on your skin.

“Wondered around for centuries to find someone like myself only to find no one. Until you.” He said as his eyes never left your face. He was looking deep into your eyes, seeing your deprived soul behind them. You wanted to get away yet your body was frozen as if he put some spell on you. What was this nightmare? Had God abandoned you in this countryside? Had he left you into the arms of this devil?

“I am no devil.” Remmick said, mirroring your words. “I only have love to give you, little dove.”

“You have taken my humanity from me.” You said, your voice shaking with sorrow and rage. The soft look on his face disappeared in seconds. His hand on your face grabbed your cheek tight, bringing your face closer to his own.

“What a humanity that was?! That humanity killed my people, destroyed cities, burned children, enslaved men. There’s nothing glories about that humanity that you grieve.” His words were full of poison as he spat them out. His eyes were scanning your face, looking at every detail possible. Under his gaze, you felt your skin burn. The bite he left on your neck sizzled again, making you hiss.

“I will show you great things. Things you could never imagine in your human life.” He said as his body was pressed right against yours. You felt your skin tingle against him, making you shift uncomfortably under his touch.

He brought his face closer, until there was few inches between your lips. His fingertips were pressing into your flesh, leaving possible marks on you. The thought of carrying the marks he left on you made you thighs clench. As if he was reading your mind, he held you tighter, his nails cutting trough your skin like it did nights ago.

“Let me show you my most precious thing. My love…” He said as his lips gently touched the corner of your mouth. His short moustache tickled your sensitive skin, sending shivers down your spine. You wanted his lips on you but he wasn't kissing you. His mouth was slightly open as his lips went right and left at the corner of your mouth. His warm breath was licking your face, making you forget everything that you had on your mind just seconds ago.

His lips captured your bottom lip first. He gently kissed your mouth as if you were a piece of glass. Then his tongue slowly made its way into your mouth. With this new body, the taste of his tongue was exquisite now. He tasted like wave of destruction, the plague, the angel of death, your sweet blood that he drank minutes ago. He tasted like the end and foreverness. You kissed him back like an animal, hungry, wild and in need for killing. His arms wrapped tight around your waist, pressing your body against him so hard that you thought your bones were crushing into one another.

He first got rid of his own clothes. His pale, smooth skin was shining under the cold moonlight. You felt your mouth water as his hands ripped your clothes away. The stretch of the ripping clothes on your skin made the wetness between your legs grow bigger. Before you knew what was happening, his hand was in your hair, gently tugging the strands to expose your neck. He leaned closer and breathed your scent in. Then his wet lips left a shaky, small kiss that made you moan out loud in frustration. His touch was so gentle that it made you feel like you were walking on a thin sword. You wanted to get cut by that sword more than anything in this moment.

“I watched you, listened to you, touched you. I waited to make you mine so patiently.” He whispered as if he was talking to himself. His hand on your hair pulled harsher this time, making you fall onto your knees. He followed you down soon after, laying you onto the ground. You didn't care about the hard, uncomfortable surface of the porch. Only thing you cared was him between your legs, looking down at you like you were a part of his whole being.

“I won't be gentle.“ he said, as he left a kiss to your temple and caressed your hair. You did nothing but nodding as he waited for your reaction. His eyes didn't leave your face as he grabbed his dick and aligned himself with your awaiting, clenching wet entrance. The first stretch took your breath away. Everything was too foreign to your body. His tip went in and stretched your walls that sent a wave of shock trough your whole body. He kept looking at you and you could not take your eyes off of him. It was like your were one with him in this moment. Your very existence was full of him. Your insides were full of him.

His dick made a room for itself as he mercilessly stretched you out. When he was all the way in, his tip close to your cervix, a cry came out of your throat. Your chest was hurting and your eyes were burning. You felt sick. Pleasure of the pain was making your vision cloudy. You could not think anything other then him being inside you, against you, on top of you. He rolled his hips once and you couldn't control the noises that came out of you. It sounded like an animal crying out in pain, a shriek of sorrow, a moan that was full of pleasure and sin.

“Let it go.” He whispered and captured your lips once more. You moaned into his mouth as he started to roll his hips again and again. His skin was slapping against your skin, the sounds that came from both of you echoed in the field. There in the darkness, two wild monsters, seeds of the devil were making love.

His pubic bone was pressed against your clit, going up and down and providing the friction you were craving. He buried his face in the crook of your neck and bit you again on the same spot. This time the pain of his teeth made you shake in ecstasy. You were scratching his back, drawing blood and sinking your nails deep enough to make him hiss. You could feel your blood once again fill his mouth. You felt your tongue go dry, your fangs get sore in need of biting something. You could feel your thirst get worse as his hips slapped against yours, your walls clenching around him tight and wet.

“Go on, bite me.” He whispered between his bites. Your eyes widened with his words and the pit in your stomach made you tremble.

Without even thinking you took a long lick of the skin of his neck and bit him. He hissed and you felt him twitch inside you, going deeper in you as if it was possible. His ancient blood touched your tongue and you felt euphoric. It was much different than Jimmy’s blood. Remmick’s blood was full of wisdom and evilness. It was bitter and addicting. You felt it get into your veins, mix into you in seconds and fill you up with darkness.

“Harder!” You moaned as you licked the bite on his neck like a lunatic. His thrusts became harsher, leaving your skin burning and bruised. He was digging into you, making you squeal and cry his name out.

“Fucking hell woman!” He grunted as he held your thighs and pushed them against your bare breasts. He pressed his body against yours, trapping you between him and ground. With the new position, you could feel him deeper in you. Your walls were clenching and getting wetter and wetter with every thrust. Your mixed liquids were flowing down his balls to the ground, pooling under your hips.

His name was like a prayer on your lips. In this moment he was all you knew, with your new body and mind, with your new nature. He was your creator, as he eliminated the first one that trapped you into a miserable life. You hugged his shoulders and kissed him again. The kiss was mixing with your tears that were flowing down your cheeks. He moaned when he tastes the salty liquid. He was liking everything better when it pained you. How sick and twisted someone could be?

“You tasted way better than your father.” He whispered, making sure you heard it clearly. Your hips that were thrusting up and meeting him halfway stopped. Your tears dried on your cheeks and your arms fell to your sides from his back. He buried his face into your neck as his thrusts started to get sloppy and carelessly deep. Your face was blankly looking at the black sky that was full of stars. He was going in and out, his hands holding your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh and his lips sucking on the sweet spot on your collarbone.

He was terrorising you from the moment you had came to this place. He was haunting your dreams, making you doubt what was real and what was not. He had taken your father first, turning him into a monster like himself, like you. Then he had taken your mother, on an early cold morning. He wasn’t satisfied with any of this until he had taken your humanity, your innocence and mercy from you. He had made you kill an innocent person who only wanted to help you. And now he was never going to let you go. You felt your chest tighten with the thought of spending one more day with him.

His moans got louder, eventually turning into screams of pleasure. With one last hard roll of his hips, he spent himself in you, painting your clenching walls white with his dead seed. You wanted to throw up as he was still caressing your skin and kissing your neck. He was smiling against you, his dick still inside you, keeping you full. Your eyes turned to the side and you saw horizon line lighten slightly by the rising sun. Your breathing stop. It was going to be bright soon.

“I want to be on top.” You said as you ran your fingers trough his dirty blonde locks. His dick started to harden inside you with your words. Then he immersed flipped you over, laying himself on the ground that was warmed by your body. He was already hard when you aligned his tip at your entrance. The stretch was better than first time, going easier with the slick of your folds. You went down until he was all the way inside you. The new feeling took the breath out of your lungs. Your loins were fitting together like pieces of puzzle. He looked at you under his eyelashes, a sweet smile on his face as his hands grabbed your breasts. You started to roll your hips without letting your body adjust to him first.

“I love you.” He whispered breathlessly, the smile on his face never fading away and his eyes dropping in the bliss of your body. You held onto his chest as your movements got faster. Your whole body was burning with the knowledge of sun slowly rising in the horizon. He was lost in you, unaware of the new day coming.

With the force of your knees you started to bounce up and down, taking Remmick’s breath away. His legs were shaking just like your knees that were about to give up. Your body was tired but your mind was wide awake. You were not going to spend the rest of your life with him. You were not going to let him go either. He had to pay for what he did to you and even if it meant to die with him, you were willing to do so.

“I love you.” He said again. His eyes were closed, hands on your legs, his chest rising slowly with the deep breaths he was taking in.

“Come here.” You said when the friction on your clit made you tremble on top of him. You were going to come. He opened his eyes and rose up to hold you on his lap. Your arms were wrapped around one another, body tangled and hips meeting in order to get satisfaction out of one another. He pressed his forehead against yours, your breaths mixing and making your eyes tear.

“I love you… I love you…” he kept repeating as your legs started to shake and your eyes rolled back into your skull. You saw flashing lights and stars in your vision as your clenching walls made him grunt like an animal. The knot in your belly exploded and pleasure burst into your veins. You cried out, tears flowing down your cheeks and he licked every each one.

“I love you.” He said as you kept rolling your hips. You could not say that you loved him back. Though of uttering those words disgusted you. You guided his mouth back to the wound on your neck which he gladly accepted once again tonight. You sinked your own teeth onto his shoulder. Your bodies exchanged blood and pleasure at the same time. With that he was sent over the edge and his orgasm hit him for the last time.

Two of you slowly laid back, you on top of him, him still deep inside you. You could feel his seed leaking out of you. The feeling made your legs shake and your clit throb. You feasted on him from the last time. You were going to die with his taste on your tongue and his seed in you. No matter how hard you tried to get your self away from him, you were his.

The sun lights came first. Then the warmth. It was sweet sensation first. As you drank from one another, it warmed your skin. You didn’t look up to sunlight but the feeling was bringing you peace maybe for the last time in your life. The thought made you want to cry. Remmick slowly raised his head up from your neck but you didn’t let him.

“Please drink more.” You said as you pushed his back to your skin. Your loins were burning. You smelled burning flesh. Then felt the pain on your skin. Remmick’s skin was starting to turn red, looking raw and painful. You were feeling his pain on top of your own. Tears kept running down your cheeks as he kept drinking your blood. He was consuming you as if he was drunk on your essence. He was keep repeating the same few words even when the sun was getting higher in the sky;

‘I love you.’

The sun was brighter today. It was warmer, more blinding. The sun was rising for you today. Today, sun was rising to clean the world from evil. And you had accepted without fighting against. You pressed your head against Remmick’s shoulder and started to hum a song that was from a distant memory. A song that was sang by a mother, to her baby. A lullaby it was. This wasn't your memory, no. Your family was full of too much hate and contempt towards one another. You had never truly loved your parents and even though they had little love for you in their heart, they had never liked you as a person. All of your memories were full of arguments and screams.

The lullaby was from Jimmy’s memories. The same one that his mother sang to him nights before she had died. The same lullaby he sang by himself to remember her. And it was the same one that he had imagined to sing to his kids one day.

Sun lights were coming directly now. You could feel them getting under your skin and make their way into you in order to destroy your existence. Remmick shifted beneath you, as if his consciousness was coming back. He tried to push you away yet you didn't let him. With your last strength you held him tight and close to you.

“What are you-“

“You said you loved me more than anyone ever did. I want you to die with your love.” You said as you looked into his eyes. There it was again, his mischief smile that made your blood boil with rage.

He tried to get away from you but you were not letting him go. Sunlights were frying his skin now. The smoke that came from your bodied filled the air with the smell of burning flesh. The flames were coming from your insides. It was burning from your belly to your throat to your bones. You wondered if every death was this painful.

The flames got bigger and higher. Only thing you could see were orange-red flames and his eyes that never left your face. He was looking at you as if he was trying to understand if he was actually dying. Being on this earth for centuries, seeing empires rise and fall, being the most powerful being on the planet and take thousands of lives wasn’t something someone could leave behind easily.

“After everything I did for you?” He said, but you could not tell if he was actually talking or you were hearing things as you died.

“I never wanted any of this. ” You said, tears flowing down your cheeks and your heart aching.

“Why?” His voice is now full of sadness and his eyebrows raised up in hope. The possibility of you never loving him was now crossing his mind for the first time. You didn’t love Remmick. Yet the problem was, you couldn’t hate him either. You knew you were supposed to. And the guilt of not hating him was eating you away.

“Only someone who knows how to love could hate.” Remmick’s grip on you disappeared when the words left your mouth. “Anything other than hate and love is nothing at all.” He shook his head as if your words getting carved into his head. He pulled away from you, facing the creeping sunlights from the horizon line. You looked at him, and gasped with his beauty. His body was like a statue against the shimmering lights. You wondered what was the last time he properly seen the sun.

He looked at the horizon line, didn’t speak for some time until you touched his cheek. His side profile was perfect with his red eyes shining and reflecting the upcoming light. His mouth was covered in your blood and his body was covered in bites and scratches all over. The corner of your mouth curled up with proudness of your work. You were truly going insane.

“I don’t remember the last time someone loved me.” He whispered. Yet the weights of his words were so loud that it was heard in the whole field.

“I searched for something that could make me feel close to what I had before I was this.” He said as his hands pointed at himself.

“But I have been on this earth too long. Nothing, no one of my time survived yet I am here.” He said as he finally turned to you. You realised in that moment how similar you were. Since you spent your life trying to fit into a world that never tried to make you feel included. Your parents were dead, you had no home to go back. Your hands were covered in the blood of an innocent.

“Maybe we weren’t meant t survive this long.” You said. He smiled and nodded.

You did not know if he said something after that. It felt burning, then cold. Then nothing at all. Your existence turned into a bunch of ash and wind took it away.

As the sun rose in the sky, there were ashes on the ground of the porch. There were torn clothes, and blood. Not so far away from the house, there was a dead man, laying on the haystacks, a shotgun by his side.

A naked man who was covered in burns disappeared into the house, seen by the cars passing by. Yet they only found the bodies of the woman out of the family that moved into the house and the preacher’s poor son. There were no traces of the father and the daughter. Not a single trace of any body else other than them.

A/N: hope you liked it. Feel free to share your thoughts on it.

[ozzgin]

I'm the anon who asked if your requests are open and i got busy assignments + presentations that i almost forgot about the request but now i remembered and it's based on my dream i saw that night..

How about a vampire who lost his relic (presumably a ring) and reader happens find it and tries it on, now the vampire is all panicking because guess what? That was a betrothal relic and it has binded the vampire's soul with the one of reader. They can't pull it out/take it of.. oh well, now they are stuck and obviously the vampire hates the idea of being stuck with a pesky human but hey they are kinda stupid..? How tf they tripped on thin air? Or how they are still alive even after being food poisoned 5 times a month? Vampire is now babysitter for his human *sighs * what has he gotten himself in..

(Please add yandere elements later on, my brain stoopid but i want a hot Victorian era vampire being obsessed with me ^^ muah!)

(I'm sorry this is so lengthy TT)

Yandere! Vampire x Reader

Featuring a ridiculously lucky Reader who constantly manages to escape a Vampire's assassination attempts. Did someone order a supernatural edition of enemies to lovers?

Content: gender neutral reader, obsessive behavior, mentions of stalking, romcom

[Monster masterlist] [Original works masterlist]

"Are you alright, (Y/N)?" your friends gasp in unison, eyes fixated on the fallen ceramic pot that scarcely missed you, now laying shattered at your feet. You laugh reassuringly and wave your hand in dismissal. "It's the fifth time it happens today. Maybe there's a storm coming?"

From within the shadows, menacing eyes glowing red follow your movements. "Damn it!" The mysterious man curses under his breath. He stares enviously at the bulky ring on your finger. The ring bearing his Family signet, where part of his very soul resides. It has stayed with him for centuries, and somehow, to his utmost shame, he lost it. By the time he rushed back to retrieve it, you were carelessly sliding it down your finger. He wanted to strangle the life out of you right then and there, but he felt it: the immediate surge of contractual power, dominating his will and holding him back from breaking your bones. "It's a little tacky, isn't it?" your friend remarked. You nodded in agreement and tried to remove it, but the metal band tightened around your skin, painfully constricting your digit. It was stuck. It was too late.

Now he has to rely on cheap trickeries like this one. Sure, he may not be able to directly plunge his fangs into your neck, but the bonding curse does not shield you from "accidents", you see. It would be a real shame if that flower pot was to land straight into your head, ending you instantly and thus breaking the connection with him. Except you simply refuse to die. A mystery, a paradox, one that enrages him to no end. It's almost as if the ring is bringing you fortune at the cost of his misery.

"Have you had any luck removing that ugly thing?" the person standing next to you mentions. The vampire lord grits his teeth at the blasphemous words. This is what's become of him: a deceitful buffoon, having to sit and listen to his inheritance being mocked relentlessly. He holds back the urge of shouting that thousands have bled to death in order to forge that magnificence. "Not at all", you respond idly. "I tried taking it to a jeweler, and she said she could try to cut it, but she ended up having a heart attack right in the middle of it. She didn't even look that old, maybe it runs in her family?"

Unbelievable. The thought of reclaiming his relic haunts every second of his day, to the point he's become your shadow. Stalking your every move, your every breath, observing his prey and waiting for an opportunity to strike. He can already picture that pathetic face of yours, twisting in pain, begging for-...huh. Well, look at that, you're reading one of his favorite books. Perhaps you do have a little taste, after all. It won't save you from your terrible fate, but he might skip the prolonged torture.

There's plenty of quotes out there about knowing your enemy in order to guarantee your victory, though one might wonder where the limit of such knowledge resides. Or what counts as useful to begin with. The vampire lord is presently wondering about this very aspect, as he mouths your coffee order from a distance. Less sugar, huh? You did mention losing your sweet tooth. He shakes his head indignantly. Absolutely not! The throb of his heart is fueled by raw hatred and nothing else. One of days he will savour your demise.

Your ridiculous luck might just end today. You've taken a shortcut on your way back home, and didn't expect a shady, burly man to block your exit. A perverted grin stains his face as he approaches you, twiddling with his pocket knife. "Alone at this hour?" You frown and try to find a way out, but the man suddenly begins to heave and convulse before your eyes, grasping at his chest as the skin shrivels and dries. He collapses at your feet, body wilted as if it's been emptied of its vitality. The Vampire Lord clicks his tongue.

To think he'd rush to rescue his sworn enemy, a pitiful mortal like you. He didn't even get the chance to consider the aftermath. You stare at the stranger, confused but observant. Pale skin, crimson eyes, unnaturally sharp canines...and the fact he just drained a living being into a bloodless corpse: everything hints to one possibility. "Are you by any chance a vampire?" you find yourself mumbling. "You must've graduated from Harvard with those deduction skills", he responds sarcastically.

Everything else unfolds in a haze. Wasn't he planning to kill you and retrieve his ring? When the hell did he offer to walk you home to avoid more creeps? Why is he twirling his hair sheepishly whenever you praise his demonic powers? Oh, but it gets worse: why did he suddenly feel the urge to kiss you before returning to his cursed lair? Why did he accept your invitation to spend the night at your place instead? One moment ago, he was doing his best to curse you off this Earth. Now he's tugging stray strands of hair away from your blushing, whining face, asking you if it hurts. Damned human.

"How did you know I like this? Have you been stalking me?" you joke, nudging your undead boyfriend and setting the gift aside. "More or less", he confesses with a yawn. He recalls all that time spent dutifully spying on your oblivious self. "You know, a human like you shouldn't be able to dodge death like that." He turns to you and scans your features. Then, abruptly embarrassed, he ruffles your hair to block you from noticing his blush. "I suppose my failure was the better outcome. It's not too bad, having you around."

[kysstar]

VAMPIRE!ATEEZ & THEIR FAVOURITE PLACE TO BITE | ATEEZ

pairing : : vampire!ateez x gn!reader

genre : : suggestive, maybe nsfw? idk

warnings : : suggestive content. i'd say mdni but yall wont listen so anygays

author's note : : these are just my headcanons! they may differ from yours, so don't take them srsly <3 this is smth new...idk if its good or not. but oh well 🤷🏻‍♀️ I did try to keep it gender neutral but lmk if I made a mistake!

KIM HONG JOONG : : collarbone

Collarbones are his obsession – sharp teeth grazing the delicate skin, just to watch you shiver.

Smirks against your skin before sinking in, whispering, "Right here, love. Just for me."

Takes his time—tracing veins with his tongue, teasing before the bite.

Straddling him? He loves it. Hands gripping your waist, pulling you closer.

"You're not going anywhere." Growls into your skin as he bites down, just hard enough to leave marks.

Likes watching your reaction—your head tilting back, hands clutching his shoulders.

Aftercare king. Presses soft kisses over the bite, thumb rubbing slow circles on your back.

"Did it hurt?" Smug, but his lips are gentle against the wound.

Lulls you into his arms after—"Rest, love. I'll take care of you."

PARK SEONG HWA : : inner wrist

Wrist kisses first, bite later. His lips brush over your pulse, teasing.

Locks eyes with you—deep, intense, waiting for you to give in.

Holds your wrist up like it's precious. Thumb tracing the veins, feeling your heartbeat quicken.

"Nervous?" Smirks, fangs barely grazing the skin.

Slow, deliberate bite. Just enough pain to make you gasp.

Doesn’t break eye contact. Watches every reaction, drinking in your expression as much as your blood.

Licks the wound after. A slow, sensual swipe of his tongue.

Keeps your hand in his. Fingers intertwining, grounding you.

"Mine." Murmured against your skin, almost reverent.

Pulls you into his arms after. "You're safe with me, darling."

JEONG YUN HO : : shoulder

Big hands, firm grip. Holds you in place like you might run (you won’t).

Nuzzles into your shoulder first. Soft kisses, playful bites before the real thing.

"Relax, I’ve got you." Voice low, reassuring—right before his fangs sink in.

Loves when you squirm. Arms wrapping around you tighter, pulling you closer.

Shoulder bites mean possession. His mark, right where everyone can see.

Growls when he drinks. A deep, satisfied sound that makes your knees weak.

Pulls back with blood on his lips. Licks them clean, eyes locked on you.

"Still with me?" Smirks, tilting your chin up so he can see your dazed expression.

Kisses over the wound. Soft now, almost apologetic.

Tucks you against his chest after.

KANG YEO SANG : : jawline

Holds your chin gently. Tilts your head just right, exposing the perfect spot.

Breath ghosts over your skin. Lets the anticipation build—he enjoys the way you shiver.

Soft-spoken but teasing. "Are you trembling for me?"

Starts with kisses. Traces behind your ear, down your jawline, slow and deliberate.

Bites when you least expect it. Sharp fangs sinking in right as you sigh into him.

One hand in your hair, the other at your waist. Keeping you steady as your body melts.

His lips linger. Tongue swiping over the wound, soothing and claiming.

Loves the little sounds you make. Smirks against your skin when he hears them.

"Perfect." Whispers it like a secret, thumb brushing over your cheek.

Pulls you close after. Tucks you against his chest, heartbeat steady beneath your ear. "You're mine, love."

CHOI SAN : : chest

Loves how sensitive you are. Smirks when you squirm under his touch.

Hands everywhere. One on your waist, the other teasing over your ribs before sliding up.

Kisses lower and lower. Lips dragging over your collarbone, down to the swell of your chest.

"Right here?" Teasing, fangs barely grazing before he bites down.

Moans into your skin. The taste, the way your body reacts—he’s obsessed.

Mouth stays on you. Licking, kissing, sucking—he’s not letting go anytime soon.

Loves marking you. Bruises, bites, anything to remind you he was there.

Eyes dark, wild. Looks up at you, lips swollen, breath heavy.

"So sweet." Smug, but his touch turns softer, more reverent.

Pulls you into his lap after. "Come here, need you close." Arms tight around you, like he’s never letting go.

SONG MIN GI : : hips

Big hands, firm grip. Fingers digging into your hips, keeping you still.

Loves how your breath hitches. Smirks when you realize where he’s about to bite.

Drags his lips over your hipbone first. Slow, teasing, savoring the moment.

"You’re shaking." Amused, his voice thick with satisfaction.

Bites down hard. Wants you to feel it, to remember exactly where his mark is.

Groans against your skin. The way you react drives him insane.

Leaves marks everywhere. Bruises, bites, anything to remind you who you belong to.

Loves the way your hips move. Whether you’re trying to escape or get closer, he’s holding you down.

Lifts you onto his lap after. Hands still gripping your waist, holding you like you’re his whole world.

Wraps you up in his arms. "I didn’t hurt you, did I?" Soft, worried, thumb rubbing circles on your waist.

JUNG WOO YOUNG : : inner thighs

Loves making you wait. Kisses up your leg so slowly, just to hear you whine.

Hands spreading your thighs apart. Holds you open, grinning when you try to close them.

"Ah ah, don’t run from me." Playful, but his grip tightens.

Nips at your skin first. Teasing bites, leaving little bruises before the real thing.

Bites down suddenly. Sharp, deep, right where you’re most sensitive.

Groans at the taste. Might even roll his hips against the bed like he’s feeling it too.

Lips and tongue work overtime. Kissing over the wound, licking up every drop.

Loves how shaky you get. Smirks up at you, eyes dark with mischief.

"You’re so cute like this." such a tease

Wraps you in his arms after. "C’mere, let me hold you." Presses lazy kisses wherever he can reach.

CHOI JONG HO : : neck

Strong grip. One hand at the back of your neck, the other firm on your waist—holding you still.

"Stay still for me." Voice low, commanding, but there’s a hint of teasing.

Brushes his lips over your pulse first. Feels your heartbeat racing under his mouth.

Lets you anticipate it. Breath warm against your skin, fangs barely grazing, waiting for you to beg.

Bites deep. No hesitation—he wants to feel you react, hear that sharp gasp.

Groans against your skin. Your taste? Addictive. He’s already craving more.

Holds you tighter when you squirm. "Told you, no running."

Kisses over the bite. Slow, soothing, but his tongue lingers.

"You’re mine now." Whispered against your skin, almost reverent.

Pulls you onto his lap after. "Stay here." Arms locked around you, unwilling to let go.

© kysstar