The Life of Me

I am the terror that flaps in the night. I am the thing monsters have nightmares about. I am DARKWING-KATY...even though my name is Kate. Currently obsessed with LOST and Sinners, so am writing fics for them. Also occasionally write original stuff, but I haven't gotten brave enough to post any of that here yet. Deaf with a lowercase 'd'. Second Chance Masterpost

[darkwing-katy]

Fic Masterpost

LOST

I’m Not Broken: After crashing on a mysterious island in the middle of God-knows-where, Evelyn Cassidy decides to keep her hearing aids a secret. There’s simply too many other things for the survivors to worry about. It’s hard to keep a secret like that, though, especially when the cute and snarky blond asshole keeps teasing you and you’re constantly fretting about your hearing aid batteries dying.

And then there’s the man in the hatch, the man who lies for her, the man who saves her life. When he escapes, Evelyn goes after him, her curiosity piqued. Why does he seem to want her to follow him? Who is he? And why the hell did he steal her favorite book?! Complete.

She Calls Him Psycho Killer: Ben doesn’t think much of the young woman who steps into his cell. Little does he know that their meeting will change his life, sometimes in subtle ways, sometimes not-so-subtle. Ben’s POV of the events of “I’m Not Broken”. In-Progress.

The Wrath of Hugo: Hurley is still grieving Libby when he learns how she really died. And we all know that grief leads to anger, anger leads to hate, and hate leads to the Dark Side.

Dude, no wonder Anakin went all Darth Vader. Complete.

Lost in the Jungle: You’re lost in the massive jungle of the Island at night when you run into a stranger who may or may not want to kill you. Henry Gale/Ben Linus x Reader (non-romantic). Complete.

The Nightmare: Little Alex has a nightmare, and her dad is there for her. Complete.

The Promise: You’ve been on the Island for a while now, and tonight, you’re ready to try and ask your leader if you can go off-Island for a week. But Ben wants to make sure that you’ll come back to the Island…and to him. Ben Linus x Reader. Complete. Also on AO3.

Down the Rabbit Hole: Ben and Hurley investigate a mysterious sound, and Ben finds a new friend. Written for the Lost Secret Santa Fic exchange 2024. Complete.

How To Carve A Pumpkin: It’s been a year or so since The End, and it’s fall season on the Island. Ben does a little seasonal decorating and remembers a fond day with his daughter. Complete.

The Younger Linus: “Parents suffer for the sake of their children. This is merely a part of what that ultimately means—what it means to love someone unconditionally. He swore he’d love her the way his father never loved him, enough for the both of them. So dammit, that’s what he’s gonna do.“

Snapshots of interactions between Ben and Alex Linus. Some of these could be considered canon, but most of them are probably not. In-Progress.

snow dance: It’s been six years since Juliet has seen freshly fallen snow. For the LOST Secret Santa 2025. Complete. Also on AO3.

Evil

The Spider and the Fly: All you want to do is get through your online courses and keep your best friend from making bad choices in men. But there’s this creepy therapist who is absolutely insisting on you making an appointment with him. Who the hell is this Leland Townsend, and why won’t he leave you alone?! Leland Townsend x Reader…sorta…? Complete. Also on AO3.

-Part One

-Part Two

-Part Three

-Part Four

-Part Five

-Part Six

-Part Seven

Sinners (2025)

Survivor Type: He’s survived for over a thousand years, and he’s not about to die now. AU oneshot where Remmick manages to escape the final confrontation at the Juke Joint. Complete.

The Stalker’s Tango: As an avid fan of Dancing with the Stars, you’ve resigned yourself to the fact that the closest you’ll ever get to that ballroom floor is the line dancing during Country Music Night at your favorite bar. One night, your best friend points out the man watching you dance and convinces you to chat with him. Unfortunately, you find out too late just how bad of an idea that might’ve been. But once you dance with the Devil, it’s kinda hard to stop. Also on AO3. Masterpost found here. Complete.

Beauty and the Beast (2017)

Second Chance: You try to stop Gaston from shooting the Beast and falling to his death, but you arrive too late to save him. As you sit there, sobbing, the Enchantress offers you a second chance to save him. (masterpost found here; hasn’t been updated in years, so fair warning)

[jessaerys]

scream

[nessa007]

HILARY DUFF A fan made a crochet animated Lizzie McGuire doll and gave it to Hilary at her show in Austin, Texas!

[power-chords]

This Dan Piraro comic always makes me cry.

[thetrekkiehasthephonebox]

Don't wait to live until you retire.

[thetrekkiehasthephonebox]

Take your PTO. Don't work at all during it. Don't even check your email. Spend that time with your friends, family, and loved ones.

You don't know how short that time might be. Don't let work steal those moments from you.

[seth-whumps]

character will get 10x hotter with the addition of blood btw. bonus points for disheveled hair, untucked clothing, and glazed, feverish eyes.

[darkwing-katy]

The Stalker’s Tango (Epilogue)

Pairing: Remmick x Gender Neutral Reader

Word Count: 3,533

Summary: As an avid fan of Dancing with the Stars, you’ve resigned yourself to the fact that the closest you’ll ever get to that ballroom floor is the line dancing during Country Music Night at your favorite bar. One night, your best friend points out the man watching you dance and convinces you to chat with him. Unfortunately, you find out too late just how bad of an idea that might’ve been. But once you dance with the Devil, it’s kinda hard to stop.

Author Notes: Welp, here is the official ending of The Stalker’s Tango. Thanks for sticking with this story—this is easily the longest reader insert fic I’ve ever written.

I’ll be seeing you Jack O’Connell stans around again…probably not soon, but eventually.

Previous Chapter

The sky has a touch of orange to it, but it’s a dying gasp of light, nowhere near enough to hurt you. Above the line of fading orange are cornflower blue clouds, a grayer periwinkle caressing their undersides.

You hadn’t known just how many colors evening-time could hold for most of your life. It’s only in the last few years that you’ve really understood the sheer variety that night contained, from the rich indigo to the dark sapphire that mirrored the depths of the ocean to the ash grey that harkened a storm. And so many more shades than that, too.

You can hear the chattering of attendees, can hear the tinkling of champagne glasses, the pouring of wine into those very same glasses. You’d long since learned to tune out such minute sounds—or else it’d drive you mad—but for now, you were intentional about listening to them. You let out a contented sigh as the sounds of life wash over you.

“You sure ‘bout this?” Remmick asks, the soft flutter of wings fading as his feet touch the ground behind you.

Your gaze sharpens on the distant party, on the warm string lights, on the shimmer of confetti that reflects the soft candlelight in the table centerpieces. You inhale, letting the scents of roasted salmon with lemon and rosemary, buttered green beans with sliced potatoes, and vanilla and raspberry cake waft through your body, alongside the hot blood of the people eating the food. Liquid drips down your chin; you wipe away the drool and mentally chastise yourself for letting the smells distract you.

Remmick’s arm loops itself around your waist, reminding you that should you get overwhelmed, he’ll be there to ground you. It’s exactly the reassurance that you need.

“Yes,” you tell him.

He releases your waist. “Lead the way, mo chuisle.”

He follows you to the gate that leads past the glass auditorium, also lit with the same string lights that decorates the reception tables. You can smell the sweat that’s dried on the plastic benches, the dying flowers that had been tossed to the ground in jubilation. If you were to look over there, you’d see the flowers, too, even in the deepening darkness.

It’s easy enough to find the newlyweds as you draw closer, not quite entering the jubilant celebration yet. Blake is chatting with someone irrelevant, the bright white flower pinned to his purple tux. He’s not who you’re here for, though.

Miles’s laugher echoes across the room, bringing a smile to your lips. Oh, you’d missed that laugh. It’s been two years since you’ve last heard it. And there he is, wearing a slate blue tux with the white flower. His tie is the same shade of purple as Blake’s tuxedo. His braids have been shaped into a heart on the side of his head, the point of it ending just behind his ear.

Your smile widens. You’re glad they finally got married. They deserved it.

A small wave of sadness hits you. You nearly allow the sadness to take you back to the last time you’d seen them, but Remmick grabs your hand and gives it a squeeze, banishing the memories. You glance at him, see that his eyes are glowing, and incline your head. The red glow fades, leaving behind a sheepish smile. “Sorry,” he says, “I just hate when you go all melancholy on me like that.”

“Says the man who grows nostalgic when he hears any old Irish ballads in the streets or on Spotify,” you tease. He chuckles, pulling you towards Miles.

“Go on, go say hi.”

You let go of his hand. “You should—you should stay behind. Let me go alone.”

“Never.” His voice is sharp, firm.

You roll your eyes. “You know that’s not what I meant. Stop being so clingy.”

His hand is faster than yours. “Never,” he growls, tugging you into his embrace and wrapping his arms tightly around you as he spins the both of you away from the party, further into the dark. “Not until someone drives a stake through my heart or the sun consumes this planet.”

“My God, you’re so fucking dramatic,” you tell him, but your arms have already wrapped around his torso, pressing your bodies together. He pulls you closer, until the only thing dividing you both are your clothes. Clothes that could be easily discarded, he reminds you with a memory that would make you blush if you were still human.

“Remmick, I’m just gonna say hi. You said it was okay, didn’t you?” you say, your lips brushing against his throat. “I was the one who was all worried, and you were the one who said we could swing by after sunset. When I was worried that we wouldn’t have an invite, you pointed out that it was outside so we didn’t need one. And when I expressed some, uh, concerns about hunger,” you nibble at the skin of his neck, earning a soft moan from him, “you made sure I had a nice, filling, hot,” at that, you bite just enough to nick him, “meal, didn’t you?”

“Mmmff,” Remmick agrees.

“A hot meal that came with dessert,” you remind him, showing the memories of what you’d done after eating and earning a louder groan from him. His dick is hardening through his pants, eager for another round. “So let’s go, let’s say hello and well wishes to the happy couple, and then, maybe, you and I can continue our own little celebration of long-lasting relationships, hmm?” You press your groin against his crotch. “Sound like a plan?”

“We could, we—we could just skip right to that part,” he stutters, turning his mouth to press kisses into your neck. “Or we could alter the order of events a lil’.” His hold on you has loosened with anticipation.

“You know as well as I do that once you get started, we don’t stop.” You press a kiss to his cheek before suddenly slipping out of his grasp. He makes a sound of protest, but it’s too late. You shoot him a wink as you saunter towards the reception, making sure to sway your hips as a final taunt.

Remmick sends you a memory that shows exactly how he’s going to make you pay for that later tonight. You let a wicked grin curve your lips.

The grin stays on while you sneak up behind Miles, who’s now greeting his guests, asking them how the food was, asking if they had enough cake, reminding them that dancing is practically mandatory before anyone leaves.

“Does that apply to me, too?” you ask. Miles stiffens, turning around to look at you like an animatronic. Too late, you realize that perhaps crashing this wedding was not your brightest idea.

“(Y/N)?” he asks in disbelief.

You want to hug him, but the way he’s staring at you does not invite such an embrace. “Hi, Miles,” you say, lifting your hand in an awkward wave.

His entire demeanor changes in the drop of a hat as he goes from shocked host to angry host. “Get out.”

“Miles, I’m not, I’m just here to congratulate you—,”

“I don’t care. I want you gone,” he hisses. “You don’t belong here, not after fucking disappearing the way you did.”

“Miles, I—,” you glance around, noticing that curious eyes are landing on the two of you. “Can we please talk somewhere else?”

“What, so you can suck out all my blood?” he snarls in a low voice.

Your eyes widen. “What?! No! I’m not—Miles, I swear, I’m just here to congratulate you. Please.” You scan the area for a more hidden location. “Please, let’s just talk, can we please just talk?”

“That’s what he said that night, you know.” But Miles allows you to drag him off to the side, to a giant tree with string lights dangling from the branches. Once you’re there, you rub your arms, suddenly unsure what to say. Miles mirrors you, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring. “Alright. Fine. What do you wanna talk about?”

“I just wanted to say congrats to you and Blake.” You offer him a tentative smile. “I was really glad to hear about the wedding.”

His eyes narrow. “And how, exactly, did you hear about it?”

You bite at your lower lip and look to the ground.

Miles sighs. “It was Angelina, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” you admit. “I dunno how she figured out where we were, but she did, and we swung by her house. Didn’t go inside!” you add quickly, holding up your hands. “But went to a restaurant, and she told us about you and Blake.” You look behind you, searching for Remmick’s red eyes and hoping that he wasn’t lurking too close. “She and Tag are doing good, too. I’m proud of them.”

Miles shakes his head. “I didn’t even invite her to the wedding. She wasn’t ever my friend. How the hell—you know what, it doesn’t matter.” He shakes his head again, then fixes his dark eyes on you. “I looked for you. Blake and I both did. You just up and vanished like a ghost.”

I know, you almost say, but he’s still talking.

“I was so scared for you, too. Told Blake over and over again that I was sure you were dead, that Remmick killed you, but when we finally went to the cops, they didn’t wanna listen to a Black man complaining that his friend was gone. Especially since it didn’t look like any kinda foul play or whatever.” He purses his lips as he stares back at the reception. Music has begin playing—you recognize the latest pop hit.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know how to tell you.” You reach for him, then think better of it and lower your hand to your side. “I was a coward and I know it.”

“Yeah, you were,” he agrees, “and now you’re a vampire, aren’t you? Just like him.”

You nod slowly.

Miles huffs. “I knew it. I fucking knew it. Why didn’t you fucking tell me, (Y/N)?”

“We had a deal,” you say softly. “If I told anyone that he was a vampire, he would kill them. I didn’t want you dead.”

“No, but you were perfectly fine offering yourself on a silver platter?” His hands clench his tux sleeves, wrinkling them. “What I wanna know is why you did it. Did he threaten you? Did he force you?”

You shake your head. “No. Well…” you tilt your head to the side in consideration. “I mean kinda sorta, but I was stupid and agreed to it without understanding what I was agreeing to. It was my own damn fault.”

“No, it couldn’t have been.” Miles’s eyes have softened at last. “He tricked you, didn’t he.”

“What? Me, trick someone?” Remmick says, coming out from behind the tree with a lazy grin. “Never.” He stands by your side, his arm once again slipping around your waist. “(Y/N) made a bargain and held up their end of it.”

Not that I was ever getting out of it, you think at him, earning a smirk from Remmick.

Miles’s eyes have sharpened into flint. If looks could kill, Remmick would be a charred corpse.

Hell, if looks could kill, you’d probably still be human now, happily celebrating your friends’ marriage.

“Remmick,” you say softly, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Stop it.”

“Remmick,” Miles says coldly.

“Miles. Glad to see you’re doin’ well.”

“I’m afraid I can’t say the same for you.”

“Miles, hey, it’s almost time for our first daaaaa,” Blake drops the word mid-sentence as he comes up to your little group by the tree. “Oh my God, it’s you!” He immediately wraps you in a hug, his arms awkwardly brushing against Remmick’s in the process. “You’re okay! I mean, we kinda figured you were when we saw you in the audience in the finale of Dancing with the Stars, but still!” He lets go and steps back, gesturing at both you and Remmick. “It’s good to see that you’re not—not—,”

“Not dead?” you finish for him.

“Yeah!”

Miles is still glowering at Remmick. You and Blake look between the two other men and back at each other. “So. Uhm. Congratulations on your wedding,” you say, desperate to end the icy silence.

“Thanks,” Blake replies. “We would’ve invited you but we didn’t know how to reach you.”

“Babe, why don’t you go on back. I’ll be there in a minute for the dance, okay?” Miles hasn’t looked away from Remmick.

“Oh, but—,”

“I’ll be there in a minute,” Miles repeats, and something about his tone sends Blake scurrying away.

“Not exactly a great way to start off a marriage,” Remmick comments with what he probably thinks is a sincere expression of concern.

You elbow him, earning a grunt. “Look. Like I said, we just wanted to wish you well. We’re happy to leave—we don’t wanna cause any trouble.” You lock eyes with Miles. “I swear. I just wanted to see you again, that’s it.”

“That’s it?” Miles repeats suspiciously.

“That’s it,” you say with a nod. “I miss you.”

“That’s not a lie,” Remmick adds helpfully. You want to elbow him again. “(Y/N) keeps wonderin’ how you’re doing. I can’t get ‘em to stop, and Lord knows I’ve tried.” He flashes you a cheeky grin that you ignore because it’s not helping the situation at all.

“Right.” Miles doesn’t look convinced, but at least he doesn’t look like he’s about to try and murder Remmick. He sucks in a deep breath and lets it out.

You remember needing to breathe like that.

“Look, I want you gone,” he directs these words at Remmick, “but I don’t necessarily want you to leave,” he continues, looking at you. “So you can both stay, but if you so much as think about eating one of my guests…”

“Oh, no worries there! We ate before we came.”

This time, you do elbow Remmick. Hard.

“We won’t, I promise,” you tell Miles. “And we won’t stay super long, either.”

“Got a boat to catch,” Remmick says.

“A boat? Where?”

“Ireland.” Remmick smiles, and this time, it’s not a smirk. It’s nostalgic and excited. “We’re goin’ home.”

Miles looks very confused.

“We’re taking once of those scenic cruises,” you explain. “We’ll just stay in our cabin during the daytime.”

You see questions all over Miles’s face, but he doesn’t dare ask them. You’re glad because you don’t wanna lie to him, but you also don’t wanna tell him how you and Remmick plan to gorge yourselves before the journey. “Oh my God, I cannot believe I’m having this conversation right now,” he muttered, putting his face in his hands. “Okay. Fine. Stay as long as you want, I don’t care. Just don’t kill anyone.” He peers at you through his fingers. “Consider that my wedding gift.”

You give him a smile. “Yeah.”

He glances towards the dance floor, where Blake is waiting, all the eyes on him. “Man, how the hell did we get here?”

“That’s a story for another time,” Remmick says.

Miles shakes his head. “Right.”

“Go dance,” you say, giving a little shooing motion with your hands. “Don’t leave your husband waiting.”

“Right.” Miles begins walking to join Blake, though he keeps turning to look back at you and Remmick, still standing under the tree.

“You ready to go yet?” Remmick asks, giving your waist a squeeze.

“Nah, not yet.” You watch as Miles and Blake take each other’s hands, to the claps of the other guests. “I wanna stay just a little longer.”

“Whatever you want, mo chuisle.”

You both stand there for the entirety of the first dance, then the second one, then the mother-son dances. When the crowd begins to do the Macarena, you beckon Remmick forward. “Let’s go say ‘bye’ and then we can leave, okay?”

He gives your hand a squeeze in answer.

“You heading out?” Blake asks with a grin. He’s got a champagne glass in hand. You smell traces of wine on the rim and on his breath.

“Yeah. We’ve got a long way home,” you reply, earning another squeeze of affection from Remmick.

“Well, it was great seeing you!” Blake turns to Miles. “Wasn’t it, babe?”

“Yeah.” Miles gives you a tight smile. “It was.”

“We’re so glad you’re not dead!” Blake continues. You, Remmick, and Miles all burst out laughing at that. Blake gives you all a confused look. “What’s so funny?”

“Babe, can you go get me another drink?” Miles hands Blake his own glass.

Blake takes it. “Yes, my love,” he says in an overly cheesy voice. You chuckle again. “Good to see you, (Y/N). Not so good to see you, Remmick, but I guess I can live with it.”

Remmick shoots him an affronted look, but you place a kiss to his cheek to cut him off before he says anything. “Bye, Blake. See you around!”

He raises both glasses in farewell as he departs.

“Am I a bad friend if I say I lowkey hope we don’t see you around?” Miles asks as he gently brushes off the flower, adjusting it ever-so-slightly.

“Whaaat? After how well we behaved?” you tease, earning a small laugh from him. “Dude, you know I’m not about to eat you or anyone else.” I don’t eat people that I know, you mentally add. You snicker. Well, except Remmick.

You’re still not sure if Remmick is able to read your mind per se, but he flashes you a hungry look that implies that he can. You subtly lick your lips when Miles isn’t looking and you feel the desire radiating from Remmick’s eyes. If they’re glowing red, hopefully no one notices.

“Right,” Miles drawls. He lets go of the flower and opens his arms. “You gonna bite me if I ask for a hug?”

“Nah, I don’t bite married men,” you joke as you hug him.

Remmick makes a sound of protest that you silence with a glare. Don’t you dare interrupt my moment, you tell him, in mind and in eyes. He pouts but says nothing as you and Miles pull away from each other.

“Don’t I get a hug?” Remmick asks, holding his arms out.

“Fuck no,” Miles tells him, closing his arms fast and taking a step back. “Have, uh, a safe trip?”

“Maybe we’ll let you know where we are once we figure out what exactly we’re doing,” you say with a smile. You feel Remmick tugging at your mind, but you’re hesitating, delaying the departure. It’s not enough time. You probably won’t see Miles for years.

“Yeah. Maybe we’ll come visit.” His tone wobbles in the lie. You feel the smile on your face cracking.

“Yeah. I’d like that.” You finally take your step backwards, away from Miles, towards Remmick. “Bye, Miles. Enjoy the honeymoon.”

You sweep him into another sudden hug that he returns with enthusiasm. Vampires don’t cry, but they feel sadness, and that sadness is crushing you right now, right in the chest where your heart used to beat. It’ll be okay once you leave, but in this moment, you feel the deep hole where Miles used to be. “Bye,” you whisper, ignoring the sound of the blood pulsing through his veins.

“Bye,” he whispers back.

You withdraw. Remmick reaches for you, and you take his arm in yours. “Alright, let’s go home,” you tell your vampire husband.

Remmick’s eyes flash with something—pity?—but he nods. You know you can’t jump into the air in view of everyone, so you’ll have to walk to a secluded location first. The two of you pass through the crowd of humans laughing, swaying together as they cherish life.

You drag your feet, watching them dance in the soft light. There’s a waning moon above, the pale beams offering little light to the wedding reception.

As you reach the gate that leads to the gravel parking lot, a familiar tune begins to play. Copperhead Road. You stop, turn around. Your legs ache to stomp, kick, repeat.

Remmick, surprisingly, doesn’t try to pull you into the darkness. Instead, he lets go of your arm and comes around in front of you, the glow of the party giving him a sort of halo. “Y’know, I heard Miles tellin’ some people that they couldn’t leave without a dance first,” he says, tilting his head at you and scratching it.

“Yeah?”

“Yep.” He gives you a toothy grin. “I reckon we oughta follow the groom’s wishes. You know, to honor your friendship with him and all that.”

You swear you feel a little flutter in your chest where your heart used to beat. “Oh, really?”

He holds out his hand, curling his fingers in an offer. “May I have this dance, (Y/N)?”

“You remember how to do this?” you ask, setting your hand in his.

A memory of watching you dance to Copperhead Road at Wildhearts flashes in both of your heads. He winks as the memory fades.

“Oh, I reckon so.”

With a giddy laugh, you pull him towards the dance floor.

[j1gsawz]

it would be so funny if joyce and hopper had just forgotten henry’s name then they realize vecna is that weird ass kid they went to school with for like a month during their senior year and they lose their fucking shit

[cherryhatter-deactivated2015072]

KICK THE CAN!

Let’s play the biggest game of kick the can on the internet.

To kick the can, reblog it. I wanna see how long this can go on for.

[visibun]

the oldest reblogs for this post that i can find are from january 2nd of 2013. this can has been getting kicked around tumblr for almost 13½ years now

[drtanner]

And yet somehow this is my first time kicking it!

[wordfather]

idk if this is an usamerican thing or not but it always blows my mind as a small european country resident that yall have many names and types of apples???? what do you mean its not just red yellow or green??? why is it so complicated??? who is granny smith????

[wordfather]

'whats your favorite apple' 'red' 'no i mean like what type' '??????' actual conversatiom i've had with a mutual from usa

[wordfather]

THIRTY TWO??????

[phillyphillyphilly]

Listen that doesn’t even account for all the weird shit local farmers are getting up to.

May I present the best apple:

[wordfather]

the world is so big and beautiful

[venndaai]

have you guys heard about the greenland shark. some crazy shit happening there.

[venndaai]

they are sexually mature at ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY YEARS OLD.

their (live!) young gestate for. wait for it. eight to eighteen (??) YEARS. can have up to 10 at a time. good grief.

longest lifespan of any vertebrate, up to five hundred years

toxic flesh

has giant eyes but is usually blind because of a weird little crustacean that's evolved to live on and eat their eyes. this doesn't seem to bother them much.

lives in deep cold water and has the lowest swim speed and tail-beat frequency for its size across all fish species. just generally lives life in extreme slow motion

largest genome of any shark

eats everything including moose and polar bears

ma'am you are delightfully strange and I'm privileged to share a planet with you

[fluorescentbrains]

this post prompted me to refresh my memory on Greenland Shark Facts and this detail about how they feed goes so hard

just vacuuming up their unsuspecting prey. whole !

[muffinlance]

Good news good news good news! Recent research suggests the eye parasites do NOT blind them!

Eye-opening research: Greenland sharks maintain vision for centuries through DNA repair mechanism

Dorota Skowronska-Krawczyk sits in her office, eyes fixed on the computer monitor in front of her. "You see it move its eye," says the UC Ir

I <3 you a normal amount Greenland sharks

[yueecakes]

let's cyberbully with papa

[buttpoems]

[milflaralorvan-deactivated20231]

when you see your little kitty walking toward you at a leisurely pace and say "hi baby!" bc you're excited to see her and she starts trotting a little bit faster 'cause she's excited to see you too. that's what life is all about i think

[darkwing-katy]

Fighting for my life here in that I told myself I cannot rewatch The Bone Temple until after I finish the book I’m writing because I *know* I’ll wanna abandon everything and work on the Jimmy Crystal fic ideas I have

but I cannot! I have other things I need to complete!

and so as a reward to myself, I will watch The Bone Temple when and only when I have finished my Remmick x Reader fic and my original book.

(but dammit, I had a dream about Jimmy and it’s really eating away at my self-control, especially cause the dream is 100% a scene I’m gonna have to write in one of the fics)

[darkwing-katy]

Guess who’s finished writing her Remmick x Reader fic AND her original book?

The real question is can I wrangle the Jack O’Connell hyperfixation back to get these Jimmy fics written? Stay tuned. Got a loooong train ride tomorrow…

[noah-wyles]

she's the best of us

[darkwing-katy]

The Stalker’s Tango XX

Pairing: Remmick x Gender Neutral Reader

Word Count: 5,251

Summary: As an avid fan of Dancing with the Stars, you’ve resigned yourself to the fact that the closest you’ll ever get to that ballroom floor is the line dancing during Country Music Night at your favorite bar. One night, your best friend points out the man watching you dance and convinces you to chat with him. Unfortunately, you find out too late just how bad of an idea that might’ve been. But once you dance with the Devil, it’s kinda hard to stop.

Author Notes: Welp, this is it, y’all. The last chapter. There will be an epilogue next week, but other than that, this is the end. Dang. Now I’m a little sad. Thanks for joining me on the ride as we all fall prey to Remmick’s machinations!

Also I have tried my best to do justice to the dance scenes in this chapter, but I am not an expert; I am merely a nerd who loves Dancing with the Stars and watches far too many YouTube videos on how to do certain moves.

Previous Chapter

You give yourself two weeks to wrap your old life up. Remmick had said you could stay if you wanted, but you don’t think it’s a good idea. No, it’s better to cut the cords.

You turn in your two weeks’ notice on a day when Miles isn’t there. It’s cowardly, sure, but you have no fuckin’ clue how you’d even begin to explain this to him. He’ll figure it out.

As for Angelina, she’s been unusually quiet since the night Remmick went to her place. She’s sent you a couple of texts to check in, but she’s not trying to apologize or anything like that. You know this means that she realizes she’s royally fucked up, but you can’t bring yourself to care about it. Why waste time hating her when you’re never gonna see her again? Nah, best to cherish the time you have left.

The finale of Dancing with the Stars airs. You and Remmick watch it together, dissecting the dances, yelling at the audience to shut up, cheering for your favorites. Everyone does a great job. Rick wins, of course, with Rebekah as the runner-up. Not surprising, but you’re still glad he won, even if that’s overshadowed by your looming death.

And then you finish everything. Well, ‘everything’ is probably a bit broad, but you’ve wrapped things up for the most part. The apartment is the only thing left, but that can be dealt with…after.

Remmick has been unusually soft with you. You know he’s excited, eager, but he’s restraining himself. He doesn’t ask why there’s occasional tears freaking down your face. He doesn’t try to canoodle with you. Doesn’t try to tell you that everything’s gonna be alright, that you’re needlessly freaking out. No, he’s quiet and simply…there. He rubs your back while you cry, makes you food, watches whatever you wanna watch in the evenings. You’re the one who leans on him, who clings to his torso and digs your face into his chest, inhaling his scent and wondering how silent the world will be when you no longer have a heartbeat pulsing in your ears.

He is your anchor, keeping you from being washed away even as he drowns you.

In no time at all, the day arrives. Well, the night, that is. You spend your time out on the balcony, relishing the sunlight on your skin despite the chilled November air. As the sun begins to sink in the evening, you can’t help but hate it for daring to set. If it could only hover in the sky for longer, prolonging the inevitable, then maybe you could forgive it. Acceptance doesn’t mean there’s a lack of bitterness.

How many times have you watched the sunset without appreciating it? How may times have you witnessed the transition of vibrant oranges, dandelion yellows, and neon pinks into the soft periwinkles, deep indigos, and nearly-black navy of night? How many times have you watched stars come out, brightest to dimmest, and never fully understood how magical that was?

Past you was an absolute fool, in more ways than one.

The sun sinks below the horizon and you hate it. The balcony door opens, closes behind you. You feel Remmick sitting behind you, but he doesn’t speak. He’s got nothing but time. The wind blows, light at first, then harder, colder, almost like it wants you to go inside. You ignore it. The air itself will not tell you when it’s time to die. You can do that on your own.

The stars peek out, dozens of glittering celestial bodies watching, waiting. They all must be so much older than Remmick. How long will you live your new life with him? Will those stars still be there? Will they burn out before you do?

The wind picks up, chilling you, making you shiver as your skin breaks out in goosebumps. Your teeth are beginning to chatter, but dammit, you’re not ready, not yet.

Something soft drapes over your shoulder. A blanket. Remmick has placed a blanket on you, allowing you to remain outside for a while longer.

That makes your eyes sting in both hatred and gratefulness. You despise him and love him all the more for his silence, for his patience, for the illusion of choice that’s fractured by the harsh reality that you, (Y/F/N) (Y/L/N), are going to die tonight.

What if you stayed out here all night? What if you refused to go inside? What if you tried to freeze yourself to death instead?

Questions, questions, questions. Yet even as you wonder, you know without a shadow of a doubt that Remmick wouldn’t let you get away so easily. He’d made a promise that he fully intended to keep.

Without a word, you stand, feeling your joints pop as you do so. You open the balcony door and head to the couch, dropping the blanket to the ground. Remmick follows, closing the door behind you both. You hate that you can feel his anticipation without looking at him. You hate the way your own heart is pounding in anticipation as well.

He sits down first. You automatically sit down next to him and lean against him with a sigh. He puts an arm around you, then lifts you onto his lap, where he holds you tight to his chest. You don’t resist. There’s no point. He nuzzles your neck, inhales deeply. You half-expect to feel drool, but there’s none of that. He simply begins combing his fingers through your hair, soothing you, calming you. It doesn’t stop your eyes from welling up, though.

It’s not until your heartbeat calms down that you dare to speak. “Will it hurt?” you ask. God, your voice sounds so tiny.

“Yes,” he replies, equally soft.

You wish he would’ve lied to you.

“Will you—will you stay with me?”

He pulls you closer, tighter. His mouth moves against your neck. “Of course I will.”

The tears are threatening to spill over. You lift your head to stare out the balcony, wishing with every fiber of your being that time could reverse, that the sun would come back up, giving you one more day, one more hour, one more minute.

You inhale a shaky, watery sigh. “Okay, then. Let’s—let’s get this over with.”

“Will you look at me?” How dare he sound so melancholy? How dare he try to mimic your sadness?

No, you want to tell him. Just because you’re about to say yes doesn’t mean you have to look into his stupid eyes while he consumes everything that makes you you.

Your head slowly turns to look at him. His eyes are dark, no fangs, no drool. He looks…human.

Just for a moment, as your eyes meet, you envision a life where he wasn’t a vampire. You picture how the two of you might’ve met, might’ve dated, broken up, come back together. Maybe even gotten married in the future. You can see the wedding, actually, can see Miles and Blake cheering and clapping, can see Angelina doing her damndest to not take the spotlight off of you. You see a lifetime with Remmick in those eyes, one full of dance classes and joy and walks along the roads of Ireland, of pubs with traditional songs being sung with such enthusiasm that you can’t help but shout along even without knowing the words.

“(Y/N), will you dance with me?” Remmick asks. Neither of you blink, neither of you move.

“Yes.” It somehow comes out strong, firm. Is that you or is it the geis or is it the handfast? You may never fully know.

The air between you both is still for a moment before Remmick closes the gap, pressing his lips to yours. The tears finally break free as you kiss him back, moving to make yourself more comfortable on his lap. One of your hands tangles into his hair, digging into his scalp. The other hand curves along the back of his neck and presses in an attempt to get closer to him. Meanwhile, one of his hands is under your chin while the other is at the small of your back, eagerly assisting in your desire for closeness. You close your eyes, trying desperately to hold onto this moment, this final bit of humanity between the two of you.

But then your lips scrape against something sharp. You taste blood at the same time as the stinging starts, and you pull back.

Remmick’s eyes are a burning red, his teeth wicked and curved. Blood—your blood—is on the tips of a few teeth, resembling lipstick. You watch as his tongue licks the blood off, and his eyes flutter as he lets out a deep sigh. “Oh, I have been waiting for that,” he says, his voice husky, “for so long.”

You lick your lips, the coppery taste blooming on your tongue.

Remmick growls at the sight, sitting up as he does so, his hands latched onto your hips. “Mine,” he hisses before lunging at you, smashing his lips and fangs against your mouth. You feel his tongue tracing along your lips, eagerly lapping up any remaining blood. You squirm, unprepared for this level of ferocity, but you’re stuck in place. You can feel his erection growing as he sucks, his lips tugging at yours in a last bid for anything left, but the bleeding has stopped. He pulls away, disappointment lacing his forehead.

You swallow. You want to say something, but nothing comes out. There’s no thoughts in your brain, nothing except him staring at you, hungry, reverent.

“Give me yer hand,” he commands.

You do. Remmick holds it with one hand, still keeping you trapped on his lap with the other, and presses it to his mouth. His lips are warm from your body heat, but it doesn’t stop the shiver that shudders through your body at the sensation. “Mine,” he repeats, kissing your wrist. You feel his teeth scrape against the skin. “Mine,” he says again, pressing a kiss a little higher, a third even higher up your forearm. “Mo chuisle.”

Your heartbeat thrums, your cheeks searing. You suddenly, crazily, want him to keep going. You want him to kiss the entirety of your body, to whisper, “Mine,” over and over again as he claims each and every part for himself.

“Yours,” you agree. His eyes flick to you, like he hadn’t expected you to say anything. You see the way the hunger has deepened in the glowing red. “Yours,” you repeat, bolder.

His face cracks into a wide grin. “Yes,” he says, mouth hovering over your wrist again, and then he bites.

You cry out in pain. He hadn’t lied; it hurts. His teeth tear your skin apart easily, finding the veins beneath and sucking. You wonder how long it’ll take before your heart flutters in panic, before your brain fully realizes it’s doomed. How much longer do you have left to live?

As it turns out, not long enough. Remmick is clearly savoring your blood, but he’s also hungry as hell, and before too long, you’re feeling sleepy. Your head feels heavy, like gravity has increased tenfold. It’s hard to sit up. If Remmick weren’t holding you in place, you’d probably slump to the floor.

There’s lightheadedness and dizziness, too. Both contribute to your inability to keep upright. With nothing better to do for support, your lean your head against Remmick’s shoulder, your face buried in the crook of his neck. His arm moves up your back to cradle you in place, the other arm still holding your wrist to his mouth.

The room feels colder now than it was before. You try to shiver but your body can’t do it. With a sigh, you close your eyes. So this is it, you think. This is what dying feels like.

Spots swirl behind your lids. Your heart feels sluggish. You’d thought it’d be freaking out, panicking, but no, it’s simply…slowing. Between each beat, it feels like it takes a few seconds longer. The world is dimmer. You can’t hear much aside from the sucking noises coming from Remmick. He continues to hold you up, his arm curving over you as he drinks.

It’s hard to form coherent thoughts. It’s all a jumble. Memories flicker across your closed eyelids, but you’re struggling to distinguish any of them. There’s Angelina, grinning at you when you meet for the first time. There’s Miles, rolling his eyes as someone makes a horrible jab about him being gay. There’s Wildhearts, the lights flashing, the bass line pounding, the boots clacking.

And there’s Remmick, watching, always watching, always knowing that he’s going to be your undoing.

“Yours,” you breathe into the darkness, aiming at the twinned red eyes.

Yours.

————————————

You open your eyes, startled. Something’s different, but what?

You’re not in your apartment anymore. You’re in an unfamiliar location, a place that teeters on the edge of your memory. You take a step forward, your feet clacking on a polished floor. Ahead of you, surrounding you, actually, are empty seats. You turn around to see a set of five stairs leading to a secondary stage, two staircases mirroring each other as they stretch up and out.

Why do you know this place? Your mind is foggy, the edges of everything you’re looking at blurring. You glance about some more in the hopes that you’ll know where the fuck you are. To your right is a long desk, three empty chairs behind it.

I know this, you think. I know this place.

You look up to see a massive disco ball hovering over your head. The bottom of it reflects the lights back down at you, sending them scattering across the floor.

“Would ye like to dance?” a voice asks. You spin around. A man stands in front of you, though where he’s come from, you have no frickin’ idea. He’s handsome enough, dressed in an off-white tuxedo and black pants. As he moves, you can see that he’s got a black shirt, or maybe it’s the lining of the tux, or something underneath his tux jacket and over a white shirt. He’s also got a black bow tie, which, for some reason, makes you wanna snort. His hair is neatly combed, and he’s extending a hand to you.

Well, that’s weird, but what the hell. “Yes,” you say, because why wouldn’t you?

The man grins. You place your hand in his and he pulls you close. There’s music playing from somewhere, soft, flowing, vaguely Celtic. The two of you waltz around the dance floor, which is crazy because how do you know how to waltz? You’re pretty sure you’ve never done that before in your life.

No, waltzing isn’t your favorite kind of dance. You like…you like…you frown, feeling your forehead wrinkle as you try to remember. It’s not that you don’t like waltzing. You do. But there’s another dance that you prefer. What is it?

“You look like you’re thinkin’ mighty hard about something, darling,” the man comments, and it’s weird because you could’ve sworn he had an Irish accent the last time he spoke. Is he Irish or not? “Penny for yer thoughts?” Ahh, there it is.

“I’m trying to remember—,” you begin, then stop. “I’m trying to remember something. Something…important, I think?” He spins you out, and you stretch your arm towards the judges’ desk as gracefully as possible before he spins you back in and into a deep dip. “I don’t think—we’re doing a, a Viennese waltz, aren’t we?”

“That we are. Why?” He pulls you out of the dip and you begin to dance around the floor again. How the hell do your feet know where to go?

“I don’t, I mean…I don’t—I don’t think I like waltzes?” You swirl around and find yourself facing the judges’ desk again. But how do you know it’s a judges’ desk?

The man tilts his head at you. “Oh, would ye like something else instead?”

The music crescendoes and then stops, a single string holding a note. When the music resumes, it’s darker, more dramatic. You recognize the tempo as one meant for a Latin dance, like a paso doblé or tango.

Wait, how do you know this?

The man releases your waist to step back, lifting his arms up as he does so. You mirror him, and he lunges forward. You spin to avoid him, lifting your foot and stomping it against the floor, a taunt. He’s still grinning but now his teeth look…sharp?

There’s a person in the audience, too. A single person, someone that you don’t recognize. Her eyes glow in the darkness. She’s smiling at you, or maybe she’s smirking? Sneering? You’re unsure. You’re too busy noticing the glowing eyes as you dance.

The air pulls at your hair as you spin around again. This is fun! No, wait, it’s more than just fun—it’s exhilarating. Yes, that’s the word. You know that you’re supposed to keep your expression neutral and intense in a paso, but you can’t help the grin that spreads across your face. The man matches your grin as he marches towards you on his knees, then hops up. The two of you interlock arms, slamming them against each other in a controlled manner.

“This is fantastic!” you tell him.

“Glad you think so!” he replies, beaming. Up close, you can see that his teeth are indeed sharp, curved, too, wicked fangs that fill his whole mouth. His eyes are glowing, just like the woman in the audience’s, but his are a bright, arterial red. You stumble a bit when you realize that, but then he grabs your arm, catching you, twisting your arms up as he spins you around the floor before releasing you, sending you sliding, just like Nev Schulman did to Jenna Johnson in season 29. But how do you know that?

The man jumps, his legs landing on either side of you as you look up at him and he looks down at you. His hair has come undone a bit, curling around his ears. A lock is plastered to his forehead. You want to brush it away.

He extends a hand, which you accept, and with that, he pulls you back to your feet, close to the chest. The music has morphed again, and as you two begin to tango, you spot more and more audience members, all with glowing eyes.

“Where are we?” you ask.

“Oh, you should know the answer to that, mo chuisle,” the man chides you. There’s a hint of disappointment lacing his tone. “I thought you were stronger than that.” Your legs step in several ochos, feet popping up in sharp, familiar kicks. You’ve danced this before. You’ve done these exact moves before.

And so has he. You’ve danced with this man in the past.

Which is why you know what to do next, which is to stop in front of him and allow him to pick you up by the hips. You hold onto his wrists as you walk in the air while he lowers you.

Daniella did this move on this season, you think as the man rotates you and hoists you into the air. And Remmick and I practiced it over and over again.

Remmick.

“Remmick?” you gasp as he sets you back on the floor. His hands hold yours up in frame, your bodies pressing tightly together. “Oh my God, Remmick?”

“Ahhhh, there it is. Knew you’d get there,” Remmick replies. “But you’re not quite done yet.” He doesn’t push you, but you feel the extension of his arms sending you away from him to give you the momentum to bounce back, using his foot to keep you in place. You kick your leg out, then hook it around his in a snappy gancho.

“Am I dead, then?” you demand. “Did you, did you—,” but you can’t finish the sentence.

His gaze softens. “Yes.”

You swallow. “So then I’m a vampire?”

“Yes.”

“But who are—,” you nod your head at all the people filling up the audience.

“That’s everyone I’ve ever bitten, and everyone they’ve ever bitten. Every single one of ‘em live up here,” he breaks frame to tap the side of his head. “And now, so do you.”

Just like that, the memories flood your brain. You’re still dancing, but it’s more like someone’s puppeteering your body as you process everything. There’s rounded stone buildings with thatch roofs, people walking about in clothing that looks like it belongs in a medieval movie or something. You spot Remmick, jumping in the air and laughing as he dances while a crowd watches. The memory-Remmick meets your eyes and then it changes to a stormy night, where Remmick claws himself up from the ground that he’d been buried in, muttering curses the whole time. His hands are elongated, and you feel his sheer hunger, his bloodlust as he lurches towards the village.

You see him running at night under the light of the moon, see him leaping into sky and flying under the stars, the wind in his face tasting of freedom.

You’re barraged with everyone he’s ever killed, filled with his despair at the death of his culture by the church, buoyed with rage at his inability to connect with his ancestors like he used to. You can see how he remembers being able to call on them through his singing and dancing, can see how he screamed at the waning crescent when he realized he couldn’t do that anymore.

Everything that was his life flows into your mind until you’re no longer you, you’re Remmick. Remmick and every single vampire he’s ever been connected to. You see their lives, stored in his mind. You can identify the recipes he used when he made dinner for you, the songs he sang that he stole from another mother as she’d soothed her sick child. You recognize the man and woman who’d come to your apartment for Sammie Moore’s guitar—Stack and Mary, and you know how they became part of the hive.

All the while, you keep dancing because Remmick wants you to dance, wants you to stay in his arms, and you can’t tell him no, not like you could before. His will presses into you, not exactly forcing you, but persuading you—this is what you wanna do, (Y/N). You wanna keep dancing with me forever.

The memories don’t subside. If anything, they intensify. You’re living all these lives at once, including yours, because Remmick can see your memories, too. He’s watching them and you’re watching him watching them and at the same time, you’re witnessing his perspective. You see how he found you, how he sensed the joy coming off of your body as you danced in Wildhearts. You see the way he decided he was gonna have you, no matter what. You see how he made a plan to trick you using a geis and a handfast, how from the moment he’d chosen you, you were doomed.

The entire time, you continue to dance, to tango, but the joy in it is a lie because Remmick is telling you to enjoy it, this stalker’s tango. You love this kind of dance, but being commanded to love it takes the exhilaration away.

There’s nothing you can do to stop it, though. Remmick is too strong, too powerful. Stack and Mary had broken free, sure, but that was because of their family. You don’t have that connection keeping you tethered to yourself.

“Mo chuisle,” Remmick calls, and now you know that means my pulse. “You’re stronger than this, I promise you. Fight me.”

I can’t, you try to say, but the words stick in your throat.

“Oh, yes, you can,” he replies. Somehow, he’s no longer in the white tuxedo. He’s in a light blue shirt and black pants that are held up with black suspenders.

I really can’t, you think. It’d be easier to give up, too. He’d won no matter what. There was nothing you could do to defeat him. You’d tried again and again and each time, he’d come out on top. You win, Remmick.

The tango cuts off abruptly. A fiddle plays instead. It’s joined in by drums and flutes and you recognize the song not because you’ve heard it before, but because Remmick knows it intimately, having stolen it from another Irishman he’d killed. The audience of vampires claps and sings along. Remmick himself lets go of you and dances, kicking his legs up, his arms loose, just like the night you’d had your first date. His hair is plastered to his scalp now but he doesn’t seem tired. This feels like finality somehow, like he’s celebrating his victory over you.

He won. He fucking won. He rigged the game, sure, but he still won. You’re his now.

He’s stolen your life and claimed it for himself, just like he’d done with all these other victims who were cheering for him.

A tiny bubble of rage begins to swell from somewhere deep inside. How dare he. How fucking DARE he.

He rocks back and forth on his toes, taps them rapidly, spins around. You watch in angry fascination. He’s still an amazing dancer, even after he’s consumed you. Nothing can change that.

He won.

That bubble of rage is tight in your chest where your heart used to beat.

No, he cheated. You’d seen it all—seen him plotting, seen him stalking, seen him waiting in the dark and watching you for weeks—weeks, before he’d approached you. And he’d had the audacity to let you approach him first, just to give you that illusion of choice, but there’d never been a choice in the matter, had there.

How. Fucking. Dare. He.

Remmick locks eyes with you and holds his pose, reaching out. “Dance with me,” he commands.

You begin to walk towards him but stop.

Remmick frowns, cocks his head at you. “(Y/N), come here and dance,” he orders. You feel him pressing on your mind, persuading your body to respond to him. Your legs take the steps, bringing you closer, closer.

The bubble ruptures, sending that indignation and fury rushing throughout your body.

The lights of the ballroom spotlight on the two of you, but it’s not bright. It’s soft like full moonlight. The audience is no longer in the sides, but surrounding you and Remmick in a circle, still clapping, still obeying. You feel how much they want to participate, how Remmick has convinced them to listen to him, how he’s manipulated them.

You search deeper, using the hive mind to find their residual memories of being human, of their initial reluctance to comply with Remmick’s wishes. It’s fuel.

Your hand lifts towards his. Your fingers graze his outstretched hand, and then you throw everything you have, all of that fury on behalf of the other victims, on behalf of you, at Remmick. He blinks, confused, and the fiddle music cuts off. You take a step backwards, then another, then another. The other vampires have stopped their celebration. They watch, wearing equally confused expressions on their faces.

“What are you doing?” Remmick asks. He doesn’t sound angry.

You stand apart from them all. Remmick has stolen so much from you. Your mind, your life, your whole world.

He’s not about to take dance, too.

You kick with your right leg, stomp it. Kick your left leg, stomp it. Repeat.

Then you kick your right heel out, bring the toe across the left knee. Repeat the motion with the other foot. The kicks and stomps echo across the dance floor as the hive watches you do the line dance to Copperhead Road all by yourself.

The music starts, soft at first, but you remember it, and that’s all that matters because with each stomp, the volume increases, a little at a time. It grows louder and louder, your stomps more and more emphatic, and then you’re no longer in the ballroom of Dancing with the Stars, you’re on the dance floor of Wildhearts. The ghosts of the hive watch from every chair, every available opening, and Remmick is standing at the edge of the stage. His head is still tilted, but a slow smile makes its way across his face as your kicks get higher and higher, amped up by vampire stamina. Your arms are moving with the momentum, a feral grin on your own face.

You could do this for eternity and never get tired of it.

When the music ends and you stomp for the last time, you’re facing Remmick, giving him the most defiant look you can summon. It’s tempered with joy, but this joy isn’t tainted by Remmick forcing it on you—this is your own. You found it.

The space between the two of you vanishes as you move at the same time, you jumping into his arms while he holds you up, both of you pressing your lips together. You feel his fangs scrape your lips but you have fangs now, too and they scratch against his, earning a deep moan from him that sends heat shooting through everywhere. This kiss could last until the world ends—neither of you need to breathe, not anymore, at least.

Remmick somehow manages to pry himself away, if only long enough to tell you, “I knew you could do it.” You feel the pride radiating from his mind to yours and kiss him again, harder, deeper. You want all of him.

You open your eyes and lift your head to see Remmick watching you with glowing red eyes. You’re back in your apartment. The light is nearly blinding, even though it’s artificial. There’s noises everywhere, too—thrumming, humming, footsteps above and below. You can hear the neighbors having sex upstairs, can hear the argument three floors down, the cars passing by on the road. You hear the electricity powering the building, the lights, the TV.

There’s a strange absence of something in your ears. It takes a second for you to realize it’s the absence of a heartbeat.

“There you are, mo chuisle,” Remmick says with a wide grin as he leans his forehead against yours. “I knew you could do it.”

“What do I—,”

And then you’re looking at yourself. You see yourself as Remmick sees you right now—messy hair, wide eyes that glow like his own. You feel his affection, how it demands that he remain by your side until the day you both perish. You can feel his desire, how he wants to fuck you over and over and over again until you beg him to stop, but how he also knows you never will because he is yours and you are his.

You expect him to rip your clothes off and fuck you right there on the couch, but no, he stands, tugging you gently to your feet as he does so. He leads you to the balcony, where he opens the door, allowing the night air to waft into the apartment. You smell smoke, asphalt, fast food, life. The moon shines down on you both as you step onto the balcony. Remmick climbs onto the railing and extends his hand again.

“Shall we?” he asks, that toothy grin never leaving his face.

You place your hand in his, returning his grin. “Hell yeah,” you reply.

You both leap from the balcony into the night sky, into your new life.

Epilogue