[rosiecherie]

rafe loves overstimulating you!

you woke up as he kissed you, soft at first, almost sweet. but his hand was already sliding down your body, his rough fingers slipping between your thighs before you were fully awake. you made a sleepy sound, trying to cuddle into him, and that's when you felt it, the cold press of silicone against your clit.

"rafe?" your voice came out confused.

"shhh baby," he murmured against your neck, clicking the vibrator on low. "just let me."

you moaned before you could help it, your body responding to the sudden pleasure. he pushed inside you slow, filling you up while the toy buzzed against your sensitive and swollen clit. it felt good, too good, and you were already clenching around him. "fuck, rafe, that's—"

"i know, honey." he cut you off with a kiss, starting to move inside you. "that's the point." the pleasure built fast. too fast. your hands gripped his shoulders as your back arched, and you came with a broken cry, your walls fluttering around his cock. but he didn't stop. he kept fucking you, kept the vibrator pressed right where you needed it least.

"wait, wait—" you gasped, trying to push his hand away. "it's too much, rafey."

"no it's not." he pinned your wrist above your head, his pace never slowing. "you can take it."

your second orgasm crashed built inside you before the first had fully faded. tears slipped down your cheeks as you shook beneath him, a loud moan came out of you. he watched you fall apart, his eyes dark and hungry, and he didn't let up. "r-rafe, seriously please, i can't—"

"you're gonna." he pressed harder with the vibrator, fucking you deeper. "you're gonna keep coming for me until i say stop."

your pussy was soaked, making wet squelching sounds with every thrust. you were already overwhelmed, oversensitive, and he was right, he made you come again, a third time, your body jerking through it as a sob broke from your lips.

"good girl." but he didn't even slow down. his hips kept slapping against yours, the vibrator never leaving your clit. you were shaking so hard you could barely breathe, every nerve inside of you on fire.

"please, rafe, please stop, i can't, i can't do another one" you begged, your voice cracking. tears were streaming down your face now, and you tried to move away, but his weight pinned you down. "yes, yes you can, baby." his voice was low, almost gentle, but his eyes were cold. "you're doing so good for me. just one more. give me one more."

"no, no, please" you sobbed, but your body betrayed you. the fourth orgasm ripped through you again, violent and uncontrollable. you screamed into his shoulder, your nails digging into his back as you shook around his cock. "that's it." he groaned, fucking you through it. "that's my girl."

you were a total mess. soaked, shaking, crying. every muscle in your body was tense, and the vibrator felt like fire against your clit. but he still didn't stop. he turned the toy up a notch. "rafe, no! i swear i can't—" you barely choked out, trying to clamp your thighs shut. he forced them open with his knees.

"you can and you will." he thrust harder, faster. "you're gonna come on my cock until i'm satisfied." the fifth one came without any warning, a sharp and painful surge of pleasure that made your vision go white. you couldn't even scream anymore, just a broken whimper as your body tensed up, pussy clenching so tight it almost hurt him. rafe groaned, pace finally faltering.

"fuckkk, there you go." he pressed down on the vibrator, grinding it against you as he came inside you, hot and thick. you felt every pulse of his release, your oversensitive cunt milking him dry.

when he finally pulled out and turned off the toy, you were limp, gasping, tears still wet on your cheeks. he kissed your forehead, soft and possessive. he smiled down at you, a perfect mess, all wrecked just for him. "see, baby? you can take it."

~~~

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[disastersareajoy]

Kinkmas Day 5: 

Stocking Stuffing

Thomas Hewitt x Fem!Reader

~ 4k words

Tags: established relationship, size difference, dry humping, nipple play, fingering, unprotected sex, riding, mating press, coming inside [so much damn come], multiple orgasms, dacryphilia, squirting, wet and messy, overstimulation, Tommy is straight lost in the sauce, sweetness, some aftercare, allusion to round two

Note: While there is size difference in this, the reader is not described physically as petite or small, I actually wrote it with a plus sized reader in mind though that's not particularly described in detail either. Tommy is about 6'5" and over 300lbs, even my 5'11" ass is small compared to him, so I'd wager the size difference still works very well

Oh shit, guess who's turn it is this Kinkmas day? The one and only Thomas motherfucking Hewitt! Round of applause please everyone for this delicious mountain of a man and the freak shit he gets up to.

Damn do I adore writing for Tommy, he is my fucking muse and I would do anything for him. Which is probably why this fic might be the messiest of the bunch yet, and why I love it so much. I hope you all will too, and will show some love for this man! Now go forth and enjoy!

Thomas Hewitt hates condoms. He never knew he could hate something so simple so much, but he did. He still let you put one on him before you had sex, understanding the comfort and protection it gave you but there wasn’t a bone his body that wasn’t dreaming about getting to fuck you without one. 

Would you feel different? Well, obviously, he knew it must feel different but how different? 

Would it feel softer? Warmer? Wetter? He wanted to know more than anything but the last thing he would ever do was push you. 

He still loved having sex with you, feeling you under him, holding onto him, letting out small moans with every thrust of his— fuck. Now he was hard while working again. 

Thomas huffed and dropped the cleaver that was slowly dripping blood from the blade to the table, wiped his hands off on his apron and went to leave the basement to look for you. 

He had an inkling for where to find you and felt his heart racing with every step he took up the stairs. When he walked into the living room he saw you.

You were bent over the coffee table that was covered in stockings, carefully dropping sweet treats and little bone contraptions into them. It was something you had started doing earlier in the year, gathering animal bones, cleaning them and using metal wire to bind them together into different shapes. The small decorations had started appearing all over the house and he cherished seeing them, seeing you spreading yourself all over. 

Another thing he immediately noticed that wasn’t helping the throbbing hardness in the pants was how the dress you were wearing was riding high and revealing your thighs to his hungry eyes. The winter didn’t get as cold as it did in other parts of the country but even then, the house was kept warm enough for you to not have to wear those skin thigh pants underneath your dress inside. Though he didn’t mind them even when you did since they left about as little to the imagination as when you weren’t wearing them. 

He walked up behind you and dropped his hands to your hips, slowly grabbing and squeezing the soft flesh under the fabric. 

“Hello Tommy,” you chuckled and finished filling the last stocking. “You all done downstairs?"

You straightened and turned around in his arms, wrapping yours around his neck affectionately. Tommy nodded and pulled you into him by your hips, pressing the bulge in his pants against your stomach. 

When you smiled wide at him he could feel a part of him melting, wanting nothing more than to pick you up and carry you away to privacy. He was still stuck in his day dreams of you bent over and moaning his name when you spoke again, “Let me hang these back up and then I have a little surprise for you.” 

Tommy tilted his head and reluctantly dropped his hands from your hips, letting you pull away to hang the now overflowing stockings back where they belonged. 

Next thing he knew you had wrapped your hand around his and were pulling him up the stairs to your shared room, locking the door behind you. 

“C’mere,” you mumbled and opened your arms for him to walk into. You wrapped your arms around his wide shoulders when he stepped closer and pressed a soft kiss against the front of his mask. He couldn’t deny how it made his heart sing whenever you did that, a slow burning heat spreading over his chest and face. He couldn’t have dreamt up someone more accepting than you, never pushing him to reveal his face, only cherishing whenever he took the mask off himself.

You walked him backwards until his knees hit the bed, pushing him until he sat down and was staring up at you with wide eyes. As quickly as you sat down on his lap, Tommy’s hands flew back to your hips, making a soft giggle escape your lips. 

Slowly and with deliberate movements you took hold of the skirt of your dress and pulled it up over your head, exposing your tits to Tommy who was at perfect eye level with them now. He couldn’t help his instinct and immediately buried his face between them, his hands shifting to your clothed ass and pulling you forward to grind against his aching cock. 

“Fuck, Tommy—,” he groaned when you whimpered his name, pulling you down onto him harder. 

Your hands found his on your ass and pulled them away, up your body and to your chest. Before Tommy could complain you made sure to keep grinding your hips over him in the same rhythm he had set. 

Tommy kept his eyes glued to your tits as he palmed them with his hands, slowly grabbing and rubbing against your nipples. You gasped at the action and arched your chest into him, your head falling back as you felt yourself slowly leaking through your panties. 

The two of you stayed like that for a few minutes, the man under you pinching your nipples between his calloused fingertips and minutely pulling on them to hear you whimper and sigh. He could never get enough of your noises, wanting to be the cause for them all the time. He’s had dreams that were just filled with you, laying on the bed spread out before him, beckoning him between your legs as you moaned his name so sweetly he woke up with an ache in his jaw. 

It was never lost on him how lucky he was to have you in his bed, and he always felt unbelievably honored to feel you like this. 

The bulge in Tommy’s pants was twitching with every slow drag of your hips and you decided to take mercy on him. You slowly stopped your rhythm and lifted off of his lap, smiling at the resulting whine from the man. 

“Need to take your pants off for this next part, love.”

As soon as you finished the sentence Tommy was up with you, tearing his pants off of his hips faster than ever, then taking hold of your panties and kneeling to pull them off too.  

He didn't immediately get back up though, he stayed on his knees in front of you, his cock hanging aching, red and leaking between his thighs, but he paid it no mind. 

Tommy pressed his masked jaw into your thigh as he lifted the other over his shoulder and ran his fingers through your folds. You sighed heavily and tried to keep your hips still as Tommy’s fingers explored the wetness of your cunt, eyes never pulling away. 

He slowly drew circles over your clit before sliding down to collect the leaking evidence of your arousal on his fingers, then he slowly pushed one into you. 

The feeling of him starting to thrust in and out of you already had your head spinning. 

Tommy was a big man, one of his fingers alone had your heart racing and your leg over his shoulder twitching. 

“Tommy,” you moaned and he rumbled in satisfaction at how broken you sounded when he only had one finger in you. “Fuck, just like that, love.”

You knew from experience how well Tommy responded to praise so you made sure to always tell him good he was doing, how good he was making you feel. And it was never a lie either, the man knew exactly how to make you putty in his hands. 

It didn’t take long for Tommy to slip a second finger into you while relishing in the gasping moan you let out, and how your cunt tightened and dripped around his fingers as he sped up. 

It was very rare that Tommy and you had sex without him fingering you open first. Partly because he simply enjoyed it so much, and you did too, and partly because it was absolutely necessary. 

When you looked down between Tommy’s legs you couldn’t help but stare at his cock, the way it was leaking precome onto the floor, how it was twitching a little whenever you moaned his name, and how it looked like he was absolutely throbbing with need. 

“So good for me, Tommy,” you sighed and watched as his dick twitched and spilled more precome, his hips tilting forward with it. 

You didn’t want to stop what was happening even if it meant finally having Tommy inside you again, his fingers just felt too fucking good the way he was curling them on every thrust. Not to mention how intently he was staring at your cunt and the way you were practically pulling him back in whenever he pulled his fingers out. 

But when you looked at his cock again you knew you needed him inside you soon or you would lose your mind completely. 

So you reached down and buried your hand in Tommy’s hair before slowly pulling him away from your thigh. The man groaned and looked up at you questioningly without stopping the movements of his fingers. 

“Want you, ah fuck, want you inside me.”

With that, Tommy finally slowed his fingers before pulling them out of your pussy, making you immediately miss the feeling. 

He got up off his knees and went to sit back on the bed, his back resting against the wall, legs slightly spread and cock standing proud and needy to feel you around him. 

Tommy watched as you walked over, expecting you to open the drawer of your nightstand for a condom, so he was very surprised when you climbed onto the bed with him. 

As you were crawling up his thighs he reached over to the nightstand himself, thinking maybe you had just forgotten. Once you were sitting on Tommy’s hips he turned back towards you holding a condom between his fingers. 

You smiled at him and took it out of his hands before unceremoniously throwing it behind you onto the floor. 

You wrapped your hand around Tommy’s cock and lifted your hips, lined yourself up and then slowly began sinking down until he was inside you completely. With a moan you let your head fall back and were slightly grinding your hips to get used to the feeling of Tommy filling you up which was always a stretch.  

The man under you couldn’t believe what he was seeing, hell, he couldn’t believe what he was feeling. Your cunt was so warm and hugging his cock like he had been gone for months. Tommy didn’t know what to do with his hands until they naturally settled on your hips. 

He let out a choked off moan before a string of questioning noise followed. 

You were still getting used to how his cock stretched your pussy when you looked back at Tommy through lidded eyes, “Surprise.” 

Understanding washed over his face before his hold on your hips tightened. When you moved your hips back and forth with more purpose Tommy groaned and his eyes slid shut, his thighs twitching under your. 

“Feel good, baby?” you chuckled slightly and kept moving your hips slowly back and forth. 

No matter how often you had Tommy inside you, the sheer size of him never failed to make you whine and revel in the stretch. He filled you so perfectly you swore you could spend a whole day just having him stuffed inside you. 

The need to move was slowly becoming unbearable and you lifted your hips smoothly before dropping back down fast and hard, moaning at the pang of pleasure shooting through your whole body and mixing with the slight feeling of too much. You started a slow but hard rhythm of lifting and dropping your hips, Tommy’s hands loosely holding onto your hips through it all .

The man was struggling to process what was happening, your cunt gliding over his cock felt so good he could cry but it was taking all of his brain power away from him. 

When his eyes wandered over your naked form, admiring how gorgeous you looked with your head thrown back, nipples hard and tits bouncing in front of his face, they finally settled on your pussy. He watched entranced at how your folds spread obscenely to accommodate the thickness of his cock, how your cunt was covering him in your wetness and making him glisten in the light. 

Your cunt. Your bare cunt. 

You could tell the exact moment it all finally clicked for Tommy, because he rumbled a deep groan, grabbed your hips hard and started driving his cock up into you way faster than you had been going. With your controlled pace gone, your moans turned into loud broken versions of themselves, echoing in the room and spurring Tommy on to move harder, to slam his hips up into yours with enough force to bounce you upwards. 

“Fuck, Tommy—,” the man in question groaned, interrupting you and making you whine with a particularly harsh thrust. You could barely keep your eyes open with how good you felt, having to support yourself with your hands on Tommy’s shoulders. 

“So good Tommy,” you whimpered and dropped your head on his shoulder next to your hands. 

The reaction from Tommy was instantaneous, a loud groan that turned into a broken whine as his hips stuttered. He thrust deep up into you a few more times before you felt him spilling inside you. Part of you was surprised he had even made it this long. 

You talked him through his orgasm, grinding your hips into his last few strokes and telling him how good he was doing. 

When his hips stilled completely and Tommy was breathing heavily you started lifting yourself off of him. He stopped you though, pulling you back down and making you moan as he bottomed out, a bit of his come dripping out of you and forming a puddle above his cock. 

“Good surprise?” you sighed and looked up to see Tommy nodding his head frantically, squeezing your hips and making sure you stayed firmly seated on his cock. You didn’t even care you hadn’t come yet, the warm feeling inside you was making your eyes unfocus and flutter. Plus, you knew Tommy would make sure you got to come afterwards, he had never let you go unsatisfied before. 

The two of you stayed like that for a little while longer, Tommy’s cock softening inside you and still filling you up perfectly to make sure your cunt stayed sensitive and needy to finish. 

You expected him to lift you off of him eventually,use his fingers to  make you come or his mouth, but he didn’t move, just kept his hands on your hips and let out small grunts whenever your pussy clenched needily around him. 

Tommy still couldn’t believe it actually happened and he didn’t want it to end yet, he didn’t want to lose the feeling of your bare cunt around him, the warmth and pleasure. He started slightly moving your hips back and forth, making you whine and dig your nails into his shoulders. 

“Tommy?” he heard you whimper in question, but only groaned in response, losing himself further in the feeling of your cunt. After already coming inside you he was sensitive, yes, but he knew he would be able to handle it for longer this time, and he would make sure he felt you fish with his dick buried deep inside you. 

You were completely unaware of this plan Tommy was already forming in his head, continuously whimpering at the small movements of your hips and how his soft cock was grinding along your walls. Oh. 

All of a sudden you felt him hardening inside you, the soft grinds making the slow pleasure shooting through you more intense again, your whining getting louder. 

Then Tommy was moving, he lifted off the bed with you still speared on his cock and his hands supporting your weight under your ass. He quickly dropped you onto the bed and lifted your thighs before pressing them down to your chest as far as they would go. 

Your arms were still wrapped around Tommy’s bulky shoulders and before you could say anything, the man groaned and pulled his hips back. 

When he thrust back into you the angle almost made you scream, and then Tommy kept going, setting a fast and brutal pace, the sounds of his hips slamming into yours echoing through the room and mixing with the wet squelching of your cunt. 

You were trying desperately to hold on but to no avail, your arms dropped from around his shoulders and you buried your hands in the sheets beside your head. 

Tommy was grunting with every harsh snap of his hips, relishing in every noise that escaped from your mouth. He was looking down at you which you didn’t notice since your eyes had rolled back in pleasure, and he was admiring how fucked out you looked. He couldn’t tear his eyes off of you because God help him– You were gorgeous.

When he leaned back just enough to be able to look at your cunt he groaned louder and sat back a little more, entranced by the way you were stretched open to accommodate the size of his cock. A ring of glistening wetness mixed with his come had formed around his cock and was making him drool behind the mask, your pussy was leaking onto the sheets and if Tommy had the ability to stop fucking you he would have leaned down and gotten a taste. 

He would lick up your essence from the sheets if he had to. 

Below him, you were moaning so loud your throat felt raw, your pleasured noises sounding more and more broken by the second. You swore you could feel Tommy in your throat with how deep he was stuffing his cock into you, how he was splitting your cunt open for him to bury himself inside like it was the only place on earth he cared about being. 

Your orgasm wasn’t a surprise, you could feel it building and tensing in your stomach, what was a surprise was how violently it hit you. It started suddenly and intense, making you sob out Tommy’s name like a prayer as he fucked you through it. Your thighs were shaking in Tommy’s grip, unable to close around his bulk, and your hands were digging into and pulling at the sheets like they were the only thing keeping you afloat. 

When your cunt started rhythmically squeezing around his cock, Tommy grunted and redoubled his effort, hitting the perfect spots deep inside you with every thrust and prolonging your orgasm until you couldn’t think straight anymore. 

You were sure you felt Tommy come inside you again, felt the unmistakable warmth of him shooting ropes of come into your used pussy, heard the slew of groans and grunts that always escaped him, but he was still hard, still frantically pounding his cock into you. 

Shortly after the first, a second orgasm crashed over you, the feeling of it making tears sting in your eyes before rolling down your cheeks as burning hot evidence of how wonderfully overwhelmed you were with the pleasure coursing through your body and making you feel better than you could handle.

Tommy didn’t falter once, he pushed your thighs down against your chest harder and bullied his cock into you through all the clenching your cunt was doing. He felt gushes of liquid spray out of you with every deep stroke and rumbled happily, looking down to see you soak the sheets and his hips as well as your own thighs. 

When you had come down from your second peak you were sure you couldn’t handle any more, but Tommy kept going. He kept up his pace, kept you pinned down and kept grunting whenever you weakly tightened around his throbbing length. 

“Tommy, I—-,” your words were interrupted by your own moans and whines but you kept going anyways, “I can’t, aah fuck, please. Tommy, please.”

What you had intended to be a plea for Tommy to come inside you again, the man currently using your cunt perceived as a request for him to make you come one more time. 

So Tommy let go of one of your thighs and slid his hand to your clit before furiously rubbing over it with just enough pressure to make more tears spill from the corners of your eyes. 

You truly didn’t think you could come again, convinced your cunt had done its job and done it well, but it was finished. Instead you felt a deep pressure where Tommy was pounding his cock into you and then you were crashing over the edge again. 

Unbeknownst to you, your pussy was gushing again, spilling over Tommy’s fingers which were still rubbing over your clit and spraying the liquid even more. 

You were helplessly twitching and shaking under the man, sobbing and moaning his name as you became more and more incoherent. 

The intense feeling of your cunt squeezing around Tommy’s cock so tight he was sure he’d not be able to move anymore soon, made the man drop over the edge right behind you. He thrust into you hard, pumping his come as deep inside as he could get, stuffing you so full that some of it was being pushed back out and dripped down your ass onto the sheets. 

Tommy was groaning and whining above you, lost in pleasure, but his fingers were still rubbing over your clit with abandon. 

You came twice more, making more and more of a mess out of both your hips and the sheets before Tommy softened enough to have to stop moving, burying his cock as deep into you as possible, and finally stilling his fingers too. 

When he looked back up at you properly and saw your face covered in wet streaks of tears at varying stages of drying, your eyes red, mouth open and drooling, he let out a series of concerned grunts and whines, wiping away the still wet tears on your face. 

“I’m okay, love,” you barely managed to whisper out and looked up at Tommy with a delirious smile. 

Tommy slowly let your thighs rest on the bed before carefully pulling out of you. He watched as an obscene amount of come spilled out after him, your exhausted whine mixing with his satisfied rumble. 

He couldn’t help himself and lifted his hand to run his fingers over your swollen and red cunt, making you gasp and your hips twitch away from touch due to oversensitivity. 

“Fuck, that was a lot,” you sighed and looked down at Thomas who tilted his head at you while stroking over your thigh slowly. 

“And absolutely perfect,” you said at his silent question and smiled softly. 

He kept stroking over your thighs while waiting for you to come down completely before picking you up and carrying you to the bathroom for a hot bath. 

He made sure to clean you thoroughly, not letting you do a single thing as he took care of you, cooing softly when you whined as his hand dipped between your legs to wipe up the mess there. The hot water was doing wonders for your tired muscles and used cunt.  

Once you helped Tommy clean himself up as well, blushing furiously when you realized just how much of the mess you were actually responsible for, you dried off and changed the sheets on the bed. Then you finally laid down with him with your head on his chest. 

“So,” you said while trying not to grin too openly, “I can assume you want to do that again at some point?” 

Tommy grunted softly and you looked up to find him nodding slowly. 

“Without those?” you weakly pointed at the nightstand where the condoms were hidden and Tommy followed your indication before snapping his head back to you, nodding frantically. He pulled you fully onto his lap and pushed his hips up into yours, letting you feel his quickly hardening cock against your still fucked out and sensitive cunt. 

“Not immediately now, Tommy,” you giggled incredulously, but let him turn you over to lay on the bed with your legs spread apart for him to slot between anyways.  

Oh well.  

Consider leaving a comment or reblog along with your like, they're always lovely to see. Eitherway, thank you for reading! <3

[cherry-lala]

Some things Don't End, They Echo

Part 1, Part 2

Pairing: Female! Reader x Remmick  

Genre: Southern Gothic, Supernatural Thriller, Dark Romance, Psychological Horror. Word Count:11.4k+

Summary: The dance continues in a world unraveling at the seams, where ghosts wear familiar faces and every silence hides a price. As Y/N moves through shadows thick with hunger and half-truths, she must decide what kind of freedom is worth the ache—and whether redemption can bloom in soil soaked with sorrow.

Content Warning: Emotional and physical abuse, manipulation, supernatural themes, implied and explicit violence, betrayal, transformation lore, body horror elements, graphic depictions of blood, intense psychological and emotional distress, explicit sexual content (including bloodplay, coercion, and power imbalance), references to domestic conflict, mind control, and religious imagery involving damnation and corrupted salvation. Let me know if I missed any!

A/N: Here it is—Part 2 (and the final chapter) to The Devil Waits Where Wildflowers Grow, the one so many of y’all asked for. I enjoyed watching this, even with exams beating me around. Writing it was a comfort, a catharsis—and your support on Part 1 meant the world. Thank you for every comment, like, and reblog. You kept me going. As always, I hope it haunts you just right. Again, Likes, reblogs, and Comments are always appreciated.

Taglist: @alastorhazbin, @jakecockley, @dezibou

The room smelled like lavender and starch, thick with the stillness only Sunday mornings knew.

Mama hummed a hymn under her breath, the notes trembling like moth wings in the golden light.

I stood still in front of the mirror, hands folded over the folds of my white cotton dress.

White gloves. White socks with the little lace trim.

The picture of innocence, shaped by hands that still believed innocence could be preserved if tied tight enough.

Mama’s fingers, careful and calloused, smoothed my sleeves. She tucked a wild curl behind my ear and smiled at me through the mirror — a tired, proud smile she saved only for mornings like these.

“Pretty as a picture,” she said, her voice carrying all the love and all the fear a mother could fit into a few words.

I blinked.

And the world shifted.

I turned in her arms, meaning to reach up and hug her.

But somehow, suddenly — I was taller.

And she was older.

Her hands trembled on my shoulders, confusion flashing across her lined face.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Mama asked. Her voice cracked at the edges. “Why are you cryin’?”

I hadn’t even realized I was.

A tear slid hot and slow down my cheek, dripping onto the lace.

Before I could form words, Mama gasped — a raw, wounded sound — and stumbled back, the white ribbon slipping from her fingers to the floor like a dying bird.

I spun toward the mirror.

And saw it.

Saw me — but not the girl I was.

Not even the woman I thought I’d grow into.

No.

The thing in the glass wore my face, but wrong.

Eyes black as cinders, ringed in a seeping red that ran down my cheeks like melting wax.

My mouth hung open — a silent scream caught behind broken lips.

The white dress, once so carefully pressed, now bloomed with stains the color of old blood.

Mama pressed a trembling hand to her mouth.

Her voice came out in a whisper too full of knowing to be anything but truth.

“The devil has visited you… and left a raven’s feather at your door.

And you — you accepted it.”

I spun toward her, arms reaching — pleading —

“Mama, no—!”

But the floor cracked open first.

A black mist poured out like smoke from a curse long buried.

It wrapped around her ankles, her knees, her throat.

Her body jerked once — then dissolved into ash, crumbling through the air like burned prayer paper.

And through the mist, a mouth formed.

That mouth.

That smile I had trusted.

The one that once whispered safety under the stars, now pulled wide in a predator’s grin.

The world tilted.

Blurring.

Fading.

I came back to myself with a ragged breath, choking on the thick air of a dark, unfamiliar room on the floor, cold sweat clinging to my back, the faint flicker of an oil lamp casting long shadows across the walls. The room dim and silent, except for the slow creak of wood… and the quiet hum of breath that wasn’t mine.

Sitting across the room, watching me carefully — was Stack.

At first, my heart leapt — a familiar face in a world gone cold.

I almost ran to him — almost — until I caught the gleam in his eyes.

Not brown.

Not human.

But white.

Blazing and empty as a snowfield under a full moon.

His smile stretched just a little too wide.

Predatory.

Slouched in the chair across the room, arms folded, watching me with a patience that felt wrong.

“What…” I rasped, backing toward the dresser, “what happened to you?”

My voice trembled. “What are you?”

The mirror above the dresser caught me just as I turned.

I saw my own eyes — or what used to be mine.

Pitch black. Red glowing like coals flickering deep in the hearth.

A fire that didn’t warm — just warned.

I stumbled back, mouth opening with a soundless gasp.

Stack chuckled, low and lazy like the devil warming up a sermon.

“I’m like you now,” he said, tilting his head as if showing off the whites of his eyes. “Well… kinda. He gifted us freedom. From all that heartbreak, all that heaviness. Gave you freedom the way you thought was best.”

Desperation gripped me.

I lunged for the window, tearing the heavy curtains aside.

Sunlight poured in.

It hit my skin—

and the world fractured.

It wasn’t fire.

It wasn’t pain.

It was terror.

Ripping through my mind like a pack of wolves.

The golden light twisted into knives, slicing into every hidden corner of me — dredging up every buried fear, every secret shame, every broken promise.

The sun I used to love—

the warmth that once kissed my skin—

now roared inside my skull like a nightmare I couldn’t wake from.

I collapsed, a hoarse, broken scream tearing from my chest.

Clawing at the floor, at the walls, trying to escape what was already inside me.

Stack watched.

Silent.

Almost sad.

He reached out with a casual hand, pulling the curtains closed again.

The light vanished.

I lay there, a trembling wreck, sobbing into the dusty boards.

Stack crouched low beside me, voice dropping soft and cold as winter mud:

“She’ll learn,” he said.

“This life’s better for her.

True freedom.”

His boots scraped the floor as he stood again, leaving me crumpled there.

The door clicked shut behind Stack, and for a moment, the room was quiet again — too quiet.

Then came the sound.

Soft boots on old wood.

He was here.

Remmick.

The air changed with him, thickened until it tasted like copper on my tongue.

He crouched beside me, slow and easy, like he was soothing a frightened animal.

His hand brushed against my hair — a pet, a comfort, a mockery.

“You’re all better now,” he crooned, voice low and soft enough to make my teeth ache. “Sometimes… the first taste of freedom’s too sweet for a belly that’s been filled with bitterness too long.”

I jerked away from his touch, scrambling back until my spine hit the cold dresser behind me.

The mirror rattled above it, showing me both of us:

Me — trembling, broken.

Him — smiling, patient.

Like a god admiring a sculpture he’d half-finished.

He didn’t follow.

Just stayed crouched there, red eyes gleaming like coals, eyebrows lifted in that innocent, boyish way that used to warm me from the inside out.

Now it just made my heart twist the wrong way.

Not because I hated him.

Because I still loved him.

And love like that…

It’s worse than hate.

It’s the knife you twist in yourself.

I choked on a sob, the words clawing free without thought.

“Why did you turn me into this monster?” I whispered. “This ain’t freedom… it ain’t even enslavement. It’s worse.”

Remmick’s mouth pulled into something almost pitying. Almost.

He stood slow, dust shifting off his shirt.

“I only did what you asked of me,” he said, voice syrupy sweet. “Don’t talk like I didn’t give you a choice. You wanted this, darlin’. You begged for a way out. I just made the decision easier.”

His words spun the air — circles with no end, no beginning.

“But it’s alright,” he drawled, stepping back, giving me room to breathe and suffocate at once. “Once I find lil’ ole Sammie… this lick of freedom will be just a taste of what’s to come.”

At Sammie’s name, my heart leapt.

He was alive.

Maybe others were, too.

I clutched at that hope with trembling fingers, already piecing together desperate plans. Run. Warn him. Stop Remmick.

But Remmick chuckled low in his throat, like he could taste my thoughts.

He dropped into the chair Stack had occupied moments before, sprawling like he owned the whole damned world.

“Oh, darlin’,” he said, voice dripping pity. “Don’t be so eager. Sammie won’t trust you no more than he trusts me. Thinks you’re the devil’s pawn now—”

“Fuck you!” I snapped, the venom lashing out before I could leash it.

He didn’t flinch.

Just smiled wider.

A crescent moon smile. Hungry.

“Aw, no need to get upset,” he cooed. “I’m doing this for the best, you see. For me. For you. For all those poor souls that ache for a world without chains.”

His eyes shone when he spoke. Like he believed it. Like he tasted salvation and didn’t even know it was poison.

“You don’t know what’s best for me,” I hissed, fists curling tight enough to split new claws into my palms. “You never did. You preyed on my need for compassion. For hope. Fed me lies, called it love.

You’re no savior.

You’re just a lost soul that drunk the wine of lies and deceived yourself.”

For the first time, Remmick’s smile faltered.

Just a flicker.

He dropped his gaze to his hands, turning them over slow, as if even he didn’t recognize what he’d become.

When he looked back up, his face was empty.

“Never said I was a savior,” he murmured. “Only came to set the captives free. To bring peace to a broken world. And…”

His lips twitched up again.

“Well, I guess I did come to save after all.

Look at you, darlin’. Finally usin’ that pretty head.”

He turned, heading for the open door with lazy grace.

“I’m going to warn them,” I spat after him, my voice shaking with fury and terror. “I’ll find Sammie. Even if it kills me.”

He paused in the doorway, looking over his shoulder.

A shadow stretched long behind him, darker than night itself.

“So stubborn,” he mused. “No vision.”

He tapped his lips, mock-thoughtful.

“But that’s why I didn’t turn you fully.

You fight too much.

You keep me… entertained.”

His smile sharpened.

“But don’t think I came unprepared, darlin’,” he said, voice sinking low. “When I changed you, I made sure you couldn’t end it easy.

Didn’t want you throwin’ yourself into the sun like some tragic heroine.”

He shook his head, tsking.

“I left you more living than dead. Call it mercy,” he said. 

His voice thickened, dragging the room down with it.

“And now?

The sun don’t kill you.

It holds you.

Burns your mind.

Plays every mistake, every grief, every lie you ever swallowed — on a loop.

That’s your true punishment, sweetheart.”

He stepped into the hall.

Paused just long enough to drive the last nail into me.

“Now you’ll finally see just how close you’ve always been to the devil.”

The door closed with a whisper of finality.

The door closed with a whisper—quiet as sin, soft as silk over a blade.

And I shattered.

My fists struck the dresser like thunder begging to be heard, splinters flying like a cry unsaid.

The mirror spiderwebbed outward, each crack a fault line in my chest.

The lamp flickered—once, twice—then danced wild shadows across the wreckage of the room.

Shadows that didn’t move like they used to.

I dropped, sobbing.

Raw.

Broken open like fruit too ripe for this world.

Tears carved tracks down my cheeks, hot as blood.

And in the fractured glass, she stared back.

Me.

But not.

Black-eyed.

Twisted.

Monstrous.

I had become the thing I swore I never would.

The thing I once pitied.

The thing I feared.

I had tasted freedom… and drank too deep.

And now?

The devil wore my face.

That quiet little sound—just a door closing—rattled through me like a funeral bell.

It echoed too loud.

Too final.

Like the world had whispered its last breath and left me behind to rot in the stillness.

I didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Not really.

The silence pressed in—soft at first, then tight, cruel.

Like fingers around my throat, wrapping around my ribs, filling the hollows of me where hope used to live.

Squeezing.

I backed away from the door on legs that no longer felt like mine.

My fingers shook—not from fear.

From truth.

Because I understood now.

Not just what I was—

But what I’d lost.

No freedom.

No peace.

No promise.

Just a hollow thing with something vile curling inside her chest.

A mistake dressed in skin.

I staggered.

My knees buckled, and the floor met me hard.

My chest heaved like it remembered how to cry for help, but the air wouldn’t come.

All I could feel was him.

Remmick.

Still here. Still everywhere.

His voice smeared across the walls like oil.

Like blood.

“You’re always closest to the devil.”

And that smile.

God.

That fucking smile.

My hands clawed at my chest, trying to hold on to something warm, something human—

but all I touched was the burn.

It pulsed.

Grief.

Rage.

The taste of love soured and rusted on the back of my tongue.

I choked on it.

Choked on the truth.

Choked on the ache of still loving the thing that broke me.

Because that’s what he did.

He cracked me open and called it mercy.

Called it freedom.

And I let him.

I followed him down, thinking his voice meant salvation.

And now?

Now I didn’t know what I was.

A woman?

A monster?

A memory?

Just a shell shaped like me.

I dragged myself to the mirror, arm trembling.

Bones screamed under skin that didn’t bruise like it used to.

And when I looked up—

She looked back.

Not me.

Not anymore.

Eyes like polished obsidian.

A red glow flickering deep inside like the devil left a candle burning just beneath the surface.

Like coals waiting for breath.

I touched the glass.

It was cold.

And it didn’t feel like mine.

And for the first time—honest and low—I whispered it.

“I’m not strong enough.”

Not for this.

Not for what’s coming.

Not to stop Remmick.

Not to bear this hunger in my blood, this weight in my bones.

Not when part of me…

still wanted him.

Still ached for the sound of his voice.

Still dreamed of his hands.

Still missed the lie of being chosen.

The tears came quiet now.

Not hot like before.

Just steady.

As if I was already halfway gone.

The room swayed, broken, tilting on some axis I couldn’t fix.

I curled up.

Surrounded by shattered glass

and the dust

of a woman I used to be.

Because now I saw it clear:

Remmick didn’t destroy me.

He rewrote me.

And I didn’t know if there was a way back.

Not anymore.

———

Sunlight. Soft, dappled through the canopy overhead like God’s own fingers pressed gentle against the earth.

I was little again.

Knees diggin’ into warm dirt out behind Mama’s house, the kind that clung to skin and crept under fingernails. The hem of my baby blue dress puddled around me, streaked with grass stains and the green breath of summer. My breath came light. Easy. Like I’d never known sorrow.

In my small, shaking palms, a bird fluttered. A little thing — brown wings tremblin’ like paper caught in a storm. It looked up at me with one eye, scared but still trustin’. Caught between dyin’ and hopin’ I might keep it.

“I’m gon’ fix you,” I whispered, voice soft as a prayer. “Mama says you gotta press gentle on the hurt. Let the hurt feel heard.”

I wrapped its crooked wing with Mama’s rag — one that still held the warmth of a stovetop — and moved careful, clumsy. My hands were filled with the shaky pride of a child who still believed love could mend what life broke.

“There,” I said, satisfaction curling around the word. “That’s better, huh?”

It didn’t answer, but it blinked at me. And that blink — Lord, that blink was enough. I set it down like I was settin’ down a blessing.

It stumbled. Hopped.

And then—by some mercy—it flew.

That’s how I remember it.

That’s the memory I held like gospel.

But memory lies.

Because when I blinked—

The world shifted.

The ground grew darker. Wet with somethin’ more than earth. The rag I’d tied ’round that little wing was soaked through — red and seeping.

The bird wasn’t flutterin’.

Wasn’t breathin’.

The rock sat beside it. Just there. Like it’d always been. Heavy. Stained.

And my hands — my baby hands — were red.

I gasped, staggered back like the sky’d tilted.

“No,” I whispered. “I didn’t—I didn’t—”

The screen door behind me slammed open.

Mama stood there, her eyes wide and wild, brimmin’ with fury and shame.

“You killed it,” she hissed, voice like the strike of a switch. “Lord have mercy… what did you do?”

“I tried to help—”

Her finger pointed, shakin’ so hard I thought it might break right off. “You ain’t no healer. You’re a curse.”

The words hit me like stones. Like God Himself had turned His back.

“No,” I breathed. “No, I loved it. I loved it—”

But her face blurred. The edges of her eyes twistin’, meltin’.

The memory broke apart like ash.

And when she spoke again, it wasn’t her voice.

It was his.

Remmick’s voice. That slow, slick honey-coat of a man born of sweet lies and sharpened teeth.

“You’ve always been a killer,” he said.

“You just needed someone to show you how to be honest about it.”

———

I woke with a jolt, lungs burnin’. Another nightmare. Another slice of hell carved from the corners of my mind. I sat up in that dusty bed, heart jackhammerin’. Couldn’t rightly remember how I got there — just flashes of me, scribblin’ out a plan on scrap paper, mind runnin’ circles ’round Sammie.

It had happened twice now. Slippin’ like that. Losin’ whole hours to black. Like my brain weren’t mine no more.

Remmick hadn’t shown his face since. Just leavin’ me to rot in that room, watchin’ from shadows, waitin’ for me to break in two.

And maybe I already had.

Maybe that was the plan all along.

I pressed my hand to my chest. Couldn’t even trust my own thoughts. They felt borrowed. Bent.

Before I could blink again, the house filled with sound.

A choir.

No, not a choir.

Voices — too many, too close. Low and strange.I rose, legs stiff, bones screamin’. Walked slow to the curtain, peeled it back.

Moonlight sliced into the room.

Out there, just past the tree line, shapes moved. Dancin’.

No.

Spinnin’.

Hypnotic. Like they was caught in some kind of trance.

I opened the window without meanin’ to. The music crawled in. Sank under my skin.

It sounded like sorrow strung with sugar.

Before I knew it, the house was behind me. I was out there — feet crunchin’ twigs, heart poundin’. Every step felt like I was bein’ pulled by strings I couldn’t see.

They danced in a circle. Counter-clockwise. Backward. Like time rewound and never stopped. 

It almost felt like how it was back at the juke joint, something spiritual. Like a copy to some degree. But somethin was missin. Like eating a lemon but the taste is sweet than sour.

And in the center — Him.

Remmick.

He was smilin’. Eyes like burnin’ paper under moonlight.

He beckoned me forward, just like always. And I obeyed.

He grabbed my arm, pulled me in close — too close. The others danced on, hummin’ Merle in voices that didn’t sound like they came from mouths no more.

“You feel it don’ ya?” he said, his breath warm on my cheek. “You feel this energy, this magic, but you also feel how somethin’s missin.”

I couldn’t speak.

Couldn’t blink.

“That somethin’ missin is Sammie and his gift,” he said, low and smooth. “And the longer we wait, the more time is wasted on not bein’ truly one family.”

“And we don’ want that, now do we y/n?” Mary’s voice cut in like a blade, and there she stood — eyes white, smile gone bitter cold. “We just want to be one big happy free family.”

Tears welled up, but they wouldn’t fall. My body — my soul — refused to spill for them no more.

Then the pressure cracked.

My voice came back, and Lord, it came sharp.

“You say Sammie is that somethin’ missin, or is it really because you can never invoke the ancestors — past, present, and future — like Sammie can? You can never truly have that, because the people you turned will never have that connection that drawn you to the juke joi—”

He snatched my face in one hand. Squeezed ’til my cheeks burned.

His eyes flared, teeth grit.

“You just love to run that mouth of yours,” he said, too calm. “Should’ve just taken over your whole mind instead of half.”

That grin — it weren’t playful no more. It was mean.

“Don’t forget who at the end of the day can break this pretty mind of yours. Did it once. Don’t make me do it again. It’ll be worse than what hell the memories the sun can burn in that head.”

He shoved me hard.

My body moved without askin’. Stepped right back into the dance. Circle never broke.

And all I could do was watch through the window like eyes of mine.

Watch the world spin the wrong way.

Watch myself disappear.

———

The moment I came back to myself, it was like the dark got peeled off my eyes. Breath caught sharp in my chest. I shot up off from the same dusty bed, fast but quiet, hands movin’ like they already knew the truth was waitin’ where I left it. Dropped to my knees and lifted the warped floorboard — the one with that stubborn edge I had to dig at with the crook of my nail.

There it was.

Paper, curled and brittle with dust, still hidin’ where I’d stashed it. I pressed it flat on the little nightstand near the closet, fingers shakin’ as I picked up the stub of that pencil. Lead near gone, wood splintered at the tip — but I didn’t care.

I had to finish.

Didn’t matter if it took blood instead of graphite.

I wrote fast, every word scratchin’ against the paper like a cry from my chest. A warning. 

Then came footsteps.

My whole body froze.

Heavy. Sure. Drawin’ closer like the tickin’ of judgment.

Quick as I could, I folded that letter, shoved it back in its hidey hole, laid the board back down — just as the door creaked open.

Stack stood there, leanin’ in the doorway like he owned the place. That grin on his face made my stomach turn damn near inside out. Like he was proud of somethin’ that oughta haunt a man.

“Remmick wanna see you,” he said. “Don’ want no trouble. Just talk. His words, not mine.”

I stood slow, my limbs feelin’ older than they had any right to. Didn’t speak. Just followed behind him through them crooked halls, each step echoing like the house itself was watchin’.

He led me to another room — one I ain’t never been in before.

No bed.

Just two chairs.

And a chess table.

Door shut behind me with a hollow click that made my heart skip. Then I saw it — and God help me, I wished I hadn’t.

Remmick was sittin’ there, leanin’ back easy like a man on a front porch. Blood streaked from his mouth down to his bare chest, open shirt hangin’ loose like he ain’t had a care in the world. At his feet, slumped and still, was a man. Facedown. Dead lookin. Neck at the wrong angle. Gone cold.

I staggered.

My breath caught hard.

“Oh, no need to be worried, darlin’,” Remmick said smooth, like we was talkin’ over sweet tea. “He just got too close to where he wasn’t s’posed to be. Guess he wanted to join the family.”

His teeth shone through the blood. Sharp. Too many.

I opened my mouth — wanted to scream, cuss, beg, anything.

But I couldn’t.

Somethin’ else stole my focus.

“Aw, darlin’,” he drawled, that voice low and syrupy. “You droolin’.”

I blinked — felt warmth on my chin, lifted my hand to find it slick.

Thick.

warm.

“No,” I whispered. But it was true.

“You just hungry is all,” he said. “Come here. I can share.”

And I did.

Or rather, my body did.

Dropped to my knees, crawled across that splintered floor like a dog he’d called home. Every movement wasn’t mine but felt like mine all the same. Like my soul was screamin’ and my limbs just smiled.

He reached down, fingers under my chin, tiltin’ my face to his.

“No matter how much you resist it,” he murmured, “it’ll push back ten times harder.”

Then he kissed me.

Deep.

Long.

Blood warm on my lips on my tongue , seepin’ into the cracks like it belonged there. I moaned — not from pleasure, but from the horror of likin’ it for a split second. My hands climbed his thighs, desperate and trembling, until they found his arms and held on like I could keep myself from drownin’.

When he pulled back, he tapped my cheek real sweet, like a man might to a wife who made his supper just right.

“You look so much better with a lil’ blood on ya.”

My chest clenched.

Hard.

But I didn’t let it show.

“Remmick,” I croaked, voice cracked open down the middle, “why you so hellbent on makin’ me more of a monster than I already am? Can’t you let me fake it — just a lil’, for my own sake?”

He leaned in close, voice soft but cuttin’.

“You ain’t no monster, darlin’,” he said, brushin’ hair from my face. “You just a step forward to bein’ a goddess — my goodness. And if you’d just help me finish the plan, well… the world could be ours.”

His hand cupped my cheek like I was sacred.

But his words?

They tasted like honey poured over rot.

And still — I let it coat my tongue.

Even though I could already feel the cavities settin’ in.

——

Remmick takes my silence as support. I don’t say a word when he comes back with newly turned people or when he’s off on the manhunt for Sammie. I don’t say a word when he seeks me out after another failed attempt of finding Sammie. I don’t say a word when he comes back blistered and burned from the setting sun, cursing that them Natives found him again killing Annie and Mary -though the weight in my chest lifted a bit at that, knowing they were finally free now, along with a few others he so-called new family, saying that we had to leave by sunrise or they will kill us all.

 So we fled my note left at the front door. A woman taking clothes off the clothing line from a full day's dry in the sun is who his next victim was. He easily overpowered her and changed her and when she stood back up knocking on her door her husband opened it and invited her in with no hesitation she then turned him. The house was free to roam now. The day passed with no signs of the natives in the area and as soon as night fell again, Remmick was out again hunting down Sammie like a man starved. 

He has become restless but so did I. After he left I waited a few before changing out of the bloody dress I’ve been wearing since that night at the juke joint to whatever dress was in the closet in the first room I went in. I threw on a dainty brown hat before walking out of the house to town. I squeezed my hands into fists hoping that Grace didn’t close up her shop too early.

Once I reached town, the moon was high up and most of the businesses were already closed. Some folks were still out, bringing shipments into the shops before locking up. I made my way to Grace's shop, the light inside was still on but the door was locked. I quickly but quietly knocked on the glass and waited. The hushed background noise of conversation outside filled the empty space. 

As I was about to knock again I see her silhouette come from the back making her way to the front. She unlocks the door about to make a comment about how the shop is closed but when she locked eyes with me she ate her words. She quickly invited me in before locking the door behind her.

“I got your letter, them natives dropped it off to me earlier in the day.” She said getting straight to the point. “You said very little in the letter but I know it’s more you couldn’t share on paper.”

I nodded with a heavy sigh before hugging her, a sob breaking from my lips.

“Things are so fucked right now, Grace, everyone I knew is gone.”

She comforts me, patting my back, “news broke fast at what happened down at the juke joint, people say it was the klan but didn’t find any body’s. I’m just glad you’re alright,”

“That’s the thing Grace, I’m not alright. Something changed in me and I can’t even trust myself but I know I can trust you.” I gave her another folded piece of paper that I quickly wrote in before leaving earlier and handed it to her. “I know you and Bo know where Sammie and Smoke are laying low at but I don’t want you to tell me just pass this note to him please.” She nodded as she took it from my hand, a determined look on her face.

“I have to go now but please be safe out there, there’s more monsters lurking out there than the klan.”

After our exchange, I quickly headed back to the house. When I reached it there was no one in sight letting me know Remmick was still out on his crazed hunt. I opened the door; I entered the home easily as it didn’t know whether to let me in or keep me out. The clothing I wore tore the veil and I slipped in like I never left.

I tossed down the hat on the table in the kitchen, making my way to the room to change back into my old garbs before Remmick gets here. I opened the door as I began to unbutton the front of the dress.

“Went dancing without me, darlin’?” I jumped in my skin at the sudden voice and turned slowly before making eye contact with the culprit.

Remmick sat in the darkest corner in the room, tapping his long fingers on the armrest of the wooden chair. 

“I-I” the lie was caught in my throat as he stood reaching my shocked form. His sharp nails digging into my side and I wince a bit in pain. “No need to lie darlin, I’ve caught you with your hand in the sweets jar.”

I pushed his hands off me as I created space between us, sitting on the small bed in the room. “You knew I wasn’t going to sit here and let you continue your manhunt for Sammie and do nothing about.”

“Who did you meet with?” He ignores my previous words, and I scoff a bit. “No one that concerns you or your heinous plans.” I spit. A choked noise came from my throat as he wrapped his hands around it squeezing it; I gripped his wrist to try to pull it off me but he only squeezed it harder.

“I just keep on letting you get over on me because I care for you and all you want to do is destroy this plan of mines. Don’t you get it? I’m trying to make heaven on earth. Didn’t you want that? “ he lets go of me before taking a step back looking away from my choked form. “I didn’t want that, all I wanted was for you to save me from my life with Frank, from his hands. But now I see it, that you’re no better than him. I guess the devil does come in many forms.”

He sighs before kneeling in front of me, leaning his cheek on my thighs as he caresses them, “I’m sorry, darlin’ I got ahead of myself.” His voice soft now, his emotions giving me whiplash, “it’s just I lost them all today, them Natives never left from checking the premises and they killed them all,” he sounded defeated and I felt elated with this information, he’s at his lowest right now and I can now carve his mind the way I need to.

 “Oh wow, I-I’m sorry.” I say sadly, playing the part as I run my hands through his hair in a comforting way. “Maybe we should lay low for a while so they can get off our backs. The more we rush this, the more we lose.” He groaned at my words like he disagrees or doesn’t want to accept it. “I can’t stop; I’ve gone too far.

 This is the time I’ve been waiting for centuries and now that I have the opportunity in my grasp I won’t let it slip from me so easily, especially when it’s right in front of me.” I sigh in my head at his words knowin’ it wouldn’t be that easy to persuade him but at least I tried on to the next plan. “Well let me help you find Sammie.” He lifted up from my lap quickly a suspicious glint in his red eyes. “And why would you want to do that?” I can see his walls begin to build itself up again so I quickly respond “because now I see how you truly care to give people freedom from their pain and chains in this world and the longer I sit back and watch the more I wish to make a change even if it has to be by this way.” I say like I was reluctant to the idea but understand him.

He looks at me with those pouty eyebrows like something softened in him from my words, “Darlin’ you don’t know how much I needed those words.” He reaches his hand out caressing my cheek; we kept eye contact before he broke it looking at my lips before locking eyes with me again. Remmick stared up at me like I was the sin he’d spent centuries chasing.

The room reeked of blood and tension, the kind that coils tight and doesn’t let go until someone breaks.

His lips brushed mine—brief, testing—before I grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled him down hard, our mouths colliding like a war. It was messy, greedy, all tongue and breath and teeth. He tasted like heat and iron and the kind of ache that never goes away.

Clothes didn’t come off—they were ripped. Thread popped. Buttons scattered. Neither of us cared.

He shoved me down onto the bed, hands already between my thighs, spreading me open with a growl low in his chest.

“You’ve been starvin’ for this,” he hissed, fingers pressing where I needed them most.

“So have you,” I gasped, grinding down on his hand. “I can smell it on you.”

He chuckled darkly and dropped to his knees, dragging me to the edge of the bed. His mouth was on me in seconds—no hesitation. He licked like a man denied heaven, tongue greedy and practiced, lips curling into a smirk every time I gasped or bucked or cursed his name.

His fingers dug into my thighs, pinning me open. I came fast, hard, writhing under his mouth—but he didn’t stop. Didn’t let me go. Just kept going like my climax was just an appetizer.

“You gonna beg for me now?” he murmured against me, voice wrecked and low.

I pulled him up by the hair and kissed him hard, tasting myself on his tongue.

“Fuck me,” I snarled.

And he did.

He bent me over, hand in my hair, other gripping my hip like he owned it. When he pushed inside me, it wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t romantic. It was claiming.

Every thrust was deep, brutal, intentional—meant to remind me of what I was, what he made me. My hands fisted the sheets, the wall, his arms—whatever I could reach.

“Look at you takin’ me,” he growled in my ear. “Body’s been beggin’ for me every night.”

I didn’t deny it.

Couldn’t.

All I could do was moan—low and guttural—my mind white-hot with the sensation of him hitting just right, over and over.

We flipped again—me on top, straddling him, clawing at his chest as I rode him rough and fast. His hands roamed everywhere, nails scraping, teeth biting, drawing blood that only made us crazier.

I leaned down, lips brushing his throat, and bit deep.

He gasped—head snapping back, hips bucking up hard into me.

His blood filled my mouth, hot and electric, and I moaned into the wound.

He grabbed the back of my neck and bit me too—shoulder, collarbone, throat. Marking me. Claiming me. Drinking me. His blood mixed with mine, thick and sacred.

“We were made for this,” he groaned. “You feel it too. Say it.”

I didn’t.

But I screamed when I came again, body clenching around him like it never wanted to let go.

He followed, snarling into my skin, coming deep and hard and endless.

⸻

We collapsed together, breath ragged, bodies slick with sweat and blood.

He tangled his fingers in my hair, lips pressed to my shoulder.

But I didn’t close my eyes.

I just laid there, heart still pounding, blood still thrumming, the taste of him thick in my mouth.

Because this wasn’t love.

This was warfare.

And I’d just given the enemy every inch of me.Again.

——

Two Days Later – Nightfall

The house exhaled behind me as I slipped out the front door, closing it with the kind of care that makes no sound—like I was sneaking out of someone else’s life. The sky was dark as velvet—the kind of night that clung close, hushed and watchful. Still. Heavy. No wind, no whisper, just the faint hush of pine trees breathing in the distance.

Remmick was upstairs, lying low like he said. Said the Natives were still lurking, waiting to strike again. Said we needed to be cautious. Said he needed me to go check the edges of the woods, see how close the threat was.

He said it like it was nothing.

Like he trusted me.

So I nodded and played the part.

But I turned toward town instead, boots moving quick beneath my hem, the cold dirt road swallowing each step. The air was damp, alive with the kind of silence that feels like it’s listening.

No one stopped me. No one looked twice. Just another shadow among shadows, passing quiet under the unlit porch lamps and shuttered windows. I walked with my head tucked low, hat pulled firm against my brow. I’d learned how to walk invisible.

By the time I reached Grace’s shop, the quiet felt louder. And I knew before I even stepped close—something was wrong.

The lights were out.

The door locked.

Stillness pressed against the windows like a held breath. No smell of boiling herbs. No faint silhouette behind lace. Just absence.

I knocked once. Gentle.

No answer.

I waited, blood rising loud in my ears.

I was about to knock again when I heard it behind me.

“Evenin’. Lookin’ for Grace?”

My hand fell, slow. I turned just enough to see the man across the street. Older. Thick coat. His store sign swung gently above him—dry goods. He was locking up, half in, half out the door.

I offered a nod. Nothing more.

He chuckled. Not mean, just tired. “She’s alright. Her and Bo both. Took sick, maybe. Word is she’s been out for two days. Bo’s been back and forth quiet-like. He’s home now. Taking care of her, I’d guess.”

His voice was casual, but it didn’t land right. My stomach pulled tight.

“Thanks,” I said soft, barely above the hush of the wind. Just enough to pass.

He tipped his hat and disappeared into the warmth of his store, door shutting behind him like punctuation.

I stood there a beat longer, just watching the door. The silence around the shop didn’t hum with illness. It hummed with absence.

Still—I crouched low and slipped the folded letter under her door. Just like before. Quick. Clean.

Didn’t knock.

Didn’t wait.

Just turned and made my way back to the house, faster now. The shadows felt thicker. The road shorter. Like something was following me home.

———

The house looked just the same as when I left it—tilted quiet, half-forgotten, the way places get when they’ve seen too much. The porch creaked beneath my feet, but only once. I pushed the door open slow, stepping into the stale hush that lived between these walls.

Inside smelled like wood smoke and old iron. The kind of scent that clings to grief.

Remmick was in the parlor, long legs stretched out, one boot propped on the table. He was toying with a deck of cards, shuffling with one hand while the other cradled a glass of something dark. His eyes stayed on the cards.

“Well?” he asked, voice lazy.

“Didn’t see no one,” I said, brushing my sleeves off. “Nothing but trees and dirt. Think they’re gone now.”

He nodded slow, like he already knew. “Good. Gettin’ real tired of lookin’ over my shoulder.”

I walked past him and sank down on the couch, letting my breath out slower than I should’ve. The fabric under me still held the shape of his weight from earlier. He’d been there not long ago, waiting for something.

His eyes flicked up to me once—just a glance—and then back to the cards.

“You did good,” he said. Smooth. Steady. “Ain’t nobody better I’d trust to check.”

I hummed, not bothering to answer.

He didn’t press.

Didn’t notice the way I dug my thumbnail into my palm just to stay here, in this moment, in this lie I had to wear like skin.

Didn’t notice how I was listening—for movement, for footsteps upstairs, for the scrape of someone else in the dark.

I leaned my head back against the cushion, eyes drifting toward the ceiling, where the wood grain twisted into patterns I used to trace in dreams. Now I couldn’t stop seeing them shift like they were trying to spell out a warning.

“You tired?” he asked after a while.

I shrugged.

Remmick cut the deck again. “You been quiet lately.”

“Just thinkin’.”

“Dangerous thing to do in this house,” he muttered with a smirk.

He tossed a card on the table face-up.

The devil.

I stared at it. Couldn’t look away.

He watched me then. Not just glanced. Watched.

I felt it.

“Somethin’ botherin’ you, darlin’?”

I turned my face slow, gave him a smile I didn’t feel. “No. Just tired. Like you said.”

He smiled back, like that answer pleased him.

But I could tell he was listening harder now.

I shifted on the couch and let my eyes close. Just for a moment. Just long enough to make him think I was at ease.

But I wasn’t.

Grace was missing.

Bo too.

Remmick hadn’t suspected a thing. Not yet.

But this plan I’d been shaping in shadows? It was slipping through my fingers like water, and I didn’t know how many more nights I had left before he caught me trying to hold it.

——

The street felt longer this time.

Quieter, too.

I walked with my head down, arms wrapped around myself like that could keep the ache in my ribs from spreading. Remmick was out again, gathering what scraps he could—new bodies, new followers, anyone who could fill the void of the ones he’d lost. And I was left to sit in the hollow of his house, mind chewing itself raw.

Grace hadn’t reached out.

Not a whisper. Not a sign.

Something twisted in me the longer I waited, and by the time I pulled my shawl over my shoulders and stepped into the night, I already knew I wouldn’t come back whole.

Her house came into view at the edge of the lane—familiar and wrong all at once. The blinds were drawn. The porch light was off. Stillness pressed up against the walls like something holding its breath.

I climbed the steps slow.

Knocked once.

Waited.

Another knock.

My pulse started up in my throat, heavy and loud, until—

The door opened.

And there she was.

Grace.

Same face, same eyes, but not the same woman who once whispered promises in the back of her shop.

She didn’t look sick. Didn’t look surprised.

Just tired.

Like she’d already made up her mind before I even got there.

“Grace,” I breathed, relief and confusion tangling in my voice. “I’ve been waitin’ for word—what happened? Are you alright?”

She looked at me for a long moment before she spoke. No hug. No warmth.

Just cool, clipped words.

“I can’t help you no more, Y/N.”

My breath caught.

“What?”

She crossed her arms. “Whatever it is you’re stirrin’ up, it’s followin’ you. You done brought danger to my door, and I can’t let it near Bo , Lisa or me again. Not now.”

I blinked, heat rushing to my face.

“But you said—Grace, you said if I ever needed—”

“That was before,” she said, voice hardening. “Before I realized what you’d turned into. What’s waitin’ in the woods behind you.”

She looked past me then.

Not at the trees.

At what she thought I’d become.

I shook my head, mouth parting, searching for words that might save whatever this was. “I’m still me—Grace, please—”

“I need you to go.”

And with that, she closed the door.

Didn’t slam it. Just shut it soft.

Final.

I stood there, staring at the wood, like maybe it’d open back up and undo what just happened.

But it didn’t.

The porch creaked as I sank down onto the top step, arms limp at my sides. The air had that thick weight to it again, the kind that made your bones ache like they remembered something awful.

My last string to Sammie was cut.

I didn’t even know if he’d gotten my note.

Didn’t know if he was alive. Or hiding. Or already lost to Remmick’s hunger.

I didn’t cry.

Didn’t have anything left in me for that.

I just sat there, for what felt like hours, until the wind shifted and I knew I had to move.

———

The house felt colder when I returned.

Not in temperature—just in presence.

Like it knew something had changed.

I pushed through the door, not bothering to close it quiet this time. The shadows felt heavier. My skin prickled like the walls were watching.

I drifted through the parlor, my steps slow, heavy. Sank into the couch, my eyes fixed on nothing. Time blurred. I could still feel the echo of Grace’s voice, the chill behind her words.

I stayed there until I heard the latch click.

The front door creaked open.

Bootsteps.

Remmick.

He stepped in with his usual ease, closing the door behind him. His shirt was wrinkled. Dust clung to his cuffs. His eyes locked onto me, curious at first.

But I didn’t give him time to ask.

I stood.

Crossed the space in three sharp steps.

And kissed him.

Hard.

His mouth met mine with that familiar pressure, warm and dangerous, and for once I didn’t flinch from it. My hands curled into his shirt, fingers pulling him down into me, my breath caught somewhere between fury and grief.

He staggered back a step with me in his arms, mouth moving against mine with a growl of surprise, then heat. His hands found my waist—firm, possessive.

I kissed him like I needed to forget.

And maybe I did.

Forget Grace.

Forget the weight of a name nobody said anymore.

Forget that I’d lost the only person left who believed I was worth saving.

He didn’t ask what I was running from.

Didn’t need to.

Because Remmick knew what it looked like when something broke in you.

And he knew how to kiss like it was the cure.

Even if it was just another poison I drank too willingly.

Even if I was the one reaching for the bottle Again.

———

I waited until the moon sat high and clean above the trees before slipping out again, coat pulled tight over my frame, the last chill of daylight still clinging to the edges of the wind. Remmick was still hunting what he’d lost — what he thought he could recreate with blood and sweet talk. He didn’t ask where I was going tonight. Just told me, quiet and easy, “Be back before it’s too late.”

Too late for who, I didn’t ask.

The road to town stretched long, silent. My boots crunched softly over gravel, a sound that felt too loud for the kind of thoughts I was carrying. I counted the minutes with each step, mind racing faster than my feet. I needed clarity. Grace’s face hadn’t left my mind since she shut that door in it. Something was wrong, and I couldn’t let it go.

I turned onto Main, the familiar wooden storefronts all shadowed in lamplight and memory. I spotted the dry goods store across from Grace’s shop — the one where that older man had spoken to me before. I approached slow, cautious. The windows glowed from within.

I stopped at the edge of the porch and knocked gently against the doorframe. Not too loud. Not too soft. Just enough to say: I don’t mean no harm.

The man inside looked up from behind the counter. Recognition lit up his face, though he squinted just the same, like he wasn’t quite sure if I was real or not.

“Evenin’,” I said, voice calm but low. “Can I come in?”

He hesitated for a second, then gave a small nod.

“Come in, sure,” he said, walking over to unlock the door. “Don’t often get visitors this late, but it’s your kind of hour, I suppose.”

I stepped inside, the warmth of the store meeting me like a familiar hush. It smelled like cedarwood, dust, and old paper — like things that kept secrets.

He moved behind the counter again, leaning slightly against it as he regarded me. “You lookin’ better than last time I saw you. Seemed a little… restless then.”

I gave a small smile, not enough to reach my eyes. “Still restless.”

“Ah.” He nodded. “Ain’t we all.”

I didn’t waste time. “You remember what you said about Grace being sick?”

He blinked. “Sure.”

“Well, I saw her. She ain’t sick. And she wasn’t surprised to see me. She just… shut me out. Like I was poison.”

His frown deepened. He scratched his head, gaze drifting toward the window like the answer might be hiding outside. “I don’t know what’s what no more. She and Bo kept to themselves the past couple days. Didn’t even open the shop since you came by. But I do recall…” His fingers tapped rhythm on the wood. “Something strange.”

He snapped his fingers suddenly, his expression lighting up. “Damn near forgot!”

He ducked behind the counter, rummaging through drawers and stacked papers until he pulled out a folded note — weathered but intact.

“Grace gave me this in a hurry a few nights back. Told me if a woman came lookin’ for her at night — to hand it over. No name, just a description. Figured it was you.”

My fingers trembled as I took it. “Thank you,” I said, voice soft.

He nodded, already turning back to wipe down a nearby shelf. “Hope it clears somethin’ up.”

I unfolded the paper with care, and Grace’s familiar script met my eyes like a balm and a blade:

Y/N—

He got it. Your letter. Sammie read every word.

I don’t have a reply from him — he didn’t risk sendin’ one.

Things got bad quick. Too many eyes. I’m layin’ low for now, maybe longer.

But listen close —

Sammie and Smoke are heading north. Five days from when you sent the letter.

He’ll wait as long as he can, but once the time comes, he has to go.

It’s not safe to stay.

I don’t know when you’ll get this, but you’ll have to move fast. Here’s where to look——

God keep you.

–G

The words rang through me like a bell toll.

Five days.

I counted backward in my head, trying not to panic. Three had already slipped through my fingers. Two remained — if I was lucky. If he was.

I closed the letter, fingers stiff, and slid it into my pocket with trembling care. I turned for the door.

“Thank you again,” I said over my shoulder, not waiting for him to reply.

Outside, the wind bit a little harder. I pulled my coat tighter and walked with purpose toward the alleyway.

No one followed.

The trash can waited like a sentinel.

I tore the note into pieces, sharp and fast, letting them fall into the dark.

Gone.

Gone like the chance I was clawing to keep hold of.

I looked once more at the glowing windows of Grace’s house in the distance. Still drawn. Still closed.

And then I walked back toward the house I shared with the devil — heart pounding like a drum, like war.

——

Remmick was still gone when I got there.

But not for long.

And the next move would have to be mine.

The plan was set. Rough around the edges, held together by frayed nerves and desperate hope—but it was all I had. Tomorrow night, it would be enacted. No more waiting. No more second-guessing.If all went well, I’d be gone.Possibly leaving Remmick behind. The thought pierced deeper than I’d anticipated. A dull ache settled in my chest, one I couldn’t quite name. 

I sat on the couch, the room dimly lit, lost in my thoughts when the door creaked open.Remmick entered, exhaling a sigh that spoke of exhaustion. He moved with a weariness that seemed to seep into the room. He settled into a dining chair behind me, the weight of the day evident in his posture.

“Things are moving slower than I’d like,” he began, his voice tinged with frustration. “People are hesitant, resistant. It’s… taxing.”

I nodded, offering a noncommittal hum.

After a pause, he asked, “Any updates on Sammie’s whereabouts?”

My heart skipped a beat. “No,” I replied quickly. “Nothing concrete. The town’s been quiet.” 

He studied me for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly. “You’re sure?” 

I forced a smile. “Positive. If I had anything, you’d be the first to know.”

He nodded slowly, seemingly satisfied.The silence stretched between us, thick and heavy. I stood, the need to bridge the distance overwhelming. I walked over to him, noting the way his shirt was discarded to the side, suspenders hanging loosely at his waist.His eyes met mine, a glint of red flickering in their depths as I settled onto his lap.

“Just wait a little longer,” I murmured, fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “Who knows? Sammie might just walk to you.”

He chuckled, the sound low and rough. His hand found my waist, pulling me closer.

“Or maybe I’ll find him,” he said, voice a whisper against my skin, “because I never lost him.”

A shiver ran down my spine. I silenced him with a kiss, desperate to drown out the implications of his words. I didn’t want to hear the rest. Didn’t want to know if he was bluffin’ or boastin’.I just needed to forget.

I slid off his lap, down to my knees between his thighs. My hands moved on instinct, unfastening the button at his waist, pulling the fabric down slow. His cock was already half-hard, twitching to life under my touch.

Remmick watched me with a quiet, ravenous hunger, his eyes flickering red like they remembered old wars.

“You sure about this?” he murmured, voice dipped in syrup.

“No,” I whispered. “But I ain’t stoppin’.”

I wrapped my lips around him, taking him slow, tasting the salt and musk of him as I worked my tongue down his shaft. His head fell back, a low groan rumbling from his chest. His hand curled into my hair, not pushing—just there. Guiding. Praising.I sucked harder, deeper, letting him hit the back of my throat, letting him feel every inch of my want and denial.

He cursed, low and shaky. “Fuck, darlin’. You feel like you’re prayin’ with your mouth.”

His hips rolled, shallow thrusts meeting the rhythm of my mouth. He tasted like power. Like a promise I didn’t want to keep.My hands slid up his thighs, holding him steady as he twitched in my mouth, his moans climbing higher. Faster.

Until he bucked hard, one hand clenched in my hair, spilling into me with a growl that sounded like a broken vow.I stayed there a moment, letting him ride it out, then pulled back, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, trying to breathe through the weight in my chest.Afterward, the room was silent save for our mingled breaths. I rested against him, heart pounding, mind racing.

He brushed a strand of hair from my face, eyes searching mine.

“You won’t leave me now, would you, darlin’?”

I hesitated, then shook my head slowly.A smile touched his lips. “Good. Wouldn’t want the woman I love to leave me to forever loneliness.”

The words struck me, a mix of warmth and dread curling in my stomach. I buried my face in his neck, the weight of my decision pressing down on me.

——

The moon wore a veil of clouds tonight, like it didn’t want to bear witness to what was about to happen. Half-bright and mean-looking, it hovered above me as I crept away from the house like a thief in the dark. Remmick had already left—gone off chasing ghosts and pieces of a plan falling apart in his own hands. Said he’d be back before sunrise. I knew he would.

And I knew I wouldn’t be.

This was it. No more stalling. No more swallowing screams in that house where the walls watched me breathe. My plan—frayed at the seams and stitched with desperation—was all I had now. And if the stars were kind, it might buy me a few hours’ head start.

I followed the path Grace had described, further from town than I expected. The ground grew rockier, the trees thicker. Shadows pressed in close. My nerves were wired so tight, every rustle in the trees felt like someone whisperin’ my name. But I kept walking. I had to. The house wasn’t far now. I saw it through the branches—a small thing, hunched in the dark with a car parked in front. A flicker of breath escaped me. Relief. They hadn’t left yet. Grace’s directions had been good. I hadn’t been followed. Not yet.

My steps quickened, hope making me reckless.

And then—I froze.A rustle in the trees behind me. Not the wind.

My skin went tight. My body wanted to run, scream, fight—but I stood there locked in place like prey.Then something small burst out of the treeline.I nearly screamed. Nearly ran. But the shape straightened. A face I knew.

“Grace?” I whispered.

She stumbled toward me, her breaths ragged, tears streaking her cheeks. Her dress was torn, her hair wild.

“They got them,” she sobbed, falling into my arms. “Bo—Amy—oh God, I watched them turn ‘em right in front of me. I hid, I ran, but they—they knew, Y/N. They knew.”

I held her close, one arm locked around her trembling body as the other reached instinctively for the gun hidden in my waistband. My stomach sank with her words.

This wasn’t just a ruined plan. It was a massacre in motion.

“We have to go,” I breathed. “Now.”

The two of us ran the rest of the way to the house. My mind was already racing. I didn’t know if they’d followed Grace, if they’d followed me, if they were already here—but I wasn’t about to lose this chance.

I pounded on the door.

It opened so fast it startled me.

Smoke stood there, rifle raised—but the moment he saw our faces, his expression broke wide.

“Y/N? Grace?”

“Can we come in?,” I gasped. “Now.”

“Yea.”He stepped back fast, letting us in. He looked both ways before slamming the door shut behind us.

Inside, Sammie was in the hallway, tense and alert—eyes wide as he saw us. Then soft, just for a second. He was alive.

I rushed to him and pulled him into a hug. The weight of his arms around me almost brought me to my knees. He smelled like sweat and pine and something old and burnt.Then I saw it. A claw mark across his cheek, still scabbed and angry. I reached for it. He lowered his head like he was ashamed.

“Remmick,” he said quietly.I said nothing. Just dropped my hand.Smoke locked every window, checked every corner. We gathered in the parlor, breathing too loud, too fast.We shared what we knew—Grace telling how Bo and Amy were caught. I told them what Remmick had lied about. What he was building. What I let him build.None of us had words for what sat in the room with us. We just knew we had to go.

Smoke pulled a heavy sack from the floor. “We leave now,” he said. “They’ll trace Grace’s steps soon enough.”

I nodded, numb. My hands moved on their own, grabbing bags, helping load the car. It was muscle memory. Fight or flight. Survive.Outside, the wind stirred the trees.Grace tugged at my arm, pulling me aside as the others worked.

“I think we should stay another night,” she whispered. “Just till things calm a little. It’s too sudden. We’ll draw less attention—”

“Grace,” I said gently, but stopped.

Something was wrong.

“G…Grace,” I said again, and my voice cracked. “You’re—you’re drooling.”

She wiped her mouth. But it was too slow. Too calm.Her lips stretched into a smile that wasn’t hers.

“Guess the cat’s out the bag.”

I stumbled back.

“Smoke!” I shouted.

He turned just as Grace’s eyes went white, glowing like a lantern lit from within.

“Ah, shit,” he breathed.

Too late.From the trees, more figures emerged. Calm. Confident.

Bo. Stack. Amy.

Grinning.

Like puppets with the strings still showing.My stomach flipped. I counted bodies.

Annie. Mary. More of them. All the ones Remmick said had died.Liars. Every last one of them. Or maybe just him.

And then—there he was.

Remmick.

Stepping through the trees like he never left them.

He looked just the same. Dusty boots. Rolled sleeves. Hair damp with effort. But his eyes?

His eyes burned.

“Should I call this a family reunion?” he drawled, voice cutting through the night like a whip.

I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. I wanted to scream, to cry, to laugh from how stupid I’d been.

“You fuckin’ liar—”

He cut me off with a soft tsk. “Now, now. Don’t give me that, Y/N. You been lyin’ to me since day one. Thought it was only fair to give it back in double.”

The others fanned out, blocking the car, the trees, the road. There was nowhere left to run.

“I kept an eye on you,” Remmick said, stepping closer, every word heavy. “Even when you thought I wasn’t around. Every errand. Every letter. Every secret little knock on some poor girl’s door—I saw it. You think you were foolin’ me, baby? I let you.”

My mouth opened—but I couldn’t find a lie good enough to cover the hurt.

“You played me like a fiddle,” he said, voice suddenly sharp. “But only one of us got stuck. Only one of us saw the bigger picture . And now look what you done. Wasted time. Endangered what I built. You think I waited centuries for this just to let you get in the way?”

His voice dropped to a growl. “I could’ve made you a queen. Instead, you chose to be a warnin’.”

The pain hit like a slap.

But it wasn’t the betrayal.

It was the shame.

Because I had loved him.

Even when I shouldn’t have.

Even now.

Smoke stumbled, wounded and breathing heavy, his arm barely lifting the rifle. Sammie moved to help—but Remmick was already there.

He grabbed Sammie by the collar, mouth open, teeth sharp—

I didn’t think.

I just moved.

Grabbed the gun from the dirt, raised it, and fired.The shot cracked through the clearing.Remmick dropped Sammie, staggering back, shock and fury twisting his face.

He turned to me.Eyes burning. Hurt. Betrayed.

“You really wanna do this, darlin’?” he whispered.

I didn’t know I was crying until the tears reached my lips. “I can’t let you make anyone else suffer. You’ve done enough.”

The moon tilted in the sky, shifting just enough that I could see the edge of morning begin to rise.Sammie struggled to his feet, limping.

“I should’ve never let you play with my plan,” Remmick said, quiet now. “I guess… my love for you was my weakness.”

Sammie grabbed the stake. I saw it. Saw him raise it behind Remmick.

I dropped the gun.I stepped forward.

And kissed him.

Remmick stiffened. Shocked.His hand cupped my face. For a moment, it was just us again.

And then—

“Do it, Sammie,” I yelled.

The stake drove through his back.

And into my chest.Pain like I’d never known.

He snarled.

I gasped.

“You were never meant to be mine in this life,” I whispered, forehead pressed to his. “But maybe in the next…”His skin began to blister then burn. The sun rose.

Screams echoed around us—his followers lighting up like bonfires as they tried to run.He tried to pull away.

But I held him.Held him until the flames took us both.

And everything went black.

———

1985

Somewhere in Louisiana

The market smelled like July holdin’ its breath—hot tar, overripe peaches, and molasses gone sour under the weight of the sun. A Marvin Gaye tune played low from a radio tucked behind a fruit stall, half-swallowed by the hum of cicadas and the thump of crates bein’ moved.

I came for coffee beans. That’s it.

But fate’s got a funny way of reroutin’ simple errands.

He passed me like a ghost wearin’ skin.

Not ‘cause he was fine—though he was.

White tee soft with time, tucked into jeans worn pale at the thighs. Denim jacket slung careless over one shoulder. Boots steady on the ground. Hair a mess like he’d just woken up from somethin’ deep.

But that ain’t why I stopped.

I stopped ‘cause my body knew before my heart remembered.

Like my bones stood still for someone they used to ache for.

He paused. Turned.

Brows drawn in like he was tryin’ to place me in a dream he couldn’t quite recall.

“‘Scuse me, miss,” he said, voice smooth as aged bourbon. “Do I… know you from somewhere?”

I blinked once. Twice.

“I—maybe,” I said. My voice came out soft, like it hadn’t spoken sorrow in years.

He smiled, half-tilted, cautious. “That’s funny. I was just about to say the same.”

I nodded slow. “You ever been down to Mississippi?”

His smile dipped, then stilled. “Once. Long time ago.”

That somethin’ passed between us—

not quite tension. Not quite peace.

Just an old ache that ain’t ever learned how to die.

He stepped closer, like he didn’t mean to but couldn’t help it.

“I know this is a little forward,” he said, reachin’ in his pocket, pullin’ out a worn scrap of receipt paper and a pen, “but… would you wanna grab a drink sometime?”

My breath caught.

Not from surprise.

From remembrance.

That voice.

That tilt of the head.

That kind of question that could rearrange your whole life if you let it.

I didn’t let it show.

“Sure,” I said, smiling faint. “I’d like that.”

He scribbled down a number, handed me the paper like it held somethin’ sacred.

I took it, my fingers brushing his.

“Remmick,” he said.

“Y/N,” I answered, just as quiet.

His eyes searched mine for a second too long. Somethin’ flickered there—like déjà vu grippin’ his ribs too tight.

Then—

“Y/N!” a voice called out behind me, sharp as a church bell on Sunday morning.

“You gon’ make us miss The Movie! Move your feet, girl!”

I turned quick to see Mary, arms crossed, grin wide watching my exchange.

“Oh—sorry!” I laughed, half-startled, shakin’ my head as I gathered my bags. “I’ll call you later,” I told him, already steppin’ backward.

“Hope you do,” he said, lips curvin’ easy.

I turned toward Mary, my heart beatin’ fast for no reason I could name.

Behind me, he watched.

Eyes flickered red—

Just for a second.Gone before the blink finished.

And when I looked back one last time—

he was walkin’ away, hands in his pockets, hummin’ low to the rhythm of a song only he remembered.

[yandere-writer-momo]

Yandere Imagines:

1950s Housewife

Imagine making a wish for a different life to get away from your neglectful husband and your wish is granted… but now you’re trapped in the body of an unhappy housewife from the 1950s. Your husband in this time period is a typical patriarchal white collar man, James Prescott. And the only way to go back to your world is to play your part… a shame you hadn’t realized just how neglected he’s been. Otherwise you wouldn’t have fed a starved man the affection he so desperately craved.

Yandere Husband who is surprised when you, his wife, are suddenly affectionate that morning. You hardly kissed his cheeks anymore or wished him a good day at work. Especially when she turned down his desire for a family all those years ago. Were you sick? This wasn’t like you at all. He was suspicious. Did you want something? Work had been going well lately so he could afford to buy you a gift… if you wanted one, of course.

Yandere Husband who is surprised to come home to a warm meal after a long day that actually tastes good. You were never a good cook before. He was startled but also satisfied to be taken care of. He even gave you a rare compliment he never had before. “The food is good today. I really like this roast.” His blue eyes studied your face for a reaction and he only received a warm smile. His heart fluttered for the first time in two years since he started this dead marriage. Meanwhile, you kept a journal noting his likes and dislikes so you’d have an easier time in this world. A fact that would later come back to bite you.

Yandere husband came home with flowers after work the next day. Blush pink roses with the thorns taken off with care. His blue eyes were hopeful as he waited for your reaction and you didn’t disappoint. He came home to another delicious hot meal and a warm smile as you happily accepted the flowers. It was like the love was back again… the love back when the two of you first started dating three years ago. And James was so thrilled.

Yandere husband loved coming home to warm meals and a clean house. James loved his clothes being washed and folded. He also loved how you ironed his work shirt. You hadn’t been this domestic in ages… you deserved more from him. Heavens, you deserved the world.

Yandere husband began to bring flowers or chocolates by every day after that just to see you smile… and he was so thrilled when you hugged him. You felt him tremble a bit as he tightened his hold on you as if he was terrified you’d disappear in a mere moment. “…how about we go on a date this weekend?”

Yandere Husband who was all too eager to put on a suit that matched the dress you wore. He made sure to open the car door for you, the restaurant door, and even pull out your chair. You were shocked at how eager he seemed for this date… and the fact that he gave you his utmost attention.

Yandere husband who made sure to order your meals once you told him what you wanted. His hand held yours under the table as his thumb brushed against your knuckles with utmost affection. James was so happy you wanted to do these kinds of things together again. He had missed this more than anything but never wanted to voice it.

Yandere husband who cuddles you in bed at night now. His hands wander more and he gets bolder as the days drag on… but you didn’t know how long you’d stay in this world with him and you would feel awful if you left suddenly. But you were happy that someone wanted to touch you… your husband back in your world hadn’t in ages either. So why not indulge this one?

Yandere husband who was gentle at first but it wasn’t long for him to grow rough once he had a taste. Had intimacy always been this good? Or had James just been denied for so many years that he was losing his mind in you? He didn’t care that the bed creaked in protest or how your back arched in a way it never had, James was so thrilled to touch his wife again.

Yandere Husband who now kissed your shoulders every morning when the sunlight streamed in before work. James would hold you from behind as you cooked and helped with dishes. He was so happy to have all his stress melt away with your touch.

Yandere husband who finds your journal and despite knowing it was wrong to read it, he read it anyways. James’s heart fluttered at the words.

James really enjoys pot roast, steak, mashed potatoes, and carrots. He says he likes tomatoes, but I notice he will push them off to the side when I’m not looking. He also prefers beef gravy over chicken gravy. James says he likes his coffee black, but he always adds in a table spoon of sugar when I’m not looking.

Yandere husband who read deeper and soon discovered your secret. You weren’t his real wife or at least, his original one. You were from another timeline trapped in a loveless marriage just like him… and he’d felt such a kinship with you.

My husband from my world hardly ever spent time with me. He never stayed for dinner and we never went on dates. I really like James. I want to stay with James. How could someone not love James? He’s such a wonderful man.

Yandere husband was so flattered that you were noting his preferences. James never thought anyone noticed him… and he’d be damned if he’d ever leave him. He loved you too. James loved you so much. More than anyone else in his entire life. Even more than himself and more than his cushy job at the law firm.

Yandere husband who put the journal back and made a decision. He was going to keep you here in this world with him forever. And he’d never, ever let you go.

[multi-fandom-imagine]

𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕮𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖙’𝖘 𝕮𝖔𝖑𝖑𝖊𝖈𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓 || 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐮𝐥𝐚 ||

A/n: Time for me to get into writing some spooky / monster fucker things.

Warnings:Virgin!Reader · Reincarnated Bride trope · Mirror sex · Worshipful Dracula · Blood kink · Breeding kink overtones · Soulmate-level possession · Power imbalance turned devotion

You had come to find your brother.

You hadn’t come to be touched.

You certainly hadn’t come to fall in love with a monster.

But from the moment the gates of Castle Dracula creaked open beneath moonlight, you felt the truth sink into your bones.

You knew this place.

And he knew you.

❖.

“Why are there paintings of me?”

You whispered it aloud, even though your throat was tight with disbelief.

You had found the hidden wing while exploring, doors long dust-covered and barred with rusted iron. But inside… portraits.

Oil on canvas. Drawings. A bust.

All of you.

One in armor, standing above a battlefield.

One pregnant, seated beside a black-haired man on a throne.

One in a tattered white dress, eyes haunting, lips bruised.

One… dead.

And in the center of it all—

You.

As you were now.

Same face. Same soft eyes. Same necklace passed down through your family for generations.

“You painted these,” you whispered.

A voice answered from the shadows behind you.

“No. I only painted the first one. The rest… I remembered.”

You turned.

He was already there.

Count Dracula.

Ageless. Beautiful. Terrible.

And looking at you like a man who had starved for centuries.

❖.

“I don’t understand,” you whispered as he approached.

“You don’t need to,” he murmured. “Your soul does.”

He brushed his knuckles down your cheek. “Every life you’ve lived, I’ve found you. And every time… fate took you from me.”

His hand slipped behind your back.Pulled you gently against him.“But not this time,” he promised.“This time, you came to me.”

❖.

You didn’t fight him.You didn’t want to.

When his mouth kissed yours, it was not cruel or claiming. It was aching. As though he had kissed you a thousand times before and would beg to kiss you a thousand more.

You gasped into his mouth as he deepened it—hands cradling your face, lips trailing down your jaw, your throat, your collarbone.

He whispered your past names between kisses.

“Arathia… Lysa… Melinora… beloved…”

And you whimpered, “What’s my name now?”

He lifted his head, eyes glowing.

“Wife.”

❖.

The bedroom was already lit with candlelight.

Your body trembled as he undressed you slowly. Reverently.

Every layer of your gown slid off with a whisper, until you stood in nothing but your necklace and innocence.

“You are untouched,” he murmured, eyes devouring every curve, every breath, every flicker of fear.

You nodded.

He smiled.

“Then allow me the honor of worshipping you properly.”

❖.

He sat you before a mirror.

Wide, gold-framed, ornate. You could see both your naked form and his towering one behind you—clothed in shadows, in hunger.

His pale hands brushed over your arms, your breasts, down your belly.

“You do not know how long I have waited to see this,” he whispered against your ear.

You whimpered when he slid his fingers between your legs.

“So soft,” he purred. “So warm. So wet already.”

“Please,” you begged, thighs twitching. “Please, my lord—”

He growled lowly. “Call me husband.”

“H-husband,” you gasped, eyes fluttering.

He licked into your mouth. Then—he knelt behind you.

And devoured you from behind, tongue tracing your folds, slow and worshipful.

Your reflection trembled in the glass, your body shaking as his mouth made you feel like a goddess.

When you came, you collapsed into his arms, sobbing his name.

❖.

Then he carried you to the bed.

And let you see him.

All of him.

Hard, long, pale as moonlight and flushed at the tip.

You stared.

“You’ll never fit.”

He chuckled, low and rich. “Little dove. You’ll take every inch.”

He kissed your thighs. Pressed the head of his cock to your entrance. And whispered:

“Look into the mirror when I claim you. Watch what it means to belong.”

Then he thrust.

❖.

It burned.

You cried out.

But he held you—whispering soft things, petting your face, rocking deeper and deeper until he was fully inside you.

You’d never felt so full. So stretched.

So alive.

“Look,” he commanded gently.

And you did.

You watched his cock sliding in and out of you, soaked in your slick and virgin’s blood. Watched your breasts bounce, your thighs tremble, your mouth fall open.

And you saw your eyes—glowing in the candlelight. Gold. Like his.

You were changing.

You were becoming his.

❖.

“Say it,” he growled, rutting into you harder now.

“Yours!” you sobbed. “I’m yours!”

His fangs pierced your neck at the same moment you shattered around him, clenching down, screaming as he filled you with hot, thick release.

He kept grinding into you, slow and deep, pumping every drop of seed into your womb.

When he pulled back, he kissed the blood at your throat.

“You are mine. In every life. In this one, I will not lose you.”

You clung to him. Heart racing.You didn’t want to leave.

And you never would.

[darlingmbappe]

When We’re Ready [1] | Kylian Mbappé x Fem Reader

[Part One] [Part Two]

Summary: Kylian's blatant desire for a baby has your head spinning. Though, you must say, he is quite convincing...

Warnings: SMUT! Minors, go away. Penatrative sex, oral (female receiving), groping (semi-public), breeding kink, cussing, horny mfs, kinda cringe and cheesy but I stand by it. Let me know if I missed anything! – English is not my first language. –

Masterlist

Kylian was easy to read. His expressive face always gave him away; scrunching and elongating against his will. Even when he was meant to hide his true feelings in certain situations, there was always a little twinge of the eyebrow or crook of the lip to let you know exactly what he was thinking.

Maybe you just knew him too well, spent too much time with his elastic face to pick up on the micro expressions that made it possible to know his mood at any time. But, something was different about tonight. Cheeky? Yes. Pensive? For sure. Annoyed? Maybe… It was hard to say with the way he stared at you from the bed. One hand propping up his heavy head while he watched you intently putting lotion on. 

This expression was new.

“Babe?” You call, rubbing together the leftover lotion on your hands, sitting in front of him on the bed. “You okay?”

“Mhm.” He hums, still seeming out of it as he shifts and stares at the TV now, though it only reflects a dark image of himself back at him, seeing as it wasn’t even turned on.

You narrow your eyes at him. “I don’t buy it. Something’s on your mind.” You take your rings and earrings off, setting them in your jewelry catcher by your nightstand. Kylian stayed quiet as you got under the covers, drawing his attention back to you.

When he didn’t give you any sort of answer, you had no choice but to scroll on your phone in an attempt to ignore the burning stare that came from your husband's side of the bed. Eventually, it was impossible to pretend you didn’t feel his eyes dead set on your face. You shut your cell off and set your phone on your stomach, looking directly at him, your sudden view shift taking him by surprise. “Okay, seriously. What?”

“Nothing.” You catch a smirk barely grazing his lips before he just shakes his head, turning and switching off his bedside lamp, cozying up under the duvet. “Don’t worry about it.”

You huff and sneer at his answer, shutting off your lamp as well, curling up with an obvious annoyance at the lack of information. “He thinks I'm not gonna worry about it.” You mumble to yourself passive aggressively, your back turned to him. “You’re being weird. I don’t like it.”

“I'm not being weird.”

“Are too.”

Kylian stared at the back of your head, quiet as he slowly reached for your waist, effectively pulling your body up against his to share his warmth.

“Oh, so now you wanna cuddle?” You grumble, settling in comfortably despite the bite that laced your words.

He kissed your hair, lost in his own racing mind, not fully convinced he should bring this up to you tonight. Your annoyance was surface level, nothing he was deeply concerned about because he felt the way you relaxed against his own muscles, letting his arms act as your blanket. 

He was sure that the thoughts that persist in his skull had crossed your mind as well. As he lay there with you, the love of his life, he let his brain think without hesitation; no if’s or but’s, no playing devil's advocate with himself. He let himself indulge in the future fantasy that he had dreamed of since he was a small boy. He felt lucky he had you in all of his delusions, always right there with him. You’re around in every scenario he makes up; ever present, making you laugh, making you swoon. He feels so lucky that you stand with him in the tangible world as well, looking better than anything he comes up with in his mind. Saying funnier things, sweeter things.

As your breathing stables, he’s not sure if you’re fully asleep yet, or how long the silence has even run for. His throat would close at the words when you were awake and responsive, but now that he couldn’t tell, it was easier to whisper them to your sleeping figure – nothing holding him back from telling you his little secret.

“Let’s have a baby.”

His voice could have been mistaken as a sigh as he breathed the words gently into your ear… but you heard them.

Your eyes shot open wide, the air becomes harder to take in your lungs at the shock, laying still in his arms. Slowly, you lift your head and stare back at him. He feels just as shocked upon seeing that you’re actually awake, gulping at the confession he let slip. 

He knew you wanted kids, just like he did. You’ve been married just about four months and had previously talked about waiting two years or so to start a family. The pair of you agreed stability in the home was necessary before bringing a child into it – which was fair enough – but his baby fever was deadly. There wasn't anything he could do to keep away the images of little toes, and bassinets, and rolls on their tummy, and dimples on their legs and… just everything. He wanted to see them grow up. He wanted to debate you on who they got it from. He was prepared to do anything for that baby, and the baby itself is just a thought. A sweet little figment of his imagination… but they already had your eyes.

“Did I hear you right?” You sleepily mumble, feeling his grip on you grow tighter and his heartbeat quickening just a smidge.

He kisses your sleepy cheek, resting his face against yours as his arms wrap more securely around you. “Oui, mon coeur. I want a baby with you.” He repeated, voice still soft.

“You think now is a good time for us?”

“Mm…” He ponders a moment. “I think so.”

“Is this what you were thinking about?”

He kisses your shoulder. “Yeah. Been thinking it for a while.”

“A while…”

“A month or two.” Kylian shrugs like it's casual… like it hasn't completely taken over his brain from the second he saw you walk down the aisle. “Imagine our little family. Just the three of us." He lets the silence marinate, unsure of whether or not you've fallen asleep on him. "Don't you think?" He squeezes you gently, needing to keep this conversation going now that it's started.

You burrow your back into him to let him know you're still lucid. "Yeah. Just the three of us... but... is now the time to bring a baby into the world?"

His sigh sounds defeated, tickling your face. “You don’t think it is…”

“I don’t know… I haven’t really thought about it.” You admit, looking at him once more. His eyebrows furrow and now you can read him clearly. 

The overthinking face. 

Despite being confident in himself and his actions in pretty much every aspect of his life, Kylian is a chronic overthinker. He’ll let his thoughts drag him into a darker place. He begins to question little comments or actions that he wouldn’t have thought twice about if the little voice in his head would just leave him alone. The crease between his eyebrows tilt upward, his tongue finds his top row of teeth, his stare points away to a still object that will allow him to daze off into the flying spiral of introspection. 

You tap your finger on his chin to get him to look back at you so you could ground him. “I have thought about it. A lot. Just not so much recently…” You say, not only doing damage control on your last comment, but a true statement on the topic of family that you’re interested in exploring further. “With the wedding, moving, family stuff, you know. Everything’s a little jumbled right now.”

The gears turn in his head and he purses his lips. “No, I get it.” He sighs deeply. “I guess you’re right.” You turn in his arms, now curled into his chest. He kisses your forehead before resting his chin on it, engulfing your body completely in his. “But, maybe two years is a little long to wait.”

“Yeah, I agree. Who knows if we’ll even still be together by then.” You grin mischievously into his skin and feel the vibration of his deep chuckle from your obvious joke.

“Shut up.” 

You move your head so you could look at him, pressing a kiss to his chapped and upturned lips. “Let’s give it until the end of the summer. That’s like, what, three months? If we both feel like the time is right, then we start trying, For real.”

He closes his eyes to feel your presence in his, content enough with the compromise. Isn’t that what marriage is all about, anyway? 

He wiggles his eyebrows. “You up for a little practice?”

“Practice?”

He rubs a firm hand down your back, letting it rest lower than it was before. “Just a little refresher…”

You caught on, rolling your eyes as he pulls away to gauge your reaction to his suggestion. 

“Ky, if anything, you’re a little over-practiced in that department.”

“No such thing, baby. Take it from me, I’m an athlete.” He smirks cheekily, letting only one finger run against your skin, tracing where the hem of your tank top had been resting on your hip. He dipped it lower and pulled up at the waistband of your underwear, letting it snap back gently, stinging only slightly but your sleepy state caused you to feel it ripple through you like he had whipped you.

“Hm…” You were sleepy, sure… but Kylian dipped his face into your neck. His lips could not have been more supple against your skin. The open mouth kisses he placed were gentle, soft, beyond seductive. Your eyes shut against your will at the feeling, his large palm flat against your side and moving up under the material that separated his bare chest from yours, tongue prodding out just slightly to taste your skin. “... I guess we can practice. Just a little…”

That night changed everything for you. 

You see babies everywhere now, it’s like the population multiplied overnight. There was nothing that could stop you from cooing at their tiny socks and chubby ankles, the sound of their giggle echoing through the grocery store, their innocent little smiles when they looked at their mommy or daddy… God, does everyone have a damn baby but you?

The months went on and the late summer sun was hotter than it had ever been. At least for as long as you’d lived in Paris. You could barely walk outside for the mail without sweating and needing a shower. You verbally thanked the heavens you weren't pregnant right now, not being able to imagine carrying a human inside of you with all of this heat. Kylian brushed it off, still holding out hope for a new addition to the Mbappe household. 

Kylain might be an extremely intelligent man, but, boy… subtlety is not his strong suit. It started with him leaving open baby magazines on the kitchen counter, flipped to the cutest, smallest, chunkiest little one they had on print. He’d send you baby TikTok videos with a message that read “do you like this color for the living room walls?” 

In his defense, he was never trying to be subtle. He continued to think about what you said that night he first mentioned trying, and he still thinks that bringing a baby into the mix is right for you two. He tried to chop it down to his social media algorithm sabotaging him with constant baby content or maybe the honeymoon phase after the wedding had him feeling this strongly, but those explanations just didn’t feel right. After knowing you for six years and getting to love you for almost all of that time, he was eager to create a family with you right in the center of it. 

The baby discussion had made a sharp turn at some point this last month. You couldn’t exactly pinpoint when it all went from questioning every aspect of your life together and reasoning with one another about very serious doubts and scenarios, to unhinged conversations about things that just caused you to giggle. Things like: where the pair of you would bring your newborn on their first vacation, what their first word would be, if they’d follow in Kylians footsteps, how much money the tooth fairy would give them for their first lost tooth.

It’s safe to say, you finally came to the silent conclusion that you were ready – but that realization couldn't have come at a more awkward time.

Dinner with his whole side of the family was a blessing for you both. It wasn’t very often that every schedule cleared up in the same time frame. A large restaurant section was rented out in the heart of Paris for family and friends to get together. It was a nice time to make conversation and catch up on everything life had churned out since the last time you’d seen each other. The appetizers were spectacular, the drinks were doing their job, it was all so nice…

… Except that nothing – yes, nothing – is more awkward than being unstoppably horny for your husband in front of his entire family. You cut yourself off after martini number three when you noticed it was turning your brain into goo. The buzz wasn't enough to make you drool and incoherent, but seeing your Kylian playing with his niece and nephew, picking them up and turning them upside down, pressing affectionate smooches to their bulbous cheeks… drooling and incherency was not far behind. 

He was going to be such a good dad. He was already the most caring husband, even with all of his responsibilities and commitments. He found time for you in every sliver of open space in his schedule, needing to soak up quality time with his wife as if it were as necessary as air. 

The entrées began to come out as everyone took their respective seats. Kylian was still oblivious to the googly eyes you’d been throwing in his direction all night, but it wasn’t long after he sat down that he caught on. 

He leans over to whisper to you, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I know that look. Very well.”

You shudder at his breath tickling your skin. Flustered beyond belief, you could only manage to shake your head, letting out a shy and breathy laugh.

Kylian bit his lip and snickered along with you, setting his hand on your knee and faces forward. His touch was hot. A skillet off of the stove would have sent the same wave of heat all the way up your limbs. You reach for the water on the table, positive that the fierce blush overtaking your face would be obvious to anyone who decided to look at you in your current state. His long fingers began moving against your knee, tracing mindless patterns that only sent you more goosebumps. He knew that every gentle touch or fragment of affection he would give you right now would be heightened tenfold… he loved knowing that you were putty in his hands. He knew your mind – and right now, he had completely taken over it.

“Feeling okay, mon amour?” The sly smirk on his face gave him away. He was just teasing you, and Lord, does he love teasing. His hand moves upward to your midthigh, stopping and moving his thumb up and down above your dress, crinkling the material. “You’re looking a little flushed.”

You’d been avoiding eye contact, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of your needy gaze. “Kylian, stop it. Your mom’s sitting right there.” You reprimand in a soft voice, not wanting to raise any attention to the pair of you up to nothing decent.

“I’m not doing anything.” He chuckles, moving his hand a little higher. You suck in a sharp breath as he leans into your ear again. “Won’t you look at me, bébé?” 

You shake your head no, feeling quite shy as your throat dries up. You clear your throat discreetly and reach for the cold water once more, but Kylians hand grabs your palm, bringing it to his lips. “Let me see those eyes, baby.” He mumbled against your hand. His back was turned to the rest of the table, acting as a human curtain for your obvious discomposure.

You roll your eyes before looking at him. You tried your best to give him a scolding look, but the second you saw that same glimmer in his eye that matched yours, your current sensitivities doubled down. The pace of your heart heightened quickly, the warmth in your cheeks increasing by the second.

You felt like leaning in to kiss his lips. He licked them right when he took a quick glance at your own, your hand still taken in his.

“Your eggplant parmesan, madame.” You didn’t even see the waiters bringing out the entrées being too engrossed in Kylian's burning stare. You smile up and thank her then look around the table. You’d forgotten that there were other people there for a second, much less his family. His mom, dad, nieces, nephews, aunties – distant or otherwise… You had to pull yourself together before they caught on to your overly horny demeanor. 

Kylian took his hand off your thigh when his chicken alfredo was placed in front of him, noticing how you sat up straighter. For now, he’d let you do your best to make regular conversation with his cousins that sat across from the both of you, but he noticed how tightly your legs were crossed together. He saw your eyes dart away from his whenever you turned his way. When he brushed your pinky on the table before engulfing your hand, you took in a sharp breath. So sensitive. 

He nodded toward your empty plate. “Feel like turning in early, mon coeur?”

You raised a brow at him. “Ky, you sure? Your whole family’s here. Don’t you wanna stay a little longer?”

He shrugs. “We’ve been mingling for like,” he looks at his watch, “almost three hours. Besides, I’m quite a bit distracted tonight.” He peeks down at your cleavage, darting his tongue out to wet his lips. “I think I wanna take you home.”

You shudder when he leans in and kisses the corner of your lips. To anyone watching, it’s a sweet gesture of affection, but to you… it was erotic. Sensual. It made you tighten your thighs even more.

His attention is taken back to the others at the table, letting them know that the two of you would be leaving a little early, blaming it on his morning training schedule. You two made your rounds to every seat, kissing cheeks and rubbing shoulders, making sure you left a good impression with each and every one of the members of the group. 

He opened the car door for you, grabbing your hand to help you in, kissing your knuckles before hopping in the driver's seat. He weaved through traffic with a sure hand on your upper thigh, slowly and subconsciously getting higher and higher. 

It’s unfair that he holds all the power right now – making you sweat and need him with every purposeful tap on your skin. The pads of his fingers migrated downward over your dress until it reached the hem of the frilly garment. His eyes were fixed on the red light in front of him as he let his hand travel under your dress – the simple skin to skin enough to invade you with goosebumps – feeling each and every one on the trail he formed toward your panties, toying with the band wrapped around your hip.  

You didn’t even mean to swivel your hips closer to his hand, but when his forefinger traveled lightly to feel your slit over the elastic material, you couldn’t stop yourself. “Ky…” You whined as he wiggled his digit against you. 

You look over to see his smirk facing forward, practically visualizing his ego growing at just your involuntary mewl. Looking at his lap, you saw the trace of his member was much too prominent to assume your neediness wasn’t affecting him. You reached over and took hold of it, gripping with a single squeeze that had his breath shake in surprise. 

“Merde, cherie…” He hissed, taking sporadic peeks down at your hand as it rubbed him through the layer of cloth. It wasn’t responsible to grope him while he was behind the wheel, but the standstill traffic and ultra tinted windows lent you enough feelings of safety to continue your motions. You felt him getting harder as you pumped your fist as best you could over his stiff zipper. 

Half his mind wanted to ask you to wait until you got home so he could shove you between him and the wall, feel, kiss, bite, lick every centimeter he saw… but how could he? Your fluttering lashes made him forget how to speak coherently. He just couldn’t resist you. 

His personal fucking kryptonite. 

There you both sat, hands on each other's most intimate parts in the center of traffic. It was kind of exciting that the people on the same road had no idea what was going on. That the thick steel doors and blackened windows were the only thing keeping them from seeing you throw your head back when he pressed on your clit. That they were oblivious to the sweet sounds that bubbled up from Kylians chest as you ran your knuckles over his tip, the hand that wasn’t lost under your otherwise innocent dress gripping the steering wheel so, so tightly. 

Kylian took a quick and sharp left, finally away from the traffic going down the last road until you reached your private residence. His foot pressed all the way down on the pedal, impatiently rolling the stop signs. In any other scenario, it would make you nervous, but you truly didn't even notice the way he broke traffic laws once he had removed his hand in the urgency of it all. 

You unbuckled as he drove down the last couple of blocks, leaning over the center console to attack his open neck, surely leaving a big purple bruise in your wake. Your hand wrapped around his face, pressing him further into you. He grunted and closed his eyes as soon as he put the car in park inside the garage, wasting no time grabbing for your leg so you could straddle him in the tall SUV. 

Kylian hiked your dress up with his hand firmly placed on the globe of your ass, squeezing your flesh harshly as you grinded down onto him. With his lips now on your own, all the sounds of pleasure were muffled and smothered.  

“J'ai tellement besoin de toi, putain.” I need you so fucking bad. His hands roamed higher around your waist as he got access to your neck.

“J'ai besoin que tu mettes un bébé en moi. C'est si dur.” I need you to put a baby in me. So bad. When you say these words, you feel him stiffen. His hands cease their movements, now only gripping you in place as he leans his head back to look at your face. He needed to see if you were joking or not. Breathless and completely earnest, you stare into his wide eyes, feeling the way the mood changed with just a single phrase. 

He hints at a smile. “You’re serious?”

You nod, kissing the tip of his nose, brushing your thumb dearly on his cheekbone. “So serious.”

He grins happily, pure excitement behind his eyes as he rubs your back with an incredible gentleness. He’s overtaken with fondness as he leans in to kiss you again. He smiles into it, letting out a joyous giggle when he hugs you tightly.

He barely pulls back. “Let’s get you inside. My beautiful wife.”

He couldn’t keep his hands off of you as he hugs you down the hallway toward the master bedroom, taking small detours when he simply couldn't help himself; grasping your neck to kiss you lovingly, slowing down to press you against his front and whisper sweet things in your ear. 

You half expected him to throw you on the bed, rip your dress off, and take you like it was an animalistic instinct. By his conduct in the restaurant and in the car, you’d expect nothing less than a rough and primal fuck. 

But, no. He walked you backward toward the bed, only staring into your eyes adoringly as he lifted you up to lay your head down on the pillow comfortably. 

He kissed you once before just looking at you on the mattress, knees turned in and pathetic little squirm demanding its way through your limbs. Your pretty purple dress was now wrinkled and twisted, halfway up your thigh, straps hanging loosely off your shoulder.

He beamed, deciding to sit on his knees with you in between him as he began undoing his white dress shirt, button by button, eyes never leaving yours. Your grabby hands untucked the material from his pants, matching his slower pace as you undid the buckle of his belt.

Once his shirt just hung on his shoulders, he placed two warm hands on your legs, allowing them to wander up and up, the material of your dress all scrunched up in their path. He unveiled your body to his hungry eyes, tapping the side of your ribs so you’d sit up and let him take it off of you completely. You both giggled softly when it finally went over your face, disheveling your hair in the process. Kylian brushed it all away from your features, grabbing your face sweetly and laying you back down, noses only an inch away as he balanced his body on top of yours.

“Mon amour.” He mumbled adoringly, brushing his nose with yours, grazing your lips slightly. “We’re really doing this.”

You just smile, pecking the cheesy wide grin that had taken over his features. “We’re ready.” You confirm, wrapping both your arms around his neck. 

He slowly made his way down your body, inch by inch, kiss by kiss. His tongue made soft and swift circles on your left nipple, your other being pinched and soothed by his strong fingers. As he ventured further, he placed his palms firmly on your tummy, kissing it so tenderly, as if to prepare a space for his future baby. Blessing it’s temporary home before they even had the chance to get there.

“You’re going to look so pretty when I get you pregnant.” The words were strangled between the emotions in his voice and the ringing in your own ears; the pressure of his lowering hands making your head spin. 

He tossed his shirt aside along with his pants when he reached your underwear, placing himself with purpose as he began pulling down the lacy garment. He hummed delightedly when a string of your slick clung onto the material. You showcased your pussy to him like he paid for it, jutting your hips toward him with pure need. 

“You’re so fucking wet.” He murmured as he ran a finger through your folds, just to tease, perceptive to the shiver that formed a sweet noise from your chest.

Without needing further instruction, he kitten licked your clit, gently sucking on it now and then. You turned your head into the silk pillow, letting it catch most of the crude noises you were making for the man between your legs. With his arms securely wrapped around your thighs, he pressed his face further into your core, shaking his head back and forth before adding two fingers. 

“God – fuck, Ky.” The abstruse praises spewed out of you when he curled his long, long fingers up, pumping them as they hooked inside your rigid walls. 

He pulled them out too quickly for your liking, taking his magic tongue with him as he stared down at your pussy. He stretched your skin apart with his thumbs, playing with you for his own visual gratification before slowly inserting three fingers inside at once. He watched them intently disappear into you, then quickly looking at your face that twisted in delight as he stretched you open – preparing you for his thick member. 

You wailed in pleasure, your hands gripping the sheets until your knuckles turned white. “Oh my god, Kylian.” How he loved hearing you moan out his name. It only made him need you more, staring up at you dotingly past your stomach. “Please, baby… I need you.” You begged.

His fingers slow down before leaving you bare. He watched your empty pulsing hole for only a second, licking his fingers clean as he shuffled around to be on top of you once more. 

He hovered over you, staring deeply into your eyes. You sighed in contentment at his gazing, allowing one of your hands to go astray to lower his boxer briefs over his ass, pulling down the front as well. You took hold of his thick and hard cock, pumping it while keeping eye contact with your lover. It was so beautiful to observe the tiny fragments of expressions that waved over his face. The microscopic twinges of his eyelids, the slight curve that forms between his eyebrow, the gentle pursing of his lips. 

You tugged him to your opening, running his dick along your soaked lips, lubricating it as you began to try and prod yourself open with him. Just the feeling of his tip beginning to enter your tight pussy had him shuddering. Kylian met your hand, helping it guide his cock to your entrance, slowly inserting his desperate mushroomhead.

He moved slightly, watching your expression for discomfort. “You’re so tight.” He huffed. Your hand stayed on his base, his small and paced movements still only to stretch you out for him. He felt the pads of your fingers as he shallowly pushed in and out of you.

“Faster.” You demanded, moving your hands to his ass to follow his movements. 

He complied, heavy breathing fanning your face, his pace increasing, stuffing more of himself inside of you. Kylians eyes were shut tightly, head lulling down and occasionally planting a sloppy kiss on whatever skin happened to be closest to his parted lips. His arms shift into a plank position and he nuzzles his face in your neck, body pressed firmly against you – the beads of sweat on his muscles rubbing against your middle in tandem with his thrusts that still only went in halfway. With your hands still on the globes of his ass, you clenched and pushed him deeper with your palms. 

He groans at the feeling, almost all the way inside of you. “You want it all? Huh?” He asks between gasps of air. “You want me to stretch out your tight little pussy. Take it.” He kisses you, tongue aggressively scouting your mouth. He lifts your legs up and sets them around his shoulders. 

While staring into your eyes, he snaps his hips forward until his pelvic bone was pressed deliciously on your own.

“Fuck!” You scream, feeling him so, so deep inside of you. The slightly upward curve pinned against your g-spot as he stayed still in that position. The way your strained walls grabbed him and kept him buried inside made his eyes cross for a second. He tilted his head and kissed your left knee. Your foot grazed his back when he pulled out almost all the way, and, Christ… the look he gave you was debilitating when he thrusts back in.

When you say Kylian is easy to read, you really meant it. You could stare at his face for all of three seconds and gauge his mood. It was something he actually found a little annoying sometimes; coming home after a tough day and you’d force him to talk about it before he would even get a hello out. He could say he hated your perceptiveness all he wants, but he’ll never truly convince himself of that. He loved that he could communicate with you with just a simple impression on his features. 

Now, he thrusted in and out, in and out as he gazed down at your hooded eyelids – and the look on his face was, again, one you've never seen before. 

And despite this, you just knew what it meant. You felt it in your heart. 

Love. Passion. Devotion. Care. Companionship. He'll be there for everything that is to come.

You saw your future in the shining glimmer in his irises. You saw everything. 

Tears naturally welled in your eyes, one slipped, rolling down the side of your face. There was a glint of concern in Kylian as he slowed his unforgiving pace, but you moved your hips to keep him going.

He halted his motions and was about to ask you if you were okay or if you were hurt, but your hands cradled his face and you leaned up to peck his lips. “I just love you so much.” You say, answering the question he hadn’t even asked yet. 

He lets out a deep sigh, wavering and telling. His thumb grazes over the trail of your tear, then leaves it there to stroke your skin. You gave him a light and playful spank on his right butt cheek, making you both giggle. He leaned down and kissed you feverishly – smooching once, twice, three times and pulling back only slightly.

“I love you. Je t'aime. Dieu, je t'aime tellement.” I love you. God, I love you so much. He planted sweet kisses all over your face, still smiling. “Tu es tout pour moi.” You are everything to me. 

He pulled completely out of you, leaving you empty. A whine bubbled out of your chest and Kylian traced over the crease that had formed between your eyebrows, just before inserting himself back. Your mouth opened in pleasure, a moan stuck inside your throat as he gradually powered through your tight walls, inch by fucking inch. It was a feeling of complete satisfaction when his tip collided with your sweet spot once more. Even better when the drag of his thrusts nudged it over, and over, and over, A slow pace. A gentle pace. A pace that he felt necessary for the beginning of this new chapter. 

He knew he was close, but kept his rhythm to get you there with. His hand found your clit quickly, making you jolt up, wrapping your arms tightly around his neck and pulling him into you.

“Oh, shit, Kylian… God! Yes! Fuuuuck…” The heaps of praise melted like butter in Kylians ears. The sweet voice of the woman he loves praising him made his heart flutter, soaking in the feeling of your teeth sinking into his shoulder. 

“I’m gonna fill you up.” He stuttered into your hair, changing the motions of his fingers of your sensitive bud to get you there faster.

“Please, please, Kylian.” You kiss his neck, biting the skin. “Get me pregnant. Please.”

He moaned at your words, feeling like he couldn’t stop himself from orgasming for a minute longer. “Putain, je suis sur le point de... bon sang!” Fuck, I’m about to… Jesus Christ! 

It was there. Right there. His thrusts faltered, he took your face from his neck and ran his free thumb over your lips, pressing his forehead to yours as he groaned deeply. He squeezed his eyes closed as you felt his hot spurts of cum painting your walls, shooting into you delightfully until you were sure you were full. He cursed, eyes screwed shut as he continued thrusting sporadically. The feeling of it all made the knot in your abdomen pop. You screamed his name, legs shaking on his shoulder violently, toes curling, thighs shivering.

He pulled his hand away and kept fucking his cum into you through his groans of overstimulation, right until he had to gently and slowly pull out. He kept your legs pressed against your chest as he ventured down the mattress to get a better view of your pussy; his seed spilling out of you in dribbles, forcing him to stuff as much as he could back into you with his thumb. You shivered, lifting your head to watch him admire his work as if you were a piece of art he’d spent centuries perfecting. Slowly, he brought your sore legs back into a more natural position, soothing your aching muscles with a gentle massage. You were still coming down under his touch, both of you absolutely breathless. He throws himself down on the pillows next to you, whisking your hand from your heaving stomach – just holding it as you both calmed down and caught your breath. 

“Christ…” You mumbled, chuckling a little bit. You rotate your body toward him with a giddy smile on your face, cuddling into his side and kissing his cheek. He began chuckling along with you. “What if I'm pregnant right now?” You ask, excitement comfortably taking over your face. 

He shakes his head and looks at you, then down to your exposed stomach pressed against him. His hand snakes onto your middle, gently pushing you on your back as he steadied his hand right on your belly button. 

He didn't even need to say anything. His face said it all. 

The excitement of it all carried through the following weeks. It took everything in you to not tell every one of your friends and co-workers that you guys were trying. With the media breathing down your necks, it was agreed that this would be kept on the down low and you’d only announce when you were showing and could no longer hide it. Privacy was important to you both as a couple, and saying you're trying was really just a socially acceptable way of telling people you and Kylian were just constantly having sex.

Your leg bounced in anticipation as you asked your Alexa (again) how long was left of your fifteen minute timer. Kylian chewed on his thumbnail as he sat next to you on the bed with the same frustration at the slow clock ticking down, needing to know if the little stick that sat in the bathroom had one or two lines painted on it. 

“I’m not pregnant.” You say into the silence with no evidence that that was true.

He leans back, taking his raw nail away from his teeth. “You could be.”

“I don’t think I am. Wouldn’t I, you know, like, feel it, or something?”

He sighs, placing a sure hand on the small of your back. “I have no idea. I don’t know if you know this about me… but I’ve never been pregnant before.” He smiles, earning a forced grin from you. He notices the unnaturalness of your curved lips to appease his bad joke, never reaching your eyes as they darted around the room nervously. He scoots closer, hugging your shoulders comfortingly, rubbing them like it would take away your anxiety. “Whatever it says, we have time. We keep trying.” He kisses your cheek with a quirk in his smile. “I quite enjoy trying.” You huff out a laugh – a real one – and playfully jab his stomach with your elbow. 

That moment lasted no longer than a few seconds before the sound of the alarm went off. You audibly gulped down the minimal moisture in your mouth, taking a deep breath in as you both walked to the bathroom, Kylian holding your shoulders as he walked behind you into the tiled room. 

“You want me to look?” He quietly asked after you just stared at the stick that was face down on the counter, not moving a muscle or even blinking. You nod, wiping your hands on your pants. 

It felt like everything moved in slow motion when he reached for the otherwise insignificant plastic test that your future was written on. He kept the stick face down in his hand and took a deep breath in. You subconsciously crossed your fingers at your side. You’d never done that before, but you were hoping the universe would listen to your silent pleading superstition. You watch his face so intently, hyper-analyzing it before he even turns the stick in his hands. 

His eyes shot down to it and he pursed his lips with a miniscule sigh. Without saying anything else, he sets it back down on the counter and pulls you in for a hug. Your heart dropped into your stomach as you needed confirmation of your suspicions, looking over at the stick with only one single line. 

He put his chin on top of your head, squeezing you dearly. “It’s okay. It was our first try.” He murmured as you wrapped your own arms around his torso disappointingly. 

You nod despite the grave let down, having convinced yourself that it would happen now like you had both hoped. “Yeah. I don’t know why I expected to get a positive that quickly. I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up.”

He shakes his head, not really knowing what to say to comfort you while dealing with his own waves of sadness. Embracing each other in lieu of speaking was just as comforting, knowing you both were having the same experience together was consolation enough. 

He kisses the top of your hair with a whispered I love you, holding you, holding him. 

A/N: Part 1 of 2 (possibly 3). I'm back! Thank you to everyone for being patient with me and checking up on me through my little month hiatus. Sometimes, you just need a break and I appreciate you guys so much for being so kind through it! Huge hug and kiss to everyone here! Based on these requests (anon 1) (anon 2). And, don't worry, @megannandrewss , yours is coming in the next parts!

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[goldenlikedayl1ght]

ptolemaea | remmick

a/n: hi! so this fic has been a work in progress for three months since i watched sinners and for good reason, it is a beast of a fic! also! i’m from new york so any southern inaccuracies/inaccurate accents should be ignored! there's a lot of violence in this, i would describe it as lovers to enemies if that's your thing. basically this is my swing at answering 'why does remmick wear a wedding ring' in sinners. warnings: DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, depictions of suicide, toxic relationships, major character death, gore, weapon use, general content warnings, canon typical violence, p in v sex, fingering (fem receiving), talks of christianity, remmick hates the british, mentions of torture, remmick being so down bad for the reader and it repeatedly goes wrong, angst, manipulative remmick, remmick is a bad husband, so just head that general warning, there's a lot going on in this onelots of teasing, lots of blasphemy, lots and lots of vampire references, kind of a time loop fic if ya think about it, cursing, flirting, many nicknames, preacher’s daughter trope, divorced couple energy, lots of drama, mentions of classism and general class differences, reader is female and uses she/her pronouns, with female anatomy, no use of y/n, religious/weird parents word count: 17.5k summary: remmick considers himself a very patient man. after all, he's been waiting for you for centuries. pairing: remmick x fem!reader now playing: ptolemaea - ethel cain "you poor thing/sweet, mourning lamb/there's nothing you can do/it's already been done." let me know what you think!

Mississippi, 1932

At first, he does not approach you. He doesn’t talk to you, for two weeks, he only observes—

He watches. 

He haunts.

And something deep down tells you that he’s been looking for you for a long time. 

It started on a Sunday Night, just as the sun set.

Your mama had told you to fill a pitcher of water from the well that you had on your property, and you, being the good girl you were, obeyed without more than a ‘yes, ma’am.’

Your life hadn’t been anything fancy—You lived in the same house your entire life. You’d never gone farther south than Jackson and never been farther north than Memphis. Your daddy was a preacher; your mama was a devoted wife. You had lived in the same bedroom your entire life, tracing the same cracks in your walls since you were little. 

The depression had hit your little town as hard as it had hit the rest of the country, but when people got desperate and scared, they turned to the lord. While everyone else was worried where their next meal was coming from, your daddy had become the most popular man in town. 

Being the preachers’ daughter, you hadn’t made many friends— other girls didn’t think you’d make a particularly reliable presence in their mischief. And when you were younger, you didn’t mind so much—there had been plenty of chores for you to do. Even as you got older, you didn’t necessarily mind your quiet social life. You found comfort in the few books you could get your hands on, reading anything and everything you could find. 

Your folks didn’t care for that—blaming your wandering eye for knowledge on temptation, telling you that if you wanted to read, you should invest more time in the ‘good book’, and you had nodded and agreed at the time, not bothering to tell them that the good book wasn’t as good as the adventure stories you kept under your bed. 

Even that day your mama had sent you to the well, your mind was somewhere else. It had been a habit of yours, to stare off into space, to the edge of the property line, and just go. Anywhere you wanted. In your head, you were not barely beating the mid-summer heat, a pitcher leaning on your hip—you were in some far-off metropolis, dancing and drinking and learning—

When you glanced towards the edge of the property line, ready to mumble out some dramatic line you had read from one of your books when your eyes met his. He was just standing there. Like you were a play he had been watching for a long time. 

From that far, you couldn’t make out many of his features, and somehow, it made him even scarier. Something about him filled you with dread as you looked at him, and you found yourself not wanting to turn your back on him even as you walked back to your house. But you heard your mama call for you from the porch and knew you couldn’t walk backwards—you’d be accused of demonic possession and scheduled for an exorcism by sunrise. 

So, you made your first in a long list of vampire-related mistakes. 

You turned your back to him and ignored your gut telling you to drop your water pitcher and run back to the house. 

When you got to the porch, your mama had this look on her face. 

“You alright? You’re lookin’ pale,” She said, worry seeping through her words. You pushed out an airy laugh, shaking your head.

“I’m okay, you know how I get when it’s hot like this,” You lied like it was natural—and at this point, you felt like it was. When you had a reputation for being a good girl, no one ever suspected that the words that left your mouth easily were far from the truth.

“Well, alright, hurry up and wash up for bed.” She ordered, before taking the water pitcher from your hands. You were quick to follow, but glanced back to the edge of the property line and—

Mistake number two. 

He was closer now, leaning against the well you were just using, and you could see his features more clearly now. Mostly, you saw that he had dark hair, that an instrument was wrapped around him, and that he reminded you of something dark; something unnatural. 

And there was something about him that made you dizzy, and you wondered what he sounded like when he spoke. You’d get your answer two whole weeks later.

But for those two weeks, you were haunted. It was like he was your ghost, but what had you done to deserve insomnia, stitched between nightmares, and paranoia? You felt like you were being watched. You dreaded the sunset, because you’d see him in the corner of your eye, like a shadow. You’d dream of red irises in black voids—you hadn’t even noticed red eyes, had you? 

It was starting to affect everything. Church was first—a week after this haunting began, you were sitting in church, at the 9:00 a.m. service. You had spent the entire night awake with a pillow over your head trying to escape, go to whatever daydream could break this spell. Then, you were snapped out of it at dawn with a sharp knock at your bedroom door, to get ready for the service, always having errands to run; cookies to bake, people to meet, and church services to participate in. 

But then, while your daddy was doing his sermon, you felt the warm morning sun on your face, and you couldn’t help but let your eyes flutter closed.. And you began to daydream. Drift off, just.. let go. 

He never watched you while the sun was out, he never lingered past sunrise. You were safe.

Nothing could hurt you in the house of the—

Slam!

A smack of a book to your hand jerked you awake, a stinging sensation shooting across the back of your hand, as you looked up, your eyes meeting your fathers. And without another word, he went back to his sermon. 

Shit.

And for the next week, you started to crumble further. You’re jumpy, scared and worst of all—you’re always on the verge of tears. On Monday, a shopping trip with your mama turns into a lecture about respect for her words. By Wednesday, you don’t even want to eat you’re so tired. Friday into Saturday, you think you can hear whispering and it doesn’t stop, causing you to let out soft whimpers as tears stream down your face—you just want to be left alone.

So, Sunday morning, you planted the seeds of ‘I’m not feeling too good’, needing a night to just sleep. To rest. 

Your folks bought it—well, maybe they just saw how badly you wanted to stay home, but with your luck, they would’ve reminded you that the lord heals— But they didn’t. Instead, they told you to get some rest and that you could have some supper left over from the night before.  

As soon as they left for the evening service, you went up to your room and collapsed on your bed. It was a cooler night than it had been in weeks, a rare break from the soldering heat you were used to. You didn’t need to open your windows for it to be cool enough to sleep and that was a blessing. You fell asleep as soon as your head hit the pillow. As if someone had snapped their fingers. 

And you weren’t sure how long you slept. But it was a wonderful reprieve from—

Tap, tap, tap!

Your eyes shot open. Someone was at the front door. 

And you knew who it was. 

You sat up in bed and rubbed your eyes. You took a deep breath. And you made mistake number three. You got up from bed, pulled on your robe, and went to the front door. You took a deep breath. Now or never. You just wanted him to let you sleep. 

You were so tired.

So, you opened the door and got your first good look at your ghost. 

He had dark hair, and had dark edges, as you had remembered—but he had no instrument wrapped around him. And his face was more.. boyish than you would’ve thought yet complimented by smile lines and crows feet. He had a smile that made your stomach turn.

“Good evenin’,” His voice takes you back—for the most part, he had a southern drawl, but there was something else about it—something foreign. Unfamiliar. Ancient. “Hope I didn’t wake ya.”

And that strikes a chord—because you know it’s him that has been keeping you up, so you’re already feeling defensive. 

“Can I help you with somethin’?” 

This causes him to laugh a bit, and you just stare at him. 

“Would you mind if I came in for a minute? I been walkin’ ‘round all day and just need to rest my feet.” He says, and his words are so.. innocent. But he stares at you like you’re prey. 

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea.” You say softly, and he tilts his head, leaning in a bit, his eyes burning into your skin as they wander your nightgown. You pull your robe tighter. 

“How come? You all alone in there?” His voice drops a bit, and there’s something much more sinister behind his words. When you don’t respond, he continues, “Say, you wouldn’t be the daughter of that preacher I saw givin’ his sermon earlier, would you?” He asks, and you’re not sure how he knows about your daddy’s preaching considering you never feel him watching you during the day—but you don’t care. Every inch of you is screaming to run away. To slam the door shut and hide in your closet until your parents get home. Maybe you should’ve grabbed your Pa’s gun before answering the door.

“Can I help you?” You repeat your question, your grip on the door tightening. 

“Didn’t your mama ever teach you manners?”

“She taught me to not talk to strangers.” 

That makes him scoff. 

“Well, my name’s Remmick. What’s yours?” He asks, and you decide to add a tick on the list of mistakes—and you give him your name. Remmick doesn’t seem surprised, like this isn’t new information in the slightest. “Well, we ain’t strangers anymore-- your daddy’s the preacher, right?”

“Yes. He’s preachin’ now, right in town. You should go and check it out.” You’re trying to get him out of here, off your front porch and out of your life. But his feet do not move. It seems as if he’s exactly where he wants to be—well, almost. 

“Now why would I do that when I can talk to his pretty lost lamb?” You almost take a step back at that. 

Pretty? Lost?

“Ain’t no one lost here, except maybe you.” You remind, and he shakes his head,

“Nah, see, now I just don’t think that’s true. You wanna know what I really think, sugar?” He doesn’t give you an answer before he continues, “I think you’ve been lost for a long time. I think you’ve had your head in the clouds, dreamin’ ‘bout somewhere you ain’t never been. And I think you’ve been waitin’ for me to take you there.” 

His words aren’t accusatory, they’re knowing. 

And deep down, you know they’re right. That you have been waiting for something to change for years. But why would you let him believe he’s right?

“Well, I don’t think anyone pays you to do much thinkin’, so I don’t buy whatever it is you’re sellin’.” 

It makes him laugh. 

“No, you don’t yet. But you will.” He says, “Don’t matter how long it takes, one day.. you’re gonna let me in.”

You scoff as you go to close the door. 

“You’ll be waitin’ a long time.”

His words hit you just as you close the door—

“That’s alright, lass. I’m patient.” 

-

You start recalling memories that aren’t yours. Glimpses. 

A soft touch, a flicker of a white dress, and then a whisp of fire. 

Remmick ruins the dream every time. He shows up, and the dream ends, disappearing into clouds of smoke, but when you wake, you could swear you’ve lived hundreds of years. Tuesday night, you bid your folks goodnight, promising to help your mother with cleaning in the morning, 

Then, you wait. 

You wait for a long time. You sit on your bed, and you’re not sure when you start to fall asleep. But before you know it, you’re dreaming again, and this time the dream has a different sort of fuzziness, like film, just like the movies they showed in town (you’d made a habit of sneaking into the theatre while on errands in town.) And this time, the dream isn’t filled with dread. 

But every bit of it feels real. 

The dream starts with you in a bedroom, and someone throwing stones against the glass of your window. It’s as if you’re watching yourself open the window and help someone inside—but you feel the warmth of his hand spread up your arm as you pull him inside, the laugh that escapes him also escapes you, and before you can do much else, his lips are on yours. And it feels real, like you know the feeling well. 

Remmick looks younger. Younger than you’ve ever seen him. His crows feet and smile lines are far less pronounced, and his hair is much lighter than you recall, even with a bit of scruff. And he’s happy. The way he smiles spreads a warmth across your chest, as if you are the one he’s pressing against the bed, whispering about—

Well, he’s whispering in choppy, broken words, his accent thick and foreign. And yet, as if you know him like you know yourself, despite having had one, brief conversation with him, you understand him despite his unfamiliar accent—

“You’re so pretty,” he starts, and you can feel the heat at your core, his fingers finding slick folds as he stretches you out for his cock with his fingers. You’ve never been touched like this before outside of these dream-memories, but it’s like he’s fucking you with his fingers, and you’re letting him—hell, you’re enjoying it, “Letting me fill you up like this, bein’ such a good girl for your—"

You wake up before he can finish his sentence, waking up with a start, blinking as you looked around your now dark bedroom. You rub your eyes, feeling sweat drip down your forehead as you wipe the hair from your face. Your chest is heaving up and down as you attempt to ground yourself; You’re safe, you think, nothing is wrong, and—

Your thighs are coated with a silky wetness, because that dream—or maybe it was a memory—felt so real. You’re waiting for your brain to catch up to the way your body is buzzing for more, chasing an unfamiliar touch that you have always known. You try to reason with yourself. 

You’re being difficult, you think.

How could you possibly have been that close to him, he didn’t even come inside on Sunday, you remind. 

What would he have finished that sentence with?, you wonder, before shaking your head and leaning over to your bedside table to find your crucifix, but you’re interrupted just as your hand finds the chain with a tap, tap, tap!—

Your eyes drift to the window, covered by a thin white curtain, but you can see his silhouette through it, and just the thought of him makes you nauseous—and maybe something else, a little more sinister, a little less than holy. 

But you were waiting for him, not that you’d ever admit it, especially not to him, so you clutch the crucifix in your hand, the metal of the cross digging into your palm, before going over to the window and opening the curtain, like ripping off a bandage with bated breath—

And you let out a soft exhale of relief (with a dash of disappointment) when you find no one standing in front of the window. You blink, and when you open your eyes, suddenly there he is, his eyes burning holes into your skin. The sudden appearance makes you jump (you feel like your soul’s left your body, but you’re not that lucky), which causes Remmick to start laughing at your fear.

Over two weeks of sleep deprivation, nightmares, downright torture, has worn you down. Tears fill your eyes, angry tears that threaten to run down your face, but you just blink them back, and when your eyes open again, they harden into a glare at the man through the glass. Your hands are moving before you can stop yourself, opening the window and telling him—

“If you’re looking to kill me, stop being a pussy and get it over with.” Your voice is sharp, and it makes him laugh again. He’s looking at you like he’s already won. You quietly wonder how long it will take you to understand whatever game he’s playing with you. 

“I don’t wanna kill yer, sugar.” He answers, and you think about the dream you had. Were those really his hands? But why did it feel like it was you he was touching?

“Then, what do you want?” You wonder, and he shrugs. 

“I want you to invite me inside.” It clicks then, that in the dream, there was no invitation, he had just climbed through the window. The gears in your mind begin to move, and your eyes flicker down to his neck, where two small puncture wounds sit as if he had been—

You take a step forward to look at the teeth that he bears, and Remmick humors you, a sickening grin spreading over his face as you peer—and then you step back as if you were worried he’d lunge and bite you (and he would).

“Clever girl,” he praises, and you can feel a shiver of something unfamiliar run down your spine. 

“Vampires aren’t real,” You say, and he gives you this look. You’re moving around your room, turning your back to him (idiot), and digging around for your copy of Dracula. You had to keep it hidden from your parents, not wanting them to accuse you of being persuaded by the devil (Ha.) You glance back at Remmick, who’s just looking at you and smiling, and wonder if maybe you are. You step back towards him to continue your thought, “So all I have to do to get rid of you is stake you through the heart?” You wonder, and he puts a hand right over where his heart should be. 

“Ya could just ask me to leave instead of snappin’ at me, lass.”

“Oh, please.” You scoff, and it makes him smile again. 

“Y’know, that Stoker guy, he gives men like me a bad name,” he starts, “That whole ‘we can’t rest on foreign soil’ thang is a load of shit,” he informs, a smirk on his face. “I can rest anywhere, so long that there’s a pretty girl layin’ there with me.”

The comment goes over your head, because you’re too busy putting the pieces together to acknowledge the way he flirts with you. 

“But I bet he got the other stuff right,” You say, “I never see you in the sun, only ever at night, and you can’t come inside without invitation.” 

Remmick’s fingers curl around your windowsill as he stares at you, as if he’s finding some self-control before he talks again, 

“Yer a smart one, I’ll give ya that.” He hums, “Did I wake you?” 

You look at him with a snap. Something about the way he says it makes you realize he knows exactly what kind of dream you were having. 

“How did you do that? Get inside my head like that?” You question, and Remmick shakes his head. 

“That ain’t me.” He says. 

“Looked a whole damn lot like you.” You mutter, and he shakes his head. 

“I didn’t put that in ya head,” He promises, “You did that all by yerself.”

Your hands come up to rub your eyes, and when you stop, you look up to Remmick again, and he’s looking at you. For a long time. But his gaze isn’t predatory, it’s almost.. yearning. Like he knows something you don’t—or at least, something you haven’t accepted yet. 

“If I let you in,” You start, and when Remmick smiles, his teeth look sharper, “What will you do?” You wonder, recalling that vampires weren’t exactly known for their kindness, their softness.

Remmick tries something he hasn’t in a long time, but, he’d admit to himself later, you always knew how to make him a better man, so he tells you the truth;

“Well, first I’d really like to kiss ya.” He starts, and he tilts his head like a loyal dog, looking at you. “Then, I think I’ll fuck you, nice and slow, that way you really feel every inch of me buried inside of ya,” His vulgar words make you blush, and he seems to like the way you’re frozen in place, “and I’ll be really sweet about it too, don’t you worry, baby, I’ll make you cum over and over again—and I won’t stop kissin’ you neither. And when I’m sure you’re fucked out, curling against me, I’ll ask you if I can bite ya.” He says, “It’ll be up to you. I already told you, I am a patient man.” He leans forward, his fingers curling around the windowsill, and before you know it, you’re moving to slam the window shut, thankful that Remmick pulls his fingers away quick enough to not get his fingers crushed. 

He laughs as he steps back, clearly enjoying your reaction. You glare at him, and it doesn’t seem to shake him at all. 

“I can’t stand you,” You huff, and it only eggs him on. You close the curtain as drool drips down his chin. 

-

You give in on a Thursday. 

Well, you don’t fully give in. 

But you do let him fuck you. 

Alright, yeah, it’s not your brightest idea, but you’re running on empty when it happens. You haven’t slept through the night in weeks, and you keep having these dreams about all the ways he can touch you. 

And maybe, you reason, if you get a fix of him, you could focus. Figure out what it is about him that tortures you, figure out why you have memories you don’t remember living. That night, when he shows up, you’re lingering in your doorway, and he smiles like he knows. Maybe he does. 

You feel crazy. You’d venture to guess you are crazy. 

And maybe that’s why, when he sees you sitting criss-cross applesauce on the edge of the door, just beyond his reach, his face forms into something kind of soft, and without a word, he sits in front of you, mirroring your position. Except, you’re sitting with your posture rigid, and Remmick leans back on palms spread across the wood of your porch.

You keep the gun you should’ve pointed at him the first night you met right out of view, but within reach. Just in case. 

“Why, Hi there, sugar.” His voice does not seem to be letting up on any teasing, despite the look of fondness on his face. 

You look at him for a long, quiet moment. You have a million questions, but finally decide on,

“Why won’t you let me sleep?” You continue when he goes to open his mouth, “And don’t tell me you want me to let you in. I won’t. You know I’m not gonna, so why not just let me sleep through the night? Why torture me, wondering if those dreams are memories or not? Why not spare me the filth, the sin?” 

Remmick smiles at this. He shifts so he’s leaning forward now.

“I’ll cut ya a deal.” You resist the urge to roll your eyes. “You let me in, and you never have to worry about sleep again.”

You’re not a perfect person. You consider it for a second. But you’re also not stupid, understanding it’s exactly what he wants. 

“Counteroffer,” You start, and Remmick looks amused. You’re glad (Kind of, not really) that at least one of you finds this funny. “You take a hike for the night and let me catch up on a few hours, without any implanted memories either.”

“How ‘bout you consider my offer again?” He hums, and you shrug. 

“Then I guess we have nothing to talk about.” You say, “Goodnight Remmick,” you hum, before standing up, turning away from him and moving to close the screen door when you hear—

“Wait—Just, wait a minute, baby, let’s talk about this.” You can’t help the smirk on your face, wiping it off quick before sitting back down in front of him. He lets out a huff before telling you, “Alright, how about.. You come outside,” he starts, holding a finger up when you open your mouth to counter, “I won’t bite you, but you let me show you how real those memories can be.” His tone is rich, starving for something. Your finger twitches at the idea.

This moment is probably the worst of your vampire related mistakes. 

“And then, when you’re done, you’ll let me sleep.” You say, and he smiles. 

“Deal.” He holds his hand out for you to shake. 

“Deal—Woah!” As soon as your hand grasps his, he’s pulling you past the doorway and onto the porch, right on top of him. His laugh pierces your ears as cold hands spread across your sides.

“You’re a naïve thing.” His tone is too sweet, and your face is too red. 

“You’re a dick.” You grumble back, and he squeezes your sides, 

“You have a dirty mouth for a church girl.” He accuses, his hands beginning to roam. Your face is flush with embarrassment, but you can’t stop thinking about how cold he is, like a body that’s lost it’s heat. It’s really unsettling, but you’d be lying if it didn’t make you want him worse. Something about his non-human qualities draws you in. 

“We can’t do this here,” you remind.

“Why not?” 

 “Besides my folks sleepin’ bout ten feet from us?” You ask rhetorically and Remmick lets out a huff. It almost makes you smile. 

“Fine, we’ll go somewhere more private, just give me a kiss,” He grins, and it’s your turn to scoff. 

“You’re insatiable.” You accuse, “Say please.” 

 Remmick looks at you for a long time. 

“Please.” He finally answers, and you reward him by pressing your lips to his. He eagerly leans into it, tilting his head a bit, giving your lips a better angle to melt into his. He adjusts in one fluid motion, sitting up with you in his lap now. His kiss is desperate, needy. His hands move up to cradle your face.

He kisses you slowly, wanting to really take his time with you, proving to you just how patient he’ll be for you. He can be good, he wants to say, he can be so good for you. 

His tongue lips your lips before he’s pulling away to whisper, “How ‘bout I fuck you in the field behind your house?” he wonders, “Would ye like that, lass?” He asks, and before you can answer, his hand moves up your skirt and between your thighs, his fingers finding your damp underwear. You gasp at the feeling, and he smiles. “Yeah, I recon you would.” 

His lips find yours again, and he’s wrapping his arms around you and hoisting you up, carrying you towards the back of the house as you cling onto him, giggling against his lips as he kisses you, over and over again. 

When you’re in the field, Remmick pauses, not wanting to put you down, but needing to take off the shirt he’s wearing so he can fuck you on the grass. He sighs, before setting you down so you can stand. 

“Don’t you go nowhere,” He advises,  and there’s no room for argument in his words. You happily watch him unbutton his shirt, before laying it on the grass. He sits down on the shirt and lays back, holding his hands out to him. “C’mere,” he requests, and he holds your hands to steady as you position yourself ontop of him, your knees resting on his shirt. 

You admire his torso. He’s pale, but he looks strong. Rough hands come up to brush hair out of your face before he grips your hips, pulling you down so your clothed cunt is pressing on his growing erection. You groan softly, as Remmick’s mouth meets yours, pulling you in for a kiss. 

His fingers find your panties as you kiss, and the way your hips roll against his hard on does not go unnoticed by him. His fingers travel further, beginning to tease your folds as you moan into his mouth. His tongue explores your mouth, like he’s trying to suck your face off. 

There’s no fanfare as Remmick’s fingers slip inside of you, except for you letting out a whine as you adjust to the feeling. You wiggle your hips, as if you’re trying to move away from him, 

“No, Shh, C’mon, Lass,” He hums, catching your mouth with his lips, silencing the way you whine and moan, “It’s okay, I’ve got ya, just relax for me, yeah?” He says softly, beginning to kiss your cheek, then your jaw, and then your neck. You hum, inhaling sharply. 

You can do this, you think. You want this so bad. You move your hips towards him instead of away, and let out a sharp gasp as he moves his fingers,

“That’s it, that’s my clever girl,” he mumbles softly, “You know how to ride my fingers just perfectly, don’t you? You sure this is yer first time?” He mumbles, whispering into your ear, licking sweat off the skin of your cheek. He moves his fingers faster now, edging you on to ride his fingers.

You let out an annoyed huff when he asks that, only to be cut off with a soft whine when he moves his fingers faster. 

“You know it’s my first time.” You mumble, and he smirks. 

“Well, it ain’t mine.” 

Yeah, you had a feeling. 

“Whatever,” You whine, continuing to ride his fingers. 

“Just let me stretch you out,” he grumbles, “I’ll make you feel so good. C’mon, baby, let me make you feel so good,” His teeth graze your neck, but Remmick takes only a nibble, just to hear you gasp as he bites, before moving his fingers faster, making sure to hit just the right spot to make you see stars. 

“Oh, god,” You whine, “Rem, I’m close,” He shushes you softly, guiding your hips to ride his fingers. 

“There you go, look at you.. that’s it..” He coos softly, “Let go for me, all over my fingers,” He praises, biting the shell of your ear when you let out a sharp moan, biting your lip hard, enough to draw blood, even just a bit. His tongue is immediately on your lips as you ride your high, panting softly against his lisp. You give him this look and he shrugs. “Can’t blame a man for takin’ a taste.” He grins, before kissing you again, oh so slowly slipping his fingers out of you before he’s pulling away.

Then, he brings his hand up to his lips and licks one of the fingers you just came on, letting out a soft ‘mmm’, before holding the other two to your lips, wanting you to open your mouth. You’re both a little shocked at how easily you comply. You lick his fingers clean, and he’s drooling by the time you’re done. 

“I need to be inside of you,” he grumbles, beginning to unlatch his belt, before opening his pants, and pulling them down just a bit to pull out his cock. Then, his fingers move up to your thighs, pulling your panties down. 

He rolls them right off your legs, before having you sit back on his lap. He kisses you and stuffs your panties in his pocket while you’re distracted. Then, he’s guiding the tip of his cock towards your slits, teasing your wet, leaking folds. You gasp at that feeling, before rolling your hips forward. He huffs softly, before grabbing your hip with one hand, slowly pushing inside you, groaning softly at the feeling, before kissing you—

He doesn’t want you waking anyone nearby up. Then you might have to stop and Remmick might snap. He slowly pushes you to sit on his cock, and when you’re finally full of him, he gives you a moment to adjust. He keeps kissing you. Then, he feels you begin to roll your hips and clench around him. He begins to thrust into you, grabbing your hips so he can set the pace. 

You begin to melt, your hands resting on Remmick’s bare chest, stabilizing yourself as he fucks up into you, your hips beginning to shake as you get close. 

“Remmick,” You whimper, and he hums and kisses your head. 

Something strange happens as you he fucks you. Suddenly, you have déjà vu, remembering a filmy memory, just like that dreams you’ve been happening. Except in this memory, Remmick and you are in this exact position, his hips thrusting against yours—but you’re in a bed. It’s early morning, and in the memory, you go to look at his face, but he’s flipping you over suddenly, quickening his pace and using his free hand that isn’t on your hips to force your back down, as you moan into the pillows. 

When you open your eyes, Remmick is still making you ride him in the field behind your house. The memory was brief, only a flash—but it shakes you to your core, until you realize how close you are. 

“Oh, my god,” You whine softly, “Rem, ‘m close, honey,” he moans when you call him that, not stopping his pace as he fucks hard into you, feeling your legs spasm as you cum, moaning into his mouth. He keeps fucking you, and then you begin to pull away, but Remmick grabs your hips and pulls you back towards him, reveling in the way you clench around him.

He cums with a moan silenced by your mouth, but you wrap your arms around his neck, hands playing with his hair as he lays back, the two of you panting as he rubs up and down your sides. He listens to your heartbeat, loud in his ears, while looking at the stars. 

Neither of you talk for a long while. You take a break, just laying with one another, appreciating the moment. 

As you lay against him, warm cock still stuffed deep inside of you, filling you up perfectly, Remmick whispers in your ear, 

“Lass?” His voice is rough, and he’s panting gently. “Will you let me bite you?” He asks, and you know what this is. If you say no, and Remmick bites you anyways, you will die still leaking with his cum. 

You hesitate. 

He notices.

But he feels the way you clench around him when he asks.

“Not tonight, Rem.” You say, your tone a little too affectionate as you kiss him softly. He lets out a soft noise into the kiss, and he’s grateful for it, because it gives him time to find his patience. You just smell so god damn good.

“’mkay, sugar” he mumbles against your lips. “That’s alrght. I meant what I said, I won’t bite you until you let me.” He offers softly. 

“You promise?” You wonder. Remmick kisses your cheek. 

“I promise.” 

A long moment pauses. 

“You know I gotta go back inside,” You mumble against his lips, and Remmick groans, his head falling back against the grass. 

“Why you always gotta ruin my fun?” He wonders out loud, and you smile a bit. 

“Just lucky, I guess.” You tease as you sit up, starting to fix your hair and your top. “Hey, where the hell are my panties?” 

Remmick smiles a bit. 

“Don’t worry ‘bout it.” He offers, and you roll your eyes. 

“You’re somethin’ else, you know that, Remmick?” You ask. Remmick smiles and looks at you for a long time. 

“I wish you didn’t have to go.” His words are honest, as honest as he can be. You just smile at him and press a kiss to the space between his eyes. 

“Well, being apart only makes the reunion sweeter.” You remind, and Remmick almost rolls his eyes. He just shakes his head. 

“But I hate to be apart from you,” and based on the way he made your thighs shake, you’re inclined to believe him.

“I know,” You hum, leaning in to kiss him again. He loves this playful, affectionate side of you. “But you told me you were a patient man. Besides, you owe me a good night’s sleep.” You recall, and he nods. 

“I did. And I am a man of my word, so,” he leans in and plans one long, warm kiss right to your lips, his tongue barely breaching your parted lips. Then he pulls away to say, “Off ye go, lass. I’ll see you tomorrow night.” He promises, tapping your thigh over your dress and helping you up. He stands, plucking his shirt off the ground. You linger for a moment. 

“You don’t want to walk me home?” You wonder, and Remmick begins to button up his shirt with a soft exhale. 

“Yer pa’s awake,” He grumbles, “Plus.. I gotta eat.” He confesses. You notice, then, the way he moves with a subtle fatigue. He must be hungry. He must’ve thought there was a chance you said yes to being bitten tonight, wanting to really savor the meal he’d been dreaming of for over centuries.

Something about that makes your stomach turn. 

“Okay,” you oblige, because hey... he held up his end of the bargain. He isn’t biting you, and you’ll get a few hours. You just wonder what hunger must feel like to him, since the craving for human blood must be vastly different than the hunger you experienced, especially considering his life span. 

He could go a few weeks without eating before hunger hit him. 

But before you can walk away, he grabs your hand, before bringing it up to his lips, inhaling your scent sharply before dropping your hand. 

“Goodnight, lass.” He says softly, and you smile to him. 

“Goodnight, Remmick.” You say back, walking a couple steps forward before looking back to him, maybe just to see him one last time before he goes out in search of food. He’s standing there, shirt messily buttoned and wrinkled, covered in grass and dirt. He doesn’t mind. His eyes are fixed on you, just watching. 

You keep walking. When you get up to your porch, your face a bit warm, and your hair kind of sweaty, which you’d blame on the humidity, you remember what he said about your father, so you enter after taking a deep breath. 

And there he is, your father, having a cup of something that you doubt is water, while sitting at the table. You smile to him, going towards the cabinet to get a cup for water. 

“Where’d you get off to?” He wonders, and you shrug. 

“I couldn’t sleep. Figured a walk might be nice.” You say, and your father nods. 

“Is it a boy?” He asks, and you just smile again. Remmick isn’t a ‘boy’, he’s—well, he’s not like any man that you’ve ever known. 

“What?”

“Is it a boy that’s been keeping you up at night?” He asks, and you shake your head, 

“No, pa. Told you, I don’t sleep well in this heat.” You take a sip of your water. 

“Right.”

“Well, I’m goin’ to bed.” You yawn, “Night, pa.” You hum, and you don’t even hear him as he bids you goodnight, too busy imagining the night’s sleep you have ahead of you. You close the door behind you and flick your leg to kick your shoe off and doing the same thing with your other leg. 

You put on a thin silk thing to sleep in before glancing out your window. You can see the field where the two of you just were from here, and you see no sign of Remmick. Poor boy, you think, he must be starving. You hope whoever it is that feasts his hunger is good enough until you can figure out what to do about him. If maybe you should let him bite you. 

You fall right asleep as you soon as your head hits the pillow. You’re so tired. And, as foolish as it might be... You trust Remmick to let you sleep.

You sleep soundly that night, completely dreamless—The bright morning sun is shining through your windows, waking you up far too early. But that’s okay. 

You feel refreshed, and quite honestly, looking forward to the next time you’d see him. You spend all day thinking about him, wondering what he looks like when he’s sleeping.

-

By the time you wake up to Remmick’s game, it’s almost too late. 

He’s turned you into something you don’t recognize, and he hasn’t even sunk his teeth into you. You find yourself not caring for other people, busy thinking about your sharp toothed lover. Well, not that you ever cared for other people—but even little things like going to the shops and running errands go from mundane to agitating. All you want to do is wait around for the sun to set so you can sit on your porch and make out with him, ride his fingers, and play with his hair. 

Sometimes you read to him, other times he fiddles with a smaller four string guitar and plays music. You watch his face as he plays, sometimes humming a tune that sounds familiar and foreign at the same time. 

You don’t really sleep. Sure, the sleep deprivation makes you agitated and cranky, but something about Remmick soothes you out of those moods (So it’s torture when he’s not around. You think, in the back of your mind, that this is on purpose. You don’t mind as much as you used to.) And when you do, your dreams are full of those memories that aren’t yours.

Except, they are yours. 

There are glimpses of you in a mirror, and you’re met with your reflection as you know it. Sometimes the mirror is a small thing in that wood house where you pulled Remmick in through the window. Sometimes, the memories take place in a grand hall, with lots of candlelight, elegant music, and silk gloves. In those memories, Remmick stalks you, eyes full of adoration as a suitor spins you—mostly, you get glimpses of him out of the corner of your eye in those dreams. Sometimes, the dreams take place in a cramped apartment, where Remmick wipes soot off your face with a rag and a gentle touch. 

But there are other dreams too. 

Sometimes, you dream of that wood house burning to the ground, and it’s like you’re burning too. Sometimes, you dream of sharp claws cutting across your stomach, ruining a pretty silk gown. Sometimes, you dream of a mean laugh as your hand is crushed in a big power loom, your screams drowned out by the machine’s loud mechanical whirring.

A Saturday deep in the dog days of summer is when everything changes. Well, it started as Saturday, but when it happens, you’re pretty sure it’s early in the morning on Sunday. 

The night had started the same as it usually did. With you staying up, and stepping outside, taking his hand when he offered it to you. You had bit his shoulder trying to stay quiet, and your mouth had filed with a bitter, nasty bile, which caused you to pull away, right as you were riding him on the steps to your porch, and he had begged so sweetly, “C’mon, baby, don’t stop, you’re so tight around me”, and you appreciated the dirty talk, really, you do, but the taste of his.. blood(?) on your lips, in your mouth, on your tongue, causes you to mumble out a soft “Is that your blood? Does it even count as blood?” but Remmick didn’t really care about the question, thick drool dribbling down his chin at the sight of your face bloody, but not hurting, deciding instead to catch your lips in his to kiss you. 

When you had pulled your panties back on, and he had buttoned his pants, you found yourself leaning against the railings of the porch, your legs extended over his lap as he holds his guitar. As he tunes the strings, his hand rubs up and down your leg, a mindless action full of love. 

You had wiped his blood and his drool from your mouth, but the bitter taste lingered. You’d have gone inside to get a drink if you weren’t so infatuated with him. 

“Will you sing me something?” You finally ask, your voice cutting through the sounds of late summer, cicadas humming, frogs singing, crickets strumming. The perfect ensemble to accompany his voice. 

Remmick, for all his talk, all his humming, all his strumming, hesitates. And he finds himself asking why—why is he hesitating to sing you a song? Probably because his first instinct is to sing a song you know—well, a song a version of you knew, a long time ago. 

He looks at you and then smiles. 

“’Course, darlin’.” He hums. He puts his guitar to the side, causing you to sit up a little straighter, intrigued. He starts to utter soft words in a foreign tongue, a language you don’t know, a tune you can’t follow, and your hand finds his, your fingers curling around a gold band. You stand, and he keeps singing but his eyes follow you as you readjust, sitting right on his lap. A smile pierces through his voice as his other arm wraps around you. Your forehead rests against his, and his eyes close, then his voice becomes quieter as he gets to a familiar chorus.

A familiar chorus? 

Your eyes flutter shut as your fingers mess with his ring, and suddenly you’re not on the front porch of your folks’ shack, you’re somewhere else.

 You’re in that wooden house, and Remmick is singing this song as you sit in his lap. You’re wearing a pretty white dress, and when you look down to your hands wrapped around his, you’re taken back by the sight of your hand, a wedding band on your ring finger. You look back at Remmick’s face in the memory, and he opens his eyes, pausing his singing. 

“Mo ghrá thú,” and you aren’t sure what unsettles you more—the fact that you know exactly what that means, or the fact that your instinct is to say it back. 

Actually, you know exactly what takes the cake for ‘most unsettling’. It’s the fact that Remmick’s eyes are not the dark, sometimes red eyes that you’ve gotten used to. In this memory, fuzzy and filmy, Remmick’s eyes are a soft blue that take your breath away. 

Then, you open your eyes, scared. More scared than you had been in weeks. Scared of dying. Scared of Remmick. And honestly, you have every right to be, because Remmick is not only drooling like a dog, his teeth are big, sharp, and his mouth is open, hovering over your shoulder, jaw wide like he’s about to take a bite out of you. 

“What the fuck,” You spit, as you push him off you, taking a few paces back (adding another tick to the list of Vampire related mistakes, you’re supposed to be running towards the house, not away!). Your hand comes up to wipe blood dripping from your nose. Why your nose is bleeding, you don’t know, and honestly, you have bigger problems to deal with right now.

Remmick looks regretful. And you’re not particularly sure why, but you can tell that he doesn’t feel bad about almost biting you, he feels bad that he got caught before he could sink his teeth into your skin. 

“Lass—”

“You told me,” you recalled, and he wants to curse at you for being so damn smart, so damn hot, for making him want you so damn bad. “You told me that if you bit me, it would be up to me!” You’re angry. Hundreds of years of anger and fear has built up and is now oozing out of every pore. 

Remmick knew it couldn’t last forever. That eventually you’d figure it out, that he would push you too far. If he was human, it might make his heart ache. 

"I got caught up in the moment," Remmick sighs, “C’mere, sugar, come—”

“Let me see your ring.” You demand. 

He lets out a condescending chuckle, that comes across as disbelieving. But you’ve woken up to his tricks. 

“My ring?” He scoffs, “Don’t be ridiculous, now, baby, it’s just a—”

You extend your palm from where you are, a few steps back from him. Remmick wants to grab you, to finish this once and for all.. His eyes burn into yours as he pulls his golden band off, before tossing it to you. 

You catch it, your eyes never leaving his. You look down, bringing the ring up to your face, taking a long look at it. Your breath catches. Your name is etched onto the inscription, and you suspect that somewhere, a ring just like you saw on your own hand in that memory is inscribed with his name, buried somewhere long forgotten. 

You finally look up at him, after what feels like an eternity (Remmick would laugh at that. You have no idea what it is to wait.).

“So,” You inhale, “When were you gonna tell me that when you were human, you were married to me? Well, a version of me, at least.” Remmick doesn’t respond. Not for a long moment. He’s just starring at you, like he’s trying to decide on something. You keep going, “And when were you goin’ to tell me that you’ve found me, time after time, and killed me, over and over again?” Your voice is shaky, uneven, and full of fear. 

If he wasn’t so mad at that accusation, your fear might make him hard. 

“Nah, now,” he laughs bitterly with a scoff, “that ain’t fair. You know that ain’t fair, because it ain’t true.” 

“Which part?”

“Which part?” He echoes, and you nod.

“Yeah, which damn part? Because I know the marriage part is true, I got memories that ain’t mine, memories of your eyes and they’re blue. And I keep getting glimpses of you killing me, so what the hell part of it ain’t true?” 

Remmick’s eyes burn a bright red. 

“You have no idea how long I have been—”

“Oh, spare me,” You laugh, “I can’t believe you.” You spit, and in one movement, you throw the ring by his feet and start to make your way back up the porch steps, but Remmick is quicker than you, one hand reaching to grab the ring, slipping it back on his hand before he’s kneeling on the step he was just sitting on, and grabbing your leg as you attempt to walk away. 

“Don’t,” he says, and you will yourself not to look at him, to not let him trick you into staying, “Come on, Lass,” he leans in and presses soft kisses up your calf, his hand rubbing up and down, “You’re tellin’ me, you can’t feel it? That pull that keeps me around, that helps me to find you, any place, any time?” 

You look back at him, because you love him. 

And it doesn’t hurt that he looks awful good on his knees. His face is desperate, begging. 

You almost give in. Then you think of the memory in the factory, with your hand crushed in that machine. Remmick did that. He’s the one that caused you all that pain, all of this fear. You look back at him and shake your head. 

“I’m done, Rem.” You turn and go to walk inside.

Another mistake. 

Remmick’s grip hardens, and you attempt to tear your leg from his grip, because it’s going to start bruise if you don’t get away, but as you try and step away, Remmick tugs, knocking you straight to the ground, on your stomach, bruising your knee, hip and arm. You let out a soft groan, glancing back at Remmick, still gripping your ankle. 

“I ain’t lettin’ you go that easy,” And Remmick would’ve finished with ‘not this time’, but you kick him in the face before he can respond. He lets go of you with a groan, that dissolves into a laugh, his hand comes up to simply set his nose back into place with a sickening crack!, and you’re already on your feet when he rises from his knees, taking another step towards you. “I tried really hard, baby, I did—”

“Oh, cry me a river.” You spit, already stepping back from him, almost like a dance. You take a step back, and he steps forward. 

“Ah, ah—Do not interrupt me, lass,” he laughs, “See, I’ve been a patient man, ya know that, I have been patient for centuries. And every time, yer slip through my fingers like sand, no—not sand. Sugar.” He looks like he’s plotting how he’s going to make you scream, and oh, he is, “And I love when ye make me chase ye, I do, but I do not take kindly to spoiled little brats who can’t appreciate when good is good,” He takes another step forward to you, “So next time I get my hands on you, I’m gonna bite ya. I am goin’ to make you mine, and this time, I will keep you mine. I wanna see you kill your mama and pa too, you’ll do it with a smile, and you and I will be together for eternity, you won’t hardly remember denying me,” Remmick promises, then he moves forward to grab you, to pull you close to him, sink his teeth into that pretty neck of yours, but you step back quickly, and he’s stopped by the invisible shield that prevents him from entering your house uninvited. Remmick laughs bitterly. “that’s a cruel trick, clever girl.” 

You smile, but it’s not kind, and it’s not easy. 

You can do that too. Make threatening promises. 

“I’m gonna kill you.” 

Remmick looks at you. 

“What?”

“I am goin’ to kill you.” You reiterate, “And I’ll keep trying to until the day I die. And if it ain’t me, it’ll be someone who looks an awful lot like me.” 

He lets out a snarl—hundreds of years of anger and shame and waiting has made turned him into something unrecognizable. Something evil. 

“I’m patient.” He tells you with a glare. 

“Not patient enough.” You glare right back. 

A match made in hell, the two of you. 

You turn, ready for this to be over.

“Well, sweet dreams, and good luck sleepin’, lass.” Remmick says, just as the door closes behind you. 

You don’t dignify him (or humiliate yourself) by looking back this time. 

-

You fall asleep angry. You fall asleep planning. 

You get an hour or two before you’re woken up by a nightmare you can’t remember when you wake up. You peer out your curtains, met with blinding sun of a brand-new day. You spend twenty minutes getting ready, scrounging up every cent you can—a birthday card here, a penny there, and a small bundle of savings you kept in a metal box between books under your bed. 

You count every dollar. It’s not enough, but it will have to do. You pull a knit bag over your shoulder, and stuff your copy of Dracula inside. You tear out the mostly blank dedication page and begin to scribble a list of things you’ll be needing. Your money and list are stuffed into your pocket. When you’re finished getting ready, you pull your bedroom door open only to be met with the sight of your parents, ready for church. 

You must be a sight for sore eyes—apart from the bags under your eyes and the one thrown over your shoulder, you have fresh bruises on your face, your clothes are wrinkled and ragged, and you hold a pair of flats in your hands that are coated with dirt. 

“You can’t go to church like that,” are the first words out of your father’s mouth. 

“Well, I ain’t goin’ to church,” you respond, moving past them to the kitchen. You search the cabinets for a minute, finding an empty flask and putting that in your bag, too. Then, you begin to scoop breakfast onto a plate without permission. You’re going to have a long day and an even longer night, so you should really eat while you can. 

Your folks are looking at you like you have two heads. 

“What do you mean you ain’t goin’ to church?” Your ma scoffs, “’Course you’re goin’ to church, it’s Sunday.”

You wonder if they’ll do this the easy way. 

“I can’t today, I gotta..” you pause, not knowing how to explain what you need to get ready for. “I got errands to run. I’ll make it up to you guys, I promise,” and your parents share an uneasy look, because they might be two of God’s most loyal lambs, but they aren’t stupid. Their little girl hasn’t been sleeping, and they’re watching you eat like it’s your last meal (and you quietly hope it’s not). 

Your father says your full name in a stern tone, the type that men take on when they want you to listen to them, before continuing, “If you’re sayin’ you got better places to be than the house of the lord on his day of rest—”

You slam both hands down on the table. Okay, the hard way it is, you think. 

“Jesus Christ! Why can’t the two of you just trust me for once? I will go to church tomorrow, Bible study the day after that, hell, I will join a damn convent by the end of the week, but today, I got things to do that ain’t have nothin’ to do with the two of you or God, so either I can catch a ride to town with you, or I can walk there, which is just gonna slow me down.” You snap, years of pent-up frustration spilling out in your words, brought to a head by two months of barely sleeping, memories that you don’t remember making, and a tormenting, cruel man who wants to kill not only you, but your folks too. 

Needless to say, it’s a real quiet drive to town. 

You buy ammunition for your pa’s gun, hoping that long forgotten days of watching your dad and uncle shoot the thing would come back to you after ten years. You’re not entirely sure that will kill Remmick, but it’s the best you have for now. You stop at the general store, and you buy two jars of pickled garlic, a spool of string, bandages, and a pack of cigarettes. You do stop by your father’s church in between services, avoiding his questions, only filling the flask you found with holy water. 

You walk right past your ma, in the pews, praying for you. You’ll apologize tomorrow, you hope.

You wander off the beaten path afterwards, finding the house of a woman you’ve heard is much more familiar with the supernatural than you are. You’re honest with her, too. You hand her the rest of your money and beg the woman to tell you how to kill a vampire.

And that’s how you spend the better part of your afternoon pulling legs off chairs in your house, then filing them down with a knife. You manage to cut your fingers a few times, thankful that they’d clot before nightfall. You don’t need to give him any advantages. You wrap bandages around your fingers before you hide a few of the stakes here and there, hoping your parents will be home long after this is done. You set one jar of garlic in a trap, using the string to set it up. You turn your small shack into a Remmick mouse trap, planning exactly how you’ll do it. Your final touch is wrapping the rosary around your shotgun, letting the cross hang off the barrel. 

Then you wait. You wait for a long time. You bounce between chewing on pickled gloves of garlic and smoking cigarettes. It’s not much of a dinner, but it’s all you can do.

You even doze off a bit, waking up with a start when you hear singing. 

Singing?

It’s dark now, darker than it had been when you fell asleep. You peer out one of the windows in the house, and in the distance, you see Remmick leaning against the well where you first saw him, from a time that seems so damn long ago now. 

He’s singing the song he sang to you last night, and the one he sang to you on your wedding night, hundreds of years ago. 

Motherfucker. You glare at him, flip him off, and then move around the kitchen to make sure everything is ready. You tuck your knife into your pocket, right besides your small flask of holy water. You pop another piece of garlic into your mouth, beginning to chew it as you aim your gun at the screen door.  You watch Remmick come closer, making his way up to your doorway. He stares at you, before his fingers become long claws, slicing through the screen door with an unmatched rage- well, unmatched by anyone except you. 

His sudden destruction makes you falter, only for a moment, taking a half a step back, as a memory flashes into your mind—of his claws cutting across your stomach, adorned in a pretty silk dress, in a past life. You blink the memory away, before inhaling deeply.

“I’ll give you one more chance to leave.” You call to him. He glares. Instead of responding, he lets out a growl, something animalistic. He’s staring holes into your skin, and drool drips from his chin like he can’t help it. And you suspect he can’t. “Fine.” You snap, cocking the gun. “Come in, asshole.” 

Remmick doesn’t hesitate. He slams open the screen door, stepping inside, ignoring the way the screen rattles against the main door. You don’t even pull the string to the garlic jar, just watch as Remmick’s violent opening of the screen causes the jar of pickled garlic resting on the top of the door toppling over and smashing right on top of his head, shattered glass falling all around him. But the best part is the way he yells, the way he curses as the garlic burns him with a violent hiss!, as steam rises off his melting skin. 

Remmick is far less pretty like this. 

“Son of a—” He curses his hands coming up to his face as he wipes off extra garlic juice from his eyes and hair, skin still steaming—but you see the way that certain parts of his skin are already healing. He snarls at you. “Ye know, Lass, I think this time, I’m really gonna enjoy killin’ yer.” 

“Yeah,” You nod, “I figured. Feelin’s mutual, sugar.” You spit, aiming the gun right at him. You watch as melted, goopy skin that hangs off his skin begins to inch back his face, his hair regrowing in the spots it was singed off, as if someone is waving a magic wand over his wounds, fixing it. 

“A gun? What, you’re gonna shoot me?” He asks, looking at your gun. He takes a step towards you, but your feet are firmly planted. “Nah, I don’t think so. Little girl like you, probably don’t even know to turn the safety off.. ye ain’t gonna shoot me.”

You click the safety off, voice steady. 

“Wanna bet?” 

“Yeah.” He huffs, chest to your gun now. He’s close enough to grab you, but you can see he’s having fun; And you, in the deepest part of your soul, are still his wife, and want him to enjoy this last bit of fun. “I think yer all bark, no—”

BANG!

Remmick hits the wall before the pain hits him, now leaning against the wall, flat on his ass. He screams as he’s shot back, cursing at you with a hole in his chest.

“You fucking shot me! I can’t believe you—” You reload the gun and shoot again. “Fuck! Stop fuckin’ shootin’ me, you little—” he cuts himself off with a curse, whimpering a soft ‘oooo’, as he sharply inhales. Black blood like bile seeps into his shirt, a hand over the wound on his shoulder. As he licks his wounds, you reach to where you’ve stored the other ammunition, reloading the gun as he’s distracted.

“You’re in trouble. So much trouble, I’m gonna have to fuck that attitude outta ya before I kill ya,” He snarls, and before you can react, he’s up and moving again, except instead of coming right at you, he grabs the glass vase of wild flowers that sits next to the pitcher you were filling when you first saw him. And then he takes that vase and throws it at you. 

He takes advantage of you putting your arms up to block it, shattered glass cutting your cheek, but you’re in better shape than Remmick when he tackles you, bodyweight pressed against you as the gun goes flying across the room. You begin to panic, squirming beneath him, when you feel his one claw digging into your side, the other digging into your thigh, both ripping your clothes and drawing a bit of blood, as his tongue licks the blood from your cheek, dripping out of your fresh cut. 

“I really do hate to kill ye,” he starts, “But I always did love the taste of yer blood.. always tastes like lust, and fear.. Desperation and love.” He smirks, and before you could stop him, his mouth is on yours, capturing you in a deep kiss. You appreciate the way it grounds you back to reality, and while you have your mouth on his, one knee comes up to rub against Remmick’s half hard cock. Remmick groans into the kiss, his tongue slipping into your mouth, only to pull away and spit to the side. “Chewin’ garlic? Clever girl.” He scoffs, and you move one hand to curl into his hair, your touch warm and soft, despite the moment. He lets out a groan, “Clever, mean, insufferable girl..” 

Your other hand reaches to your pocket, and Remmick’s claws pull out of your thigh to grab your wrist, claws digging into the skin around your hand. You inhale sharply, 

“I have a flask! In my pocket—let me get the garlic tatste outta my mouth, then you can kiss me all you want, Rem.” He lets out a sharp exhale. 

“Fine.”

Fucking Idiot, You want to say, You’re playing my game now. Learn the rules. 

You grab the flask, pull it out, not breaking eye contact despite your shaky hands, bringing it to your lips and untwisting the cap with your teeth. Then you pour a mouthful into your mouth, closing and swishing it around so it coats your mouth. Then, you smile to Remmick, before spitting the holy water at his skin, burning his pretty face again. You kick him right where the sun does not shine, and he groans, rolling off you. 

Sharp pain shoots up his groin. He was going to make you cum, too. 

“Mother—” You scramble for the gun, ignoring the sound of him groaning in pain. You grab the gun off the ground, pointing it right at him. “Sugar, don’t you shoot—” 

BANG!

You cock the gun again, knowing you need to make the most of this last bullet (You’re poor, this is 1932, you can only afford so many bullets). You look at your (kind of) husband, panting softly as he whines and writhers on the ground, holding a new wound in his leg. It doesn’t turn you on like it usually would, well not as much, but it gives your gun a great angle, to aim right for his hard-on, and—

BANG!

Remmick really screams this time, and his blood is everywhere. He’s holding his crotch now, and he’s panting heavily. You’d feel bad if you didn’t know it would take him only a few minutes to heal enough to get you back. Or that he wants to kill you. 

“You little bitch,” he spits, “I’m gonna fuckin gut ya—” 

You smirk, running to the door of your bedroom before asking, “Was it as good for you as it was for me?”

You slam the door shut as Remmick’s cursing becomes louder, more frantic. It takes him a few minutes to get on his feet again, and another few to find his strength to stumble to your door. 

“You have no idea what we were.” He speaks through the door. He turns the knob, and, of course, you’ve locked it behind you. He can hear you moving around, and he takes a moment to imagine you gurgling on your own blood before he begins to jiggle the handle, “I loved you—I have always loved you, everything I have done, I have done because I love you,” he starts to slam his body into your bedroom door, inhumane strength literally curving the wood, on the verge of knocking it down. “And all you have done since that first time you died, is run.” His voice breaks as he slams his body against the door again, “You run, given me a taste at who I was, and die, over and over,” Thud! “and over,” Thud! “and over!” 

The door cracks off the hinges and falls to the ground with a thunk! And Remmick stumbles into the room, looking around, and getting his bearings. He’s hurt, even if the wounds heal, the pain lingers—and any humanity left in him is fighting, screaming to stop. To let you go, to walk right outside when the sun comes up, finally putting an end to his own misery—and yours. That piece screams, hasn’t she suffered enough? Is this what love is? Would this really make either of you happy?

But time and time again, that thing he calls his conscious, the thing only you can pull out of him, is drowned out by the sound of the horrible, gnawing, crushing craving for power. This power to know your every thought, to literally suck the life out of you, to feel the warmth leave your body—and then come back, just as hungry as he is. 

It’s not a craving that is unique to you—he feels that craving for all people to some degree, but with you, he might as well be sunbathing, that’s how the craving burns. It drowns out everything else within him, even the part of him that wanted to be a better man for you.

He inhales deeply, trying to get a whiff of—

Despite his pain, he smirks. His eyes lock onto your closet. He creeps up. He wonders if you know he’s creeping up, if you’re scared. Of course you’re scared. You’re always so scared in the end. He moves suddenly then, ripping your closet door off it’s hinge and—you’re not there. The only thing he sees when he looks down where you should be cowering in fear, or at least about to lunge at him with a hidden knife or something, is a pair of panties. He laughs then, like, really gets a kick out of this. 

“Dirty girl.” He thinks back to what he called you earlier—“Clever, mean, insufferable, dirty girl..” He scoffs, “Too many words.. I’ll write ya a list.” He grumbles, saying it in the soft whisper that echoes in every corner of your house, trying to focus on that thing that pulls him to you, that thing that tugs no matter how far he wanders. 

Then, he starts to sing you your wedding song, the type of love song that could make any lass swoon, but Remmick only wants you. 

Then his nose picks up on a different smell, and he smirks. Your nose is bleeding, and he knows it’s because that song always brings back a memory, and your nose always bleeds when he does it. He keeps singing as he approaches the window, a smirk on his face. 

He’ll have to add clever to the list twice. 

Suddenly, your eyes snap open, and you’re running before you really know what you’re doing, running towards the fields that surround the back of your house, right to the edge, where you’ve hidden a stake you want to drive through his heart, as Remmick opens the window, intending to climb out the window after you, when he stops, another sound catching his attention. 

The sound of a car pulling up to the front of your house. Your mama and pa are home. 

Remmick knows just how to break you. What better way to get you to spend eternity with him, then throwing in eternity with your folks too? Only, the nicest version of them? At the very least, it might make you do something stupid. 

And you do. 

Your heart is racing as you watch him smile wickedly at you, before turning to go meet your folks at the door. You quickly run through all the ways you could get his attention back on you, and you unthinkingly take your knife out of your pocket, before looking down at your wrists. Then, back to Remmick. Then, you take your knife and make long, deep cuts into your wrists, down to your forearm—The kind of injury Remmick cannot ignore. Not if he wants to turn you before you die. 

You let out an inhuman noise, like an animal stuck in a bear trap. Your hands shake as you make cuts into your other wrist. You can’t breathe. Your vision grows fuzzy as you watch him stumble out of the window, running right towards you. He doesn’t want you to die. He wants you to live forever, and the scent of your blood is making him woozy too. 

You fall to the ground just in time for Remmick to catch you, and the part of you in the back of your mind, who knows this is how the story is always meant to end, kind of enjoys the idea of dying in Remmick’s arms. On the one hand, you love him. On the other hand, you know this moment will haunt him for a long time. 

Your body is shaking, and there is blood everywhere. Remmick cradles you against him, hands smearing your blood as if he could push it back inside of you. 

“No, no, C’mere, I got you,” He has an idea. He leans into your neck and tugs you close to him. His claws, covered in blood, cradle you, as he opens his jaw wide, before sinking his teeth deep into the skin of your collarbone, drinking the sweet taste of you. He drinks, and drinks, and for a moment, he forgets that you’re dying, but he eventually comes up for air, beginning to pet your hair. “All gonna be okay, we’re gonna be together for a long, long time,” he rambles.

You don’t want to die. But you’d rather die than give him what he wants. But it’s more than just the way he’s tortured you for the past two month—although, it does feed into your anger. No, If you turn, it means he won. It means that he gets away with killing all those different versions of you, and still gets to be with you. Still gets to invade your thoughts, still gets to spend eternity with you—after doing nothing but hurt you (and, occasionally, fuck you).

Your hand searches until your fingers wrap around something grainy and wooden. You’re not sure you have the strength to stab Remmick with the stake, but you wonder if you could bide your time until the sun comes up. You pull him in for a kiss, right against your lips, and then stab yourself the best you can with the wooden stake. 

You can taste blood now, and you wonder if Remmick is as overwhelmed by it as you are, how it coats everything around you. Him, the grass, your clothes. Your ears are ringing, the noises of the world far away, muffled by the fuzziness that overtakes you from your wounds. Your vision begins to fade, and the last thing you see before everything turns white is Remmick leaning down to kiss your head, before getting up, setting you down gently, and going to kill your parents. 

Son of a bitch, You think, laying in a pool of Remmick’s and your own tears, and your blood (mostly), I’ll get you in the next life, husband.

-

Ireland, 1652

The first thing you noticed about Remmick was his eyes. A beautiful bright blue. Like a clear creek on a summer’s day. He took you somewhere like that once. Right before he asked you to marry him.

You had met him when he was just a travelling musician, penniless and preforming songs for lodgings. You were working as a governess to a rich British family who had been given the land on account of the patriarch being a clergyman. Remmick had known the family who used to own the land. He hated the people you worked for, the way they took mercilessly.

You thought the kids were nice enough, if not a little snotty. But they were comfortable. They didn’t have to worry about the fact that the people who used to live there often had to choose between food and firewood. 

The two of you fell in love, as deep as any two people could. You fell in love over ale in a pub loud with music, over quiet mornings spent tracing the lines of Remmick’s face, and in between grueling, exhausting day of work. Remmick took your breath away, and Remmick couldn’t go for more than a few hours before itching to see you again. He asked you to marry him and on a warm spring morning, right as the sun rose, you promised to be his forever. 

To your credit, the two of you got a wonderful few months before things went wrong.

Remmick never should’ve went out. He never went out on Sundays, preferring to spend his day off kneeling between your legs, eating you out like a starved man. Sundays were for two things—Rest and keeping his wife happy. He tended to get more gigs on the weekend and often picked up shifts at the pub to pay your bills. So, Sunday was his day off. But you requested, oh so sweetly, for him to pick up honey for your evening tea, and he wanted to pick you a bundle of wildflowers, just to show you that he loved you. After all—Sundays were for keeping his wife happy.

He left right after lunch, but didn’t get back until the early evening, just as the sun set.

Remmick would play that night over and over again in his head.

He’d wonder about whether things would’ve been different. If he had left earlier. If he had never went out in the first place, if he had just spent the morning between your legs like he wanted to, if he had done anything differently. 

But maybe things were always going to end that way, maybe there was nothing he could’ve done. 

 With a fistful of white daffodils, Remmick started to whistle your song as he traversed the path towards your wooden house, the one on the property of the family you worked for.

He heard your screams before he saw the flames. 

He broke out into a sprint, dropping the jar of honey and your flowers as he dashed towards his wife, hoping against hope that you’d be okay. He was just in time to see the men who set the fire ride off on horses, half drunk and laughing—laughing that the woman he loved was burning alive, laughing that the people they deemed below them were suffering. 

You were warm. You were kind, and soft. The hardened edges you did have only emphasized your softness, the way you always gave whoever you were talking to your full attention, the way your hands felt running along his skin. 

He knew he couldn’t save you, not without killing himself, and looking back, that’s exactly what he should’ve done. But before he could, as he sat there, sobbing for his wife—someone creeped out of the shadows. 

“You’re hurting, lad,” They had said, in his native tongue. But his accent was british. Remmick hated that posh accent.  “I can make that pain go away.. Fellowship and love is all you need, but..” They bared their sharp teeth at him, “all you gotta do is let me see that pretty neck of yours, and you’ll have the power to get revenge. Wouldn’t you like that? To kill the men who murdered your pretty little wife?” 

Remmick doesn’t remember saying yes. 

All he does remember is how much pain he was in, how drinking the blood of those men made him feel better, how he missed you horribly—more than the sun.

This is the truth. Remmick really did love you, and he really didn’t understand what he was getting into—it’s true. It really happened. 

But so did everything that came after.

-

London, 1812

He stood outside Lady Arlington’s grand masquerade ball, waiting, watching. His suit was out of style, stolen from an old bachelor he had bitten last week, but at least he was in a suit. Besides, everyone would assume it to be a costume. He looked nice—or he assumed he did. Damn mirrors. 

His mask was fastened onto his face, and he was sure he could convince at least half the people here that his red eyes and sharp teeth were part of the costume. He wasn’t even sure why he was here. He hated London, had specifically avoided Britian in the past two hundred years. 

But something ate away at him. It gnawed at him, told him to come here. Something about this damn masquerade is pulling him in, and It’s too loud to ignore. So, he’s happy when the man at the door graciously accepts the invitation he stole, inviting him in with a posh, “Good evening, Sir, right this way.” 

Remmick sticks to the outskirts of the crowd, watching as men twirled women, listening to the sound of a string quartet, and he finds himself sipping wine that he doesn’t even like. So why is he here? He searches the room, looking for—

And then, his breath catches as he catches sight of a familiar lock of hair. He blinks, his eyes following the glimpse. He watches as familiar woman dance with a man, and then he realizes why she’s so familiar.

But how are you here?

You died. You died, and Remmick turned into this monster. 

But when he hears you laugh, he knows it’s you. He could never forget your laugh, you’re his wife. 

His feet begin to move across the room as the music finishes and you curtsey to your dance partner, making your way towards the refreshment table. He says your name to stop himself from grabbing you in the middle of this crowded room. 

No one ever called you by your first name at a ball, it was always ‘Miss’ followed by your first name or your last name. You knew you’d need to be married eventually, but you always found these dances boring—although you did enjoy a masquerade.

You turned and blinked. Even though he was wearing a mask, there was something... familiar about the man. And his red eyes don’t scare you. They lure you in. 

“Oh, good evening, may I help you?” You ask, and Remmick almost recoils at the sound of your voice. Your familiar, soft cadence is replaced by that posh British accent he hates. 

“I just..” For two hundred years, Remmick has longed to see you again. He’s spent hours mulling it over in his head, coming up with a million different things he would say to you if he could tell you anything. All that comes out is, “Yer beautiful.”

Your face flushes. 

“Oh,” You giggle a bit. “Why, thank you, I—Oh dear,” a gloved hand comes up to cover your gasp, “You seem to have a bit of,” you motion towards your lip, and Remmick feels drool dribbling down his chin. His hand comes up to wipe it away, but you hand him a handkerchief. He mumbles out a thank you, before taking it and wiping his mouth.  

“Thank ye,” he hums, and your head twitches. His accent is rare in a crowd like this, but it pulls your lips up into a smile. 

“It’s a lovely night for a walk. Would you accompany me?”

Technically, you’re not supposed to be unchaperoned and alone with a bachelor. But you have a feeling that this particular bachelor is not the man your mother and father had in mind to be your husband. So, if you don’t get caught, you don’t see the harm. At the very least, it’s not a particularly horrible way to kill time. 

“Of course,” is his answer, offering you his arm, eyes glued on you as you lead him to the nearest door. 

“I never got your name,” you say politely, because it seems he already knows yours, which makes sense—your family is quite popular within ‘society’. Not that you even really believe in that.

“Remmick,” he answers, and you nod. 

“Right, and your last name?”

He scoffs quietly. 

“Just Remmick.” Telling you his last name seems pointless. He’ll just be Remmick. At least in this lifetime. 

“Okay, Just Remmick. Tell me, where does a gentleman such as you find himself when he’s not attending masquerades?” He can tell you know this isn’t really his scene from that question alone—It may not seem like much, but it’s as if he’d forgotten just how clever you were. His clever girl. 

And more selfishly, Remmick misses being known. Being known by you. He feeds minimally, and mostly on animals or small critters. His fingers twitch for more, for blood and destruction, but he just couldn’t. His humanity was louder for a long time. But don’t worry, he’ll get it soon, tonight, in fact. 

“I play music.” He says honestly, “I’m what ye ma would call a, er, ‘penniless musician.’” 

You smile at him. 

“I enjoy music,” You tell him, “I think music is a beautiful thing that transcends time and memory. Don’t you?”

His heart would be beating out of his chest if he still had one. He brings your handkerchief to his chin and wipes drool. He’d make something up, tell you he had something wrong with his mouth, or something. He’d figure it out when you asked about it.

“I do,” he nods, but he’s not fully paying attention, if he’s honest. He’s listening to the living, breathing heartbeat that thumps in your chest, quicker when you make eye contact with him. He wonders if you’re wet, but he doubts that your mind is as dirty or depraved as his. 

“Well, would you play me something sometime?” You ask, and Remmick smiles a bit, pats your arm in an affectionate matter—he’s suddenly back in the meadow just south of your wooden house, watching the way you shone in the sunlight, like it hasn’t been two hundred years since he’s last seen you. 

“Anything ye want, lass.” He promises, and he means it so genuinely that your heart nearly stops. He wipes his chin again. 

“What are you doing here, then?” You ask softly. “I don’t mean any offense, but there are so few people who share your accent, I cannot help my curiosity, though I hold no judgement.” Remmick tries not to scoff at how much he likes you, even his disdain for British accents can’t stop the fact that he loves that even now, two hundred years later, you’re still giving your full attention to every conversation. 

He’s been in love with you for long enough to know your question comes from nothing except genuine curiosity. So, he doesn’t laugh when you ask him that, but he does think about it. 

“Well, ye see, somethin’s been... pulling me, tugging me towards Britian at first,” he starts, “Then to London, and now to this... palace,” he huffs, a part of him a little bitter that he found you in the type of place he couldn’t fit in well, no matter how charismatic. “And I didn’t know what it was pullin’ me towards, but—” he looks at you again. “I think I know what it was pullin’ me towards now..” 

You smile. 

“And what would that be, Mr. Re—” Someone calls your name as footsteps approach, and you turn to look at the source, only to find your mother approaching, guiding a gentleman only a few years older than you towards you.

“Whatever are you doing out here alone, dear?” Your mother asks, and you turn back to introduce Remmick to your mother, but he’s gone. Nowhere to be found. You blink, confused. Where had he gone?

“Just taking a break from all the excitement, mother.” The lie slips off your tongue easily enough, and it’s all your mother needs before she’s introducing you to a young blonde gentleman, and you intend to give him your fullest attention, but you suspect it will be difficult on account of your mysterious penniless musician. 

Remmick watches from the shadows, lingering. He can’t stop glaring at the young eligible bachelor who holds your arm, who’s looking at you like you’re a prize. He waits and waits—until the bachelor closes the door behind you when he leads you into the library of the manor. He tries to reason with himself. 

You’re a very pretty girl. The light blue silk of your dress, your posh accent, your skilled dance moves—you obviously come from money. And he knows you’re clever. He looks around and realizes any bachelor at this stupid party would be lucky to have you. 

He breaks the door handle before he knows what he’s doing, quickly opening the door and this is what he sees:

You, leaning against the far wall of the library, squirming. Your eligible bachelor with his hands on your sides, bunching up the fabric of your dress, with his mouth on your neck. You’re trying to push him away.

Remmick grabs him by the shoulder before he even realizes he’s stepped towards the two of you, and then he’s swinging at him with a clenched fist. It causes you to gasp, and before you know it, blonde bachelor’s nose is bleeding and he’s shoving Remmick back against another bookshelf. Books fall around him, and he glances down and sees one on Irish folklore and mythology—

Open to the section on the Gancanagh—a male fae known for his ability to enchant and kill young women, often through powerful seduction. The legend of the Gancanagh dictates that he cannot enter a home unless invited. Remmick rolls his eyes and is on his feet again, going after blonde bachelor. 

He lunges at him, claws drawn, and then he’s swiping at him, but blonde bachelor, to his credit, isn’t entirely stupid. He grabs you and uses you as a shield—and suddenly there are five distinct, large slashes across the front of your dress. Then, you start to bleed, and Remmick catches you as you fall, blood pooling in your abdomen and soaking his stolen suit.

He sets you down gently, and he goes to move away from you, to fucking kill this blonde asshole, but you grip his arm, pulling him back. 

“Don’t,” You let out a soft whimper of pain, gripping his arm, not wanting him to leave. He leans in and kisses your forehead, 

“I’m so sorry, I’ll be right back, Lass,” he promises, before moving away from you, your weak protests drowned out by how badly Remmick wants this man dead. How badly he wants to drink his blood. 

He grabs the man just as he reaches the door, covering his mouth with his large, now bloodstained claw, and uses that hand to tilt his head, before Remmick sinks his teeth into the flesh of the man who wanted to take you from him. Who kissed you without asking. 

And he tastes delicious. Remmick almost moans—it’s like eating a well-seasoned steak after two hundred years of bone broth. He sucks and sucks, draining the man of every ounce of blood. Then he drops his corpse, using your handkerchief to wipe his chin of any excess blood.

He stands, and glances to the corpse on the ground. Whatever. He’ll wake up in a little bit, but Remmick does not give a single fuck what happens to the poor fool. Remmick, on the other hand, feels phenomenal. He feels like he’s strong enough to hold the sky up, and he starts to smile when he remembers you. 

“Sorry ye had to see that, lass, but yer friend won’t be—” he turns to you and realizes you’re not moving. He’s by your side in a flash. “No, no, c’mon, lass, wake up,” He listens for the sound of your heartbeat, but he doesn’t hear one. He had let you die. Again. And this time, it had been his fault. Not indirectly, either. He should’ve bitten you when he had the chance. “I’m sorry,” he says softly, leaning his forehead against yours. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, lass,” he begins to cry, and that feels stupid, so he leans down to try and bite you, maybe he can still bring you back—but his teeth get about an inch to your skin, and it’s like something’s stopping him from sinking in the rest of the way—his eyes flicker down to the cross that hangs from your pretty dead neck. 

Remmick takes only a few more minutes to kiss you, to whisper his apologies before he slips out of the window, deciding to take out his heartbreak and his anger out on anything else with a pulse that comes his way. 

You came back once, he reasons eventually, right before the sun rises the next morning, as he stares at your handkerchief, covered in blood now, since he used it to wipe his mouth four times as he’s drunk the bodies of three different drunk idiots outside a gentleman’s club. He’s sure you’ll come back again. He’ll wait. He has all the time in the world. 

He’ll just have to be patient. 

-

New York, 1892

Fucking Sundays. You always die on a Sunday. 

You and Remmick have been going out for six months. Remmick lays awake at night, thinking about how this is the longest he’s ever gotten with you, at least since you were married. This is try number six. 

Why do you keep dying? 

It frustrates him, like an itch he just can’t get to go away. It’s one of the many things he hates about living forever. Another thing he hates is innovation. He’s watched the Industrial revolution happen slowly at first, and then, all at once. He hates it for all the reasons you can imagine, but part of the things he really hates is how it dulls you. You work hours that are too long. You work a job that’s too harsh. 

You work in a weaving factory. You spend your precious life in a factory without proper ventilation, often working with dangerous equipment and conditions. You’re so tired when you come home. Remmick just wants you to be safe, just wants you nearby, Is that so terrible? 

Or at least, that’s how he had said it when you told him you couldn’t quit your job and stay in the apartment with him forever, like he had asked you to. Remmick figured, what the hell, worst you could do is say no. You had handled him being a vampire so well. 

But nothing could ever go the way he wanted it to. Not in any of your lifetimes so far. He just wanted you close so bad, that the thought of you not being with him, it drives him a little insane. To the point of violence. So, he dug his claws into your ankle, threatening to snap the bone as he offered a game—

“Shh, Shh,” he said, a sinister smile adorning his lips, “Wanna play a game, baby?”

“No, you fucking— ow!” You yelped as he tightened his grip, threating to rip his claws up the skin of your calf, “Ow, ow—Fuck, okay, fine! Yes, What game?” You sob, and Remmick’s grip loosened only slightly. 

“Hide and seek.”

He was stalking you through the factory, where you worked. No one was here now; it had been too late. But you turned on all the big machines, hoping to throw off his hearing. That was the worst part about being with you for longer. You had more time to know his weaknesses. To hate him. 

But he was close. He could smell you. The sweat that beaded down your forehead, the heat between your thighs, and the smell of your blood as it dripped from your ankle. You were hiding, knelt under one of those big machines. Your heart is racing, and your ankle really fucking aches. You creep around the machine to see where he was, when he grabs you from behind. 

You struggle against him, yelling, but neither of you can hear each other over the loud industrial machinery. He grabs your arm, before sticking it in the machine, focusing on the sound of your screams—he thinks he even laughs. 

He can’t remember killing you. 

He just wakes up a few hours later, laying in a pool of your blood, right before the factory opens. He needs to go. 

He spends as much time as he can apologizing over your body, as he always does. He was sloppy this time. Sloppier than he had been. He had let any urge he felt win, but he was sure if he could keep his wits about you, and strike when he needed to, and he would finally get to keep you. 

He’d just need to be smarter about it. Next time, he decides right then and there, as he limps away from the factory and towards the nearest port, needing to kill a few decades, will be different. 

Next time, the story will end a different way. 

-

Indiana, 1982

You twisted your key in the door of the family video, shivering a bit. You hated working the night shift. You rarely ever did. You pulled your jacket close, before fishing into your bag, pulling out your Walkman and unwrapping the cord of your headphones, walking down the sidewalk, towards the path you’ll take to get home. 

Your thumb begins to press down to begin your tape, when you hear the vroom, vroom from a motorcycle fit for a man who might be a little butthurt that the last time you saw him, you shot him in the dick, among other places. 

But when your head picks up to look at the motorcycle, you pause, because you suddenly realize you’ve never seen this man before in your life. And yet, there’s a familiarity about him. He’s leaning against his motorcycle now, having turned it off and parked it. 

“Hey there, Sugar,” he says, maybe a little too sweetly. He doesn’t hide the way he looks you up and down. You don’t hate it. You’re currently taking the summer to enjoy your hometown before you go away to school. So, if a handsome man with a hot motorcycle wants to take you home, who are you to deny him? (No survival instinct, but you’ll catch on quick.)

“Hi. Cool bike.” You say, pulling your jacket closer to your body. 

“Why, thank you.” You can’t place his accent. “Wanna ride?” He asks, and you roll your eyes but are thankful it’s too dark for him to see your red cheeks. 

“On the bike you mean?” You question, and Remmick offers you the helmet he holds. 

“For now.” He shrugs, and you take it, resting it on your hip.

“Well, where are we gonna go?” You wonder, “I know what you’re after, and I expect a nice date before I even think about something like that,” You smile, and Remmick scoffs.

“You have no idea what I’m after,” He starts, before reaching to his mostly non-existent soft side and rephrasing, “How ‘bout you and I go for a drink?” He offers, and you let out a nervous laugh. 

“I was just gonna go home and watch a movie,” you tell him, and he tilts his head.

“Oh yeah? What movie?” Remmick won’t admit it, but he’s watched as movies have gone from an expensive, once in a while treat, to something most families pick three of on a Friday and return them the next Friday, and... he thinks that is one small silver lining to this horrible, never-ending existence. 

You dig into your bag and pull out a VHS Tape, labeled Dracula, a movie that came out in 1979. You don’t love it as an adaptation of your favorite book, but for what it is, you enjoy it. Remmick laughs. 

“What? Not a vampire guy?” 

Remmick doesn’t remember it being laid on this thick the last time. 

He shrugs. 

“I just think that bein’ a vampire,” he shakes his head. “it ain’t all it’s made out to be.” 

You shrug. 

“I think it’s sexy.” 

Remmick’s head picks up at that, a smirk forming on his face. 

“Yeah?”

You smile. He’s funny. Too cool, too flirty, and just desperate enough for you to see through his charade. You’re not sure why, but you get the idea that his desperation goes deeper than just looking for a fuck—

“Yeah. A mysterious, handsome stranger, biting my neck and promising me forever?” You wonder out loud, taking a few steps towards him. “What kind of girl wouldn’t think that’s romantic?” 

Remmick would laugh if he hadn’t spent the last two centuries figuring out that you are exactly the kind of girl who doesn’t think that’s romantic. Well, maybe he would laugh if he also wasn’t really fucking bitter about it. 

He offers you his hand. 

“Let’s find out. I got popcorn back at mine.” Remmick doesn’t really eat, but movies have become synonymous with popcorn, and he’s just desperate to get you alone, to get his teeth in your neck. He won’t fail again. He can’t—he doesn’t know if he has it in him. As it is, ever since you slit your wrists, you’re significantly angrier at him by the end. 

The last time the two of you met, he had these horrific 60’s style sideburns, and you stabbed him in the eye with a mirror shard from a disco ball and had gotten blood all over what you had described as your ‘dancing boots’. 

“Hmm.. I dunno.” You shrug. “I’m not in the habit of going home with a stranger.” You tease, and he scoffs. This again?

“Well, my name’s Remmick. And yours,” he says your name, and a shiver runs down your spine. 

“I didn’t tell you that.” 

He taps the top left of his chest with the pointer finger of his right hand. 

“Yer name tag.” 

You let out a laugh.

“Oh, right. Sorry, that was silly of me.” 

“Silly girl.” He teases. Clever, mean, insufferable, dirty, silly girl. “So, what do you say?” he extends his hand again. You think about it for a long minute. A really long moment. Remmick holds his breath. C’mon, lass, He thinks, take the god damn bait before I grab you right here.

You sigh, put on his helmet, and take his hand. 

“There are worse ways to spend a Sunday night,” you shrug as you climb onto the back of his motorcycle. 

As you wrap your arms around him, chest pressed to his back, Remmick finds that he couldn’t agree more. 

[wavypotatochips]

Hi! Can I request one for Sergio Ramos where reader is a culé. Because I am a culé but this man is so fine 😭😭 (thank you ❤️❤️❤️)

Culé | 𝙎𝙚𝙧𝙜𝙞𝙤 𝙍𝙖𝙢𝙤𝙨

𝘗𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴: Sergio Ramos x Female Reader

Word Count :

𝙎𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮 : You are attending a Real Madrid vs Barcelona match.

𝘈𝘶𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘴 𝘕𝘰𝘵𝘦: Thanks so much for clarifying everything to me before hand c: Thank you so much for requesting!! ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚!!

[ TRANSLATOR IS USED SO DIRECT TRANSLATION MAY NOT BE CORRECT ]

(っ◔◡◔)っ ♥ REQUESTS ARE OPEN, currently covered in college work so as of now uploads MAY mainly be on weekends. Thank you for your patience c’: ♥

For those who do not know, Culé is a Barcelona fan

You and Sergio have been dating for a while now, and while you love him dearly, there's one small problem: you're a die-hard Barcelona fan, and he plays for their arch-rivals, Real Madrid. 

The latest El Clasico game was coming up, and you were excited but also a little nervous. You knew it was going to be a tense match, and you didn't want to let your competitive spirit get in the way of your relationship.

The day of the match arrived, and as usual Sergio had to get up early to prepare. You wished him good luck and said you'd be rooting for him and Real Madrid, but both of you knew you were lying. Sergio did not mind that you were a Barcelona fan, but of course when he is wearing his Real Madrid jersey he always playfully bugs you with how he is gonna beat them, just for you two to get into a playful argument. As the much-anticipated match between the two teams approached, you couldn't help but feel a sense of unease. The players took to the field, and the camera panned to the VIP section where the WAGs were seated. It zoomed in on you as you playfully teased with your Barcelona jersey and stuck your tongue out, the scene broadcasted on the massive screens throughout the stadium. The camera then focused on Sergio's face, who was on the field, laughing and shaking his head. Although you supported opposing teams, Sergio never felt ashamed of your choices, and you both refused to let social media judgment affect your relationship.

As the game began, you wore your Messi jersey and prepared to cheer your team on. You were glued to your seat, watching as the two teams battled it out on the field, each vying for an advantage. Sergio was playing in midfield, and you could see him tirelessly running back and forth, determined to help his team. You were screaming and hollering, completely invested in the game. Although you were cheering for Real Madrid, you couldn't help but yell threatening words towards anyone who tried to hurt Sergio, as if they could hear you over the deafening crowd. Despite your allegiance to Real Madrid, your love for Sergio and your concern for his safety superseded everything else.

In the 14th minute, Real Madrid scored the first goal, with a beautiful goal by Benzema. You groan in frustration, while Sergio jumps up and down, his teammates congratulating him on the assist.The rest of the first half is a tense affair, with Barcelona struggling to find their footing. Real Madrid, on the other hand, looks in control, and it's no surprise when they score their second goal just before the halftime whistle. You could feel the tension building in the stadium, with the Real Madrid fans jubilant and the Barcelona fans deflated.

At halftime, you take a deep breath and try to calm your nerves. “Sergio why do you have to be such a good DEFENDER!,” you groan.

But you're not ready to give up just yet. Barcelona is known for their comeback victories, and you're hoping they can turn things around in the second half. 

Unfortunately, it's not to be. Real Madrid comes out even stronger, with another goal from Benzema in the 52nd minute, followed by a stunning strike from Modric in the 68th minute. Barcelona can't seem to catch a break, with their passes going awry and their shots missing the mark. When the final whistle blows, the score is 4-0 in favor of Real Madrid. 

After the intense game came to a close, you waited anxiously outside the players' locker room. Your heart was pounding with excitement, waiting to see Sergio. Moments later, he emerged from the room, his face flushed and covered in sweat. Your eyes locked, and a huge grin broke out across his face. Without wasting any time, Sergio pulled off his jersey, revealing his toned, glistening muscles, before enveloping you in a tight embrace. You squealed in delight, feeling his damp sweatshirt stick to your skin. "You need to shower, you stink!" you teased. Sergio grinned, "Embrace the smell of a winner," he joked. You rolled your eyes, "No quiero escucharlo(I don't want to hear it.)"

Despite the sweat, the closeness felt intimate and cozy, and Sergio's embrace was comforting. You looked up at him, and he leaned down to kiss you. The warmth of his lips sent shivers down your spine, and you eagerly returned the kiss. Breaking the embrace, you take a step back, and look at him with admiration. "Although you did play great tonight, baby," you say, smiling. Sergio beams with pride," Wanna prove how much you love me?" he asks playfully , holding the jersey that was still in his hands out for you to take. Your face scrunches up in disgust, "Eww, de ninguna manera! (Eww, no way!)" you exclaim. Sergio laughs, "si manera (Yes way)," winking at you.

Feeling playful, you snatched the jersey from him, and held it at arm's length, making a face. Sergio chuckled, "Sabes que lo amas en secreto (You know you secretly love it)," he teases. You roll your eyes, "En tus sueños, cariño(In your dreams, honey)."

The next thing you know, you're leaving the stadium wearing his sweaty jersey.…. Or as he would say, the winner's jersey.

[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, fem 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.

[flixpii]

.ᐟ ‎ ‎ LESSONS — QUIZ ⋆˙⟡

college!remmick x cheerleader!reader

messy pussy eating while remmick quizzes you for an upcoming test ( inspo )

— 🩰 ‎ ‎ ‎ fem!reader. cheating / infidelity. secret sexual relationship. nipple stimulation. pussy eating. light overstimulation. teasing. light discipline ( thigh smacking ). pulled quizlet out for these questions y'all. ( wc : 796 )

your shirt’s shoved up over your tits, bra tossed onto the bed, nipples sensitive from your own fingers, which keep toying and tugging no matter how many times he tells you to leave them alone. your skirt and panties are crumpled on the floor, forgotten when he told you to “be a good girl and open your legs for the person who does your homework.”

now you’re laid out across your twin bed with your knees pulled up and spread wide, your cunt glistening and twitching while remmick licks into you like he’s got all l night.

his voice is calm, even, like this is nothing new. “identify three structural consequences of the 1965 immigration and nationality act.”

your breath hitches. his tongue presses flat against your clit, unmoving. 

you blink hard, brain scrambling, tits rising and falling fast with every shaky inhale. you know this. you do. he helped you write your essay on it. “it—uh—it abolished national origin quotas,” you start, voice thin and high.

he hums in approval. “one.”

“uh—um—it increased immigration from asia and latin america,” you rush, fingers tightening in your sheets.

“two.” his tongue flicks once against your clit, slow and precise, like a reward. you moan softly.

you squeeze your tits tighter and gasp, “and it shifted the focus to family reunification and skilled labor preference—fuck—three.”

his tongue glides up through your folds and sucks at your clit just hard enough to make your back arch. “good girl,” he praises, low and smug, before flipping to the next card with one hand while the other grips your thigh.

“next question. compare the federal strategies used during reconstruction with those of the civil rights era in dismantling systemic white supremacy.”

you almost choke. “you’re such a fucking—”

smack.

his palm lands sharp on the outside of your thigh, making your whole body jolt.

“wrong answer format,” he says coolly, hand smoothing the spot he just popped. “start again.”

your cunt clenches around nothing, throbbing, already dripping down onto the sheets. you force your brain to work, even as he spreads your folds with his thumbs and blows softly over your clit.

“uh—reconstruction used occupation… amendments… the thirteenth—fourteenth—fifteenth—” the words crumble around a breathy gasp. “civil rights era was more… legislation… the acts… and people in the streets… cameras… protests…”

“mmm,” he muses, tongue trailing lazy patterns against your slit, his nose nudging your clit with every pass. “good comparative phrasing.”

“can i come now?” you whimper.

“nope,” he says easily. “i didn’t say synthesize. i said compare. keep going.”

you groan, nearly sobbing, hips squirming against his mouth. he flattens his tongue and holds you there with firm hands, licking through your folds as if he’s studying you now, soaking in the way you shake and moan and beg.

your orgasm builds sharp and fast, heat curling deep in your belly. you claw at your own chest now, pulling your nipples tight between your fingers, panting hard through your nose.

“remmick, please—”

“answer one more and you can come,” he says, voice muffled against your cunt.

“fucking—ask it,” you cry, thighs trembling around his shoulders.

he doesn’t miss a beat. “critique the historiographical debate surrounding the new deal’s effectiveness in alleviating systemic poverty.”

you blink through the haze, tears brimming, lips slick and raw from panting. “some say it helped… safety nets… federal expansion… others say it… kept things the same—oh my god—"

“there it is,” he grins against your clit, then devours it—flicking and sucking and grinding his mouth into you with no mercy.

you break.

your orgasm rips through you, toes curling, thighs clamping tight, a hot gush of slick spilling out against his face as your body trembles from the inside out. your hand flies to his hair, grippinng tight, your mouth dropped open in a silent cry as he keeps licking, pushing you past it, until you’re gasping for air and twitching from overstimulation.

when he finally pulls back, your cunt’s soaked and messy, your thighs shiny with spit and cum, your chest heaving. your chest rises and falls with every breath, your nipples still hard and throbbing in your hands.

remmick sits back on his heels and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “history major,” he smirks. “tastes like extra credit.”

you’re still trying to blink straight when your phone buzzes beside your head.

you reach for it, limbs heavy, and flip it over.

baby 🏈 : do u remember the touchdown last night ??? 😁

baby 🏈 : coach said it might make highlight reel lol

your lip twitches.

remmick’s hand moves up your thigh again, thumb pressing lightly over your sensitive clit.

you don’t reply.

remmick 🏷️ : @mysticvi @h3r3t1c @cherryxhaze @theabhartachsbride @bleedingsunlight @gangstalene @croccy-hoes @soggynuggies0 @nlnny @valvalvalval-val @avidreader73 @carriemill @skankhvnt42 @ceobuggy @iceemochaa @heyylolitaheyy @shewants7 @saaficat0311-blog @scannainscanrula @sonnensche1n @madkingcrowley @justalittlefreaksblog @saintlucretia @jakecockley @cookieebutter

[caffeineaddictwriter]

Alfie Solomon’s with a baking obsessed wife!

Description: headcannons of Alfie with a reader who has an obsession with baking!

Warnings: bit of sexual touching, f! Reader.

•can easily get used to coming home to a kitchen table stacked with trays of baked goods.

•will always give you money to go buy baking supplies no matter the cost or time.

•will wrap his arms around your waist when your mixing something and slowly inch one of his hands up to your breasts.

•always showing off his baking wife.

•likes to rub it in tommys face whenever they have a meeting, will always have cakes that you’ve baked but won’t let Tommy touch them.

•will always be willing to be a tester for new recipes you come up with.

•once death glared Ollie for a solid week because you gave him a bit of cake first.

•scolds you when you give Cyril some of your baking but in reality he loves seeing the beast content as he eats a bit of your sweet treats.

•is so used to the smell of baking when he comes home that if he doesn’t smell it he goes into panic mode.

•will go all soft mode if you start criticising your own baking.

•if you get the need to bake in the middle of the night you bet your ass he’s joining.

•he’ll drink a cold whiskey as he helps you with whatever you need him to do.

•he gives you some of his mother and grandmothers recipe books and almost cries when you make a dish from them.

[panlight]

Keeping Up with the Cullens - BD Episode 9, pt 2.

[gutsby]

Fake It Til You Make It (Or Drown)

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader

Summary: Daryl finds out you faked an orgasm. Instead of getting mad, he decides to get even.

Warnings: NSFW. Every TWD character is drunk in this. Unprotected p-in-v. Soiling Michonne’s decorative towels and almost drowning Eugene. Carol-mandated makeup time with Daryl turns to edging and angry sex.

And the Oscar for Best Faked Orgasm goes to…

“Y/N,” Daryl groaned, shooting his load deep inside you.

You arched your back and curled your toes, even let out a sultry little gasp for good measure. Forced your walls to clench around his cock then pulse, periodically—you counted a silent one, two, squeeze in your head every so often and tried to make it so your tremors felt authentic. You practically had this shit down to a science by now.

Women like you weren’t built for quickies. You needed more time to cum, no matter the occasion.

You simply couldn’t and wouldn’t ever make it to climax with fifteen seconds of foreplay followed by Daryl throwing you up against the counter and jackhammering you hard on the edge for three minutes max. This wasn’t a porno, and you didn’t have a clit made of firecrackers.

Men like Daryl couldn’t stand the thought of you not cumming every time you had sex, though, so you sought to ease his mind on the matter during times you knew it was a physical impossibility to reach bliss. A liar you were not, but an occasional teller of euphoric fibs? Hell, you might’ve been tempted to dabble every now and then.

You adored the way he looked down at you when he finished, chocolate locks matted to his forehead and a smile shining bright on his face. He was tender and sweet, always gentle to pry you off of the sink, and he’d be watching you with admiration all the while.

Rick and Michonne’s booze-fueled pool parties had that effect on you both—always scrambling for a spare room to fuck in the second you arrived like you’d forgotten how good the other one looked dressed in swimwear.

Daryl shimmied the bottom half of your lime green bikini back up your legs and patted your rear with affection.

“I think Rick would be proud,” he said.

“I think Michonne would be pissed.”

You glanced down at the lovely little decorative towels Daryl had used as a sweat rag and made a mental note to wash those back at your place. You yelped when Daryl dropped his hand back down to your heat.

“Still sensitive?” he smiled.

“Uh huh.”

You were already trying to slide past his frame toward the bathroom door, where the sounds of the party outside were growing louder each minute. In truth, you knew that spot where Daryl’s fingers had almost grazed would have been a lot more sensitive had you actually just came, and that tell alone would have given your act away. You couldn’t have that, so you quickly pulled him in for a kiss and pushed his hands back up to your hips.

Daryl’s tongue traced the seal of your lips and parted them for a far more passionate kiss than you’d expected. You let his tongue roam anyway, but inside, you felt slightly confused as to why your boyfriend was still so…horny when he’d just blown his load a minute ago.

You moved languidly toward the door as Daryl continued to kiss you. He was touching your waist a little strangely, the more you came to think of it. Maybe frisky from the whiskey?

Your hand reached the doorknob the second his did. Daryl pulled away and let the corners of his mouth twist almost cruelly in a grin before turning the handle and nudging you out.

You shuffled a few awkward steps past the door. Daryl was hot on your heels, hand at the small of your back when his lips returned to your ear—just for a second, this time. He leaned in close, now, and murmured real low:

“I know you faked it.”

Then he pushed you forward again, only for you to trip over your own two feet trying to turn and face him.

“What?” you hissed. Playing dumb.

But if you could play dumb, Daryl was more than happy to play stupid as fuck. He ignored your outburst altogether and waved at someone behind you, pretending not to see you staring up at him with exasperation painting your face.

“Eugene! Swim trunks look great.”

Across the room, Eugene extended a lengthy ‘thank you’ and told Daryl that he, too, was looking snazzy, and you knew better than to try and pry Daryl’s attention away. Reluctantly, you turned around and made every effort not to show your present emotions on your face. In truth, you were nervous as fuck wondering what Daryl might do now that he knew you’d faked your climax.

You could try and make it up quick. Minimize the fallout.

The second Eugene departed, and it was just the two of you standing in the kitchen, you shamelessly reached for the outline of Daryl’s dick in his shorts.

Daryl swatted your hand away.

“My penis only goes where it’s appreciated,” he told you quietly, feigning that same stupid smile that signaled to everyone else who might pass by that things were fine.

They weren’t. Daryl probably hated your guts right now.

His seed was still dripping from your cunt, and you longed for the feeling of having him inside you, whole. But you got the sense that that wasn’t happening any time soon, as Daryl promptly greeted two more familiar faces and obliged you to mingle too. You faced Rosita and Abraham with a thinly veiled look of despair, and you gathered that the former picked up on it pretty fast.

“What’s up?” Rosita asked, pulling you to the side while Daryl and Abe chatted.

“I fucked up bad, like— legitimately screwed the pooch.”

“What did you do?”

You pursed your lips and felt the burn of Daryl’s glare over Rosita’s shoulder, sensing then that you’d probably be better off just keeping your mouth shut.

Hurriedly, you said under your breath,

“IfakedanorgasmandDaryl’sreallymad.”

“Daryl’s mad at what? Why?” Rosita said, shrill as ever.

You wanted to clamp your hand over her mouth, but it was too late. Daryl was quick to find your form lingering on his periphery and took your waist in one arm in a lasso-like motion. You guessed you’d be taken off to the slaughter any minute now—which was just getting chewed out by Daryl or given a half-dozen grumpy looks. You almost would’ve preferred the knife to the throat.

Confirming your worst fears, Daryl raised a beer with Abraham and suggested you all go for a swim.

That sounded like a setup if you’d ever heard one.

Perhaps overwrought with paranoia and a few too many Twisted Teas, you found your feet shuffling as slow as you could toward the thick sliding doors and Rosita at your rear asking what the hell was going on.

You made a big, fat ‘O’ with your hands and shook your head, hoping she’d understand—and Daryl wouldn’t see. It turned out neither of your wishes were to come true in that moment, and your boyfriend only pulled you closer to his side while the four of you strolled outside.

“Real mature,” he muttered.

“You’re one to talk,” you retorted.

“Could we please talk at a level most humans can hear?”

That last interjection was Eugene, sidling up to the group with his floaties already strapped to his biceps. You eyed the man, then his beer, then his bright red flotation devices, and hoped like hell Daryl wasn’t about to start playing drunk trivia now that your genius friend was plastered. Or worse yet, encourage him to swim.

“How many lies does the average woman tell in her life?”

You really needed to start keeping your hopes and dreams to yourself. You glared at Daryl.

Eugene was already devising some half-baked formula in his brain, or else retrieving another far-removed factoid that he’d learned on a game show in 2005, and presently answered Daryl’s question with a quirk of his brow.

“I…can’t say it’s a gender-dependent question, my friend. If I were to make an educated guess I’d give—”

“A million more for men,” Rosita interrupted, flashing a wry smile at Abraham, “Most men lie like they breathe.”

“Amen!” Carol called from the tiki bar. You loved and you hated Alexandria’s grown-up parties sometimes.

“Well maybe— maybe men lie more to get sex, but women lie about sex.” Daryl shot the most conspicuous look in your direction, and you’re fairly certain Rick and Michonne shared a look of, ‘Ah shit,’ simultaneously.

Inside, the two were secretly hoping they’d catch wind from the babysitter that Judith and RJ wanted to be picked up, or else learned that a horde of walkers had laid siege on one of the outer-facing walls, because they knew from experience that these fights never ended well. The last time you and Daryl ticked each other off in public there had come a very loud and very obnoxious karaoke rendition of Fleetwood Mac’s ‘Silver Springs’ sung drunkenly between the two of you, and frankly, no one at the party wanted to see a repeat of that.

You wrested your arm out of Daryl’s hold and took a seat opposite Carol at the bar. Nodding when she offered to pour you some tropical concoction with a lot of rum, then pretending not to see Sasha eye Daryl warily.

“Whiskey dick give him trouble?” she murmured to you.

“You say his brother’s name in bed?” Rosita quipped.

“First off, he’s dead,” you said, before dropping your voice to a whisper, “Second, it wasn’t the whiskey or anything, I just…couldn’t cum, so I faked it. That’s it!”

You figured if Daryl was airing out your dirty laundry for the whole group to hear, you might as well beat him to the punch when it came to your closest friends. You could tell Sasha was trying hard not to smirk.

“That’s…that’s it?” she reiterated.

“Just now,” you mumbled, “Don’t tell Rick and Michonne, but we were holed up in the bathroom an—”

“Anyway, okay, no details but you told a little lie, so what?” Sasha proceeded without a hitch.

Carol waved the margarita she was making in vehement agreement and handed it over to you. Telling you to drink, now, with her eyes as soon as she caught a glimpse of Daryl’s disgruntled expression across the way.

“Yeah, so what? You told a fib to keep his ego intact, what’s the harm?”

“I’m saying!” You pointed to her before taking a sip.

“I think honesty is the best policy,” Daryl declared out loud like he’d just discovered the Atlantic.

At his side, Eugene eyed him up and down as if to say, ‘What the fuck are we talking about?’ You surmised that probably only half the group understood what was going on between Daryl and you, but most got the gist that the two of you were beefing. Again. Carol proceeded to drain her piña colada like her life depended on it, and Abraham and Rick suddenly gained interest in something inside.

Daryl wasn’t backing down. In fact, he raised his voice.

“And if she’s willin’ ta lie once, who knows how many other times she—”

“Be fucking for real,” you rolled your eyes, “I wasn’t faking most other times, and you know it.”

“Most times? So ya did it other times?”

“Folks, I cannot say with utmost certainty that this is a healthy coping mechanism for a relationship like y—”

“Shut up, Eugene.”

You could tell just how incensed Daryl was by the color of his cheeks. In a world that almost never raised the hue above a baby pink, you were alarmed to see him turn a shade or two shy of crimson. You knew something lewd or unkind was likely to flare behind those cobalt eyes any second now.

“How many times for Spencer, then?” Daryl growled.

He knew that shit was off-limits. A happenstance situationship that started and ended long before you’d ever dated Daryl. Now he was just being mean.

“Alright, guys, how about we take a second to cool off?” Michonne was using the same voice she assumed whenever trying to talk Judith or RJ out of a cranky mood. You saw Daryl already had the insolent pout of the children down pat, that was for sure.

“Maybe if you’d asked Leah she would’ve said the same,” you spat.

Daryl abandoned his beer and moved closer to you, just narrowly checked by Sasha’s warning touch and even more persuasive gaze. He paused for a second, crinkled his nose, and seemed to be considering something a moment or two longer before finally deciding to be petty.

“At least I didn’t have to ask Leah to swallow.”

That was it. You reared back and chucked your bright pink strawberry marg directly at Daryl’s head, unleashing a string of unsavory names as you did so. Daryl easily side-stepped, and the next in line to receive the airborne drink was Eugene. Completely defenseless, per usual, and not at all prepared to be hit in the face by a plastic glass filled with syrup, liquor, and slush, the man was a sitting duck.

He shrieked the second it struck him below the eyebrow. His hand clamped over his eye, and he stumbled back a few steps.

“Eugene!” came more than one voice, including your own.

The mulleted man wailed and spun perilously on his heels, trying blindly to make a beeline for the house but ending up walking straight into the pool ahead of him. Your whole party jumped to their feet and scrambled after him.

Apart from the aid of his arm floaties, the man was completely unable to swim—and still blinking fiercely through a sheet of strawberry-flavored ice as he flailed about in the water and cried for help.

Sasha, Rosita, Michonne, and Daryl didn’t hesitate; all four dove head first into the pool to save their friend.

Two hours had passed, and you and Daryl were still in time-out—courtesy of Carol and Michonne.

Deprived of your right to drink, smoke, fight, or fuck (at least not with condoms), you and your boyfriend had been placed in indefinite non-solitary confinement sitting perched outside the hot tub with instructions to make up, or else. So far, no words had passed between the two of you, and it had just started to rain.

Daryl waved to the kitchen window, where Carol was watching you both with narrowed eyes.

“Can we come inside now?” he groaned, motioning to the storm clouds overhead.

Carol gave him one emphatic thumbs down and turned to stir her broth on the stove.

This was your group-imposed “getting along” punishment: stay outside until you make amends. You kicked your feet in the bubbling water and cursed yourself for ever thinking it was a wise idea to stroke a man’s ego and fake an orgasm in the first place.

Then you lowered yourself into the water, seeing as there was not much else to do.

“Ya tryna be human stew? Get out,” Daryl snapped.

“Great, maybe Carol can throw me in her soup and I won’t have to continue this stupid fucking conversation.” You knew the dangers of swimming in a rainstorm, but you didn’t want to give Daryl the satisfaction of knowing you’d stop for his sake. You sank deeper into the hot tub.

Daryl slid across the wet slab of rock and concrete and reached for your shoulder.

“Quit bein’ difficult.”

“Quit being pushy,” you said with an ineffectual splash in his direction. His fingertips still seared hot on your skin as he touched you just above the shoulder blade.

“Oh, was I also bein’ pushy—” Daryl cut himself short.

You looked up, curious. Still refusing to budge.

“Pushy when?”

“When you took your pretty ass outta this tub before you got struck by lightning.”

Daryl received an unamused scowl in return. When you pressed again, he bent down and took you underneath both armpits, hauling you out of the hot tub with infuriating ease.

“Or when I…wanted to have sex and you clearly didn’t.”

Ouch. You jumped back in the water with an even deeper frown.

“I still wanted to have sex, Daryl! I just couldn’t get off as quick as you.”

“So you lied.”

You hastened to the other side of the mini pool when Daryl climbed inside. Your back flattened on the rock, and your eyes shot him a critical look as if to say, ‘I ain’t coming out.’

“Technically, you never asked,” you shrugged.

Daryl scoffed and straightened his own posture on the opposite end of the hot tub, feigning amusement but likely inflamed with irritation inside.

“I touched— I rubbed your pussy to see if you were sensitive. Don’t that mean somethin’?”

“Means you didn’t ask me shit. I never said I came.” You folded your arms across your chest in defiance, but deep down, you knew that a lie by omission was still a lie. Daryl’s facial expression communicated as much as he swam in your direction.

“So you couldn’t…ask me to wait a little longer to help you finish?” Daryl approached you close enough to graze your knees, so you felt obliged to press yourself harder against the wall, “Ya know I’d eat the cum out yer pussy if I knew it’d get ya off, sweetheart.”

Indeed, you knew. You should’ve known better than to accuse him of selfishness or inadequate communication—Daryl was a generous lover, and one who was always willing to wait, whether that meant delaying his climax or putting a pause on sex altogether. You felt an unlikely shiver in the boiling hot water when your boyfriend’s frame slipped between your legs beneath the surface.

“Even if I’d finished first, ya know I’d lick ya clean and make that pretty pussy cum all over my face an’ fingers. Ya do know tha’, right?”

He wanted to hear you say it. His hands had just started to trail a slow course up your legs as you released a shaky breath and nodded your head.

“I know, baby, I just— I just like seeing how riled up and sweaty you get when you fuck me for a quickie. You always seem so…satisfied pulling out I just hate to make you get hard all over again on my account.” Your voice was quieter then, breaking off in the gentlest whimper when Daryl’s knuckles grazed your heat.

Then, with the other hand, he moved your fingers to feel how hard he was under his swim trunks.

“Thought ya knew me better’n tha’,” he tsked you softly as he rubbed your hand up and down the length of his clothed erection, “I’m always hard fer ya, honey.”

You swallowed and sighed the second you felt him throb in your hand underwater. You wanted him now.

When your fingers fumbled for the drawstring of his shorts, however, Daryl nudged your touch away. Brought his own to the bottom of the bright green bikini you were wearing and slipped a digit underneath the fabric.

“This poor little clit,” he lamented, circling just lightly enough to draw breathy mewls from your mouth.

You spread your legs even wider to allow him access. When he pulled you to his chest, you felt his heart thrumming as fast as yours was. The light drizzle of rain overhead was growing heavier by the second.

This was not the makeup session Carol or Michonne had envisioned when they’d sent the two of you off to talk. You and Daryl just happened to make amends a little differently than most—semi-publicly, sometimes.

“Can’t imagine how bad it’s been achin’ since I last fucked that pretty little hole,” Daryl continued, index and middle finger now rubbing lazy circles over the spot where he’d pried your bikini to the side.

You sat, spread eagle with your mouth ajar and your eyes on his. Oh, how he loved you like this: partly supine and looking so pathetic. His fingers worked even faster.

“Been needin’ daddy’s touch, has it?” he teased before moving his digits to your slick entrance. Then, pressing just a finger inside and feeling your walls instinctively contract, “Now tha’s a believable squeeze.”

He smiled and you realized he knew a real clench from a fake one by now. That dramatized show you’d put on for him earlier almost made you feel ashamed now, gathering just how good a proper fingerfucking felt when you actually gave your boyfriend the chance to try.

He pushed another finger inside and curled them both with expert precision. You let out a helpless moan the second he grazed your g-spot.

“Baby, I need it,” you whimpered, “I need to cum so, so badly.”

Daryl nodded as though feeling your pleasure—and pain. He worked a vicious rhythm against your cunt and let a smile spread across his lips the longer he watched you writhe and moan amidst the hot, churning waters. When your stomach started to flutter and your entrance gave a warning pulse, you didn’t even need to inform him of your impending climax; you closed your eyes and prepared for the sweet bliss in expectant silence.

That was, until, Daryl retracted his fingers and climbed out of the hot tub.

Sorely misled ecstasy withered before your eyes.

You whined. Louder than you meant to.

“Daryl!”

Your boyfriend had taken up a spot standing at the side of the hot tub, pretending to be so overcome with heat exhaustion that he just couldn’t stay in a second longer.

He wiped his brow and watched you smugly.

“You say sumn’, sugar?” he asked as he sat down on the water’s edge to plant a kiss at the top of your head.

“You’re sick,” you muttered, dodging any additional condescending smooches by scooting over. When Daryl slowly leaned down toward the water, you scowled.

Then he patted the wet slab of concrete beside him.

“Jus’ want you to cum on my tongue. C’mon.” He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world—clearly he couldn’t eat you out underwater, so he was just being kind to give you a place to sit while he tonguefucked you silly.

You pretended not to notice the smirk twisting at the corners of his lips as you climbed out of the hot tub and reluctantly followed his motions.

Your legs spread just a little, now perched at the edge of the sauna while Daryl sank back in the water and positioned his head perfectly with your core. A sidelong glance to the nearest window showed that Carol had disappeared from the kitchen, but you knew you would have to make this quick.

Without ceremony, you yanked a tuft of Daryl’s wet hair and guided his face even closer to your heat. Far past the point of pleasantries, you pulled your bathing suit to the side and presented yourself, bare as ever, to Daryl’s eager tongue and lips.

Your boyfriend supplied you with both in an instant, dragging his tongue up the whole length of your slit with a groan. Wanting to savor the taste, were it not for your quiet pleas for him to finish this, please, Carol could be back any minute.

Daryl lapped between your folds, happy as ever, and left a series of suctioned kisses on the spots where he knew you needed him most. Gripped your thighs in either hand, pulled your bottoms so far he almost snapped the fabric in half, and practically devoured that needy cunt.

The man was a pussy-eating prodigy, to put it mildly. He dove deep between your thighs like oxygen was the furthest thing from his mind and sucked on your clit as if it were a lifeline. Your back arched out of instinct, legs clamping on either side of his head and chest rising and falling in stuttered breaths. You moaned and felt Daryl’s own grunts join the reverberations shaking your body; for a second, you thought you were almost seeing stars.

When Daryl inserted two fingers and swirled his tongue around that sensitive nub, you were certain that moment was soon to come.

“Mmm, just like that, baby, fuck,” you breathed, rutting your hips ever slightly against his face. Daryl, soaked with your arousal and waves of scalding water, just held his place and kept licking over, and over, and over.

Your grip fastened harsher in his hair the second a pleasant coil pulled tight along your tummy. You planted your calves on either side of Daryl’s neck, braced your body to the concrete, and felt a heady bliss make its second appearance of the night.

A quiet slurp marked the sudden disconnect between Daryl’s mouth and your aching core. You almost fell off the edge of the hot tub as your mind and body both stopped devastatingly short of full climax. This time, you almost shrieked.

“DARYL!”

“Got a tongue cramp. Sorry.”

Too bad he was grinning from ear-to-ear with no trace of a muscle spasm anywhere on his face. You splashed him with a massive wave and went scrambling to your feet.

“Fuck this. I’ve got a vibrator at home.” You were already pulling your panties back in place, muttering some less-than kind words under your breath, and kicking yourself twice for ever believing Daryl was mature enough to treat this as anything other than a game.

“Hey! Baby, wait!” Daryl called after you. Then he was getting up and getting out too.

“You blame me for fucking around, and you— you go and pull some shit like this?!”

You waved a silent, dismissive hand when Daryl started after you, trailing hot on your heels with a look that almost would’ve seemed apologetic had he not been fighting a laugh the entire time.

When his hands landed on your shoulders from behind, you moved to shrug him off and told him, with a finger supplanting your words, to get fucked. You groaned internally when Daryl pulled you in for a tight embrace.

“It’s called edging, sweetheart,” he hummed in your ear.

“It’s called being an asshole and shutting my orgasms down on purpose.” You wriggled to free yourself from his arms but found the man behind you unwilling to cooperate; in fact, the more you struggled, the more snug his grasp got. You battled against his far superior strength no longer than a minute or two before Daryl plucked you right off your feet and into a bridal hold.

“What do we say when we really wanna cum?” he asked, almost patronizing. Then, as if to put a finer point on it, he ambled toward the edge of the pool and swayed your soft, soaking frame over it.

“You’re fucking crazy!” you hissed, still wrestling against his chest.

You sensed that might not have been the wisest choice of words given your current predicament, but Daryl didn’t seem fazed in the slightest.

“Did I hear a ‘please’ in there?” he asked, rocking you back and forth over the water’s edge.

“Please put me down.” Your voice was low and importunate, eyes warning him just the same.

“O-kay.”

And down you went. Into the pool. Your boyfriend still cradling you in his arms while you thrashed and splashed and called him every profane name in the book.

You’d just swept the wet mass of hair from your forehead when Daryl pinned you to the wall. Your back was flush to his chest, and his breath was hot on your ear.

“Promise y’ain’t gonna fake it this time?” Daryl murmured through gritted teeth, one hand yanking your swimsuit bottoms to the side and the other pulling his own down his hips.

You gripped the side of the pool and cast a quick look to the kitchen. Carol was nowhere in sight, but who knew how much longer she—and everyone else—would be gone? You bit your lip when Daryl dragged the head of his cock between your legs.

“We can’t do this, Dar—”

“I said, are you gonna fake it? Pretty simple question.”

Your folds had already parted with his length in between them, hole pleading for his entry when all he had done was rut his hips in place and tease your slit. You pressed your ass right into him and tried hard not to whine as you sensed your cover could be blown at any moment. Daryl nipped at the skin behind your ear and repeated his question, this time enveloping your frame with his when he bent you over the side of the pool.

Your eyes flickered to the warm glow of the kitchen, and you felt the rain come down even harder—your vision, with the distance and the downpour, was almost totally obscured.

Fuck it.

“Promise I won’t— I swear.” Your voice now scarcely above a whisper.

That seemed to satisfy Daryl well enough. No more than a second later, he was plowing inside you, gripping your hip for support and your hand in his own for what seemed to be encouragement of sorts. You squeezed his fingers back as soon as the first influx of pleasure rolled through you.

“Quiet, quiet for me, baby,” Daryl warned close to your ear, gaze scanning the house for any new onlookers, “Jus’ stay. fuckin’. quiet.”

He wasted no time railing you from behind—an impressive feat for a man standing halfway underwater—and simultaneously kept a lookout for your friends inside. Before him, you’d folded like a lawn chair over the wet concrete, yielding to each thrust like you were born for this position and made to take his cock. Then your walls clenched around him, whimpers came loud and fast, and the rain beat a shrill cadence all around.

Daryl dropped a hand to your clit and smiled the second you whined and almost bucked him off. Finally, that sweet sensitivity was back.

He knew from two false starts and more hard edging than you ever would have liked to endure, you wouldn’t last long. You felt a pressure on your neck bringing you up to his chest and those same, ardent lips almost charring your skin when they pressed above your ear:

“Who’s a good girl?”

Another sharp thrust in your cunt.

“I am,” you cried, clawing at his wrist the second his fingers started tightening around your throat. Almost unable to bear it, but loving it all the same.

“Gonna be honest with daddy ‘bout those orgasms?” Daryl chided, “Make a mess of daddy’s cock like yer s’posed’a?”

You nodded as best you could with your throat trapped in his hold and your lips damn near turning blue the second he got to kissing them. Your back arched into his chest, and your body convulsed with pleasure the deeper he went. Daryl loved the way you watched him as he did.

That was what he’d missed. That was what he knew you couldn’t muster in your piss-poor performances of late, what had tipped him off to the truth of your euphoric state with times like today. This was what he needed to see every time he fucked you from now on—if he had to spend a lifetime or two trying to get you there, so be it.

Daryl caught your lips in a long, heated kiss before bottoming out inside you. The sharp nudge to your insides and the brush against your most delicate spot was more than enough to push you over the edge.

Bliss broke through your body like a bat out of hell, and your moans rang loud in Daryl’s mouth as he fucked you through it. And, sadistic motherfucker that he was, he actually smiled when your teeth sank through his lip and drew blood from the surface.

All he cared was that you came, no bullshit this time.

As a metallic tang and an ecstatic trance washed over you, your body went limp in Daryl’s arms. He pulled out, still hard, and rubbed a hand over your ass underwater.

You could feel him beaming with pride right behind you.

But, just when he moved to turn you around, a sight in the bushes sent your heart in your throat. One dark patch of foliage shook with unusual force a few yards away, and you heard some sticks break as someone, shielded by leaves, appeared to lose their balance.

Daryl’s grip on you locked, then tightened, then dropped altogether when a clumsy form came tumbling out.

“EUGENE!”

[lilahisntsadanymore]

Growing up with a deatheater father doesn't teach you much about emotions, so when Theo finds himself developing an infatuation with a muggle-born, he thinks she gave him a love potion.

Pairing: Theo Nott x granger!fem!reader

Words count: 1.9k

Warnings: jealous Harry

I think I'll write a part 2 of this sometime

≫ ──── ««•◦ ✪ ◦•»» ──── ≪

Unveiled Desires

It was strange to him. So strange how he went from mocking, annoying and occasionally bullying her every step she takes to secretly wanting her. Wanting to have her, or even needing her.

He didn't know how or when it happened, but one day he realized she was constantly in his head. It creeped up on him in small steps and eventually he had developed an infatuation for the girl.

Of course nobody knew about it, Theo wouldn't dare telling anyone. He just kept with his antics, hoping the obsession will somewhat disappear one day. Unfortunately, the more he tried to get rid of this feeling, the more he gave it power, the more it grew.

But he couldn't be with her. He couldn't be with a mudblood.

But he wanted to be with her. The more he thought about it, the less he cared about the blood status. He cursed at himself for these thoughts. Raised by a deatheater father, he would get disowned for dating anyone who wasn't a pureblood.

"Granger, can I talk to you for a second?" A question left his mouth as he approached the Golden Trio. Who was better to talk to about Y/n than her older sister?

The three Gryffindors looked at Theo as if he wasn't good in the head. Just casually wanting to have a chat, a normal chat, with someone outside of his social circle. Pretty unusual for a Slytherin.

"What is it?" Harry asked protectively.

"I was talking to Granger. I need to talk privately."

Hermione looked at Harry and Ron, exchanging suspecting glances. Eventually she spoke, "Alright, but make it quick."

"Great, let's go." Theo started walking, but Hermione stood in her place.

"Where are you going?"

"Somewhere they," he gestured to Harry and Ron, "aren't gonna eavesdrop."

Hermione crossed her arms on her chest, a knowing expression on her face.

Theo raised his hands, "It's not a trap again, I swear."

The girl sighed and walked after her rival.

Hermione and Theodore weren't fond of each other not only because of their houses and their blood statuses, but also because they were academic rivals. Both of them were extremely competitive. Since first year they aspired to be better than one another in pretty much everything.

"Can we stop already?" The girl asked. "I'm pretty sure they won't ear us from here."

"Alright, alright." Theo agreed. "But I need you to promise me you won't tell anybody about it."

"Why me? Why would you trust a Gryffindor with keeping a secret for you?"

Theo lowered his voice to a whisper, "Because it's about your sister."

"What?!" Hermione's voice was the opposite of a whisper. "What have you done to her?!"

The boy gestured telling her to lower her voice. "No, I didn't do anything. She has done...something."

"What on Earth could that possibly be?" A little more quiet, but still unpleasantly surprised, she decided to listen to him.

One last time, Theo looked around to make sure there's nobody there who could be a witness to what he was about to say.

"She used some spell on me." He accused. "Or put something in my food, my drink."

Hermione scoffed with laughter. "You must be joking. You bully her for whole five years, but one time she pays you back for it, it's an issue?"

"Not like that." He took a second to gather his thoughts. "Granger, do you remember how we learnt about amortentia few weeks ago? I think Y/n gave it to me."

Hermione started at the boy for a moment and then burst out with laughter. Y/n wasn't the issue, there was no way a fifth year would be able to make amortentia. Not even Y/n Granger.

Theodore felt annoyed and offended by Hermione's reaction. He looked at her with disgust. "What is so funny to you about it, mu-, Granger?"

Noticing how he almost called her a slur, her expression immediately became serious. "Seriously? You know what, deal with it by yourself. I don't even know why you're telling me all of this."

"Why? Because you have to talk to her, tell her to do something about it! Tell her to stop it!"

Hermione got a brilliant idea.

"You know, I've heard professor Slughorn had a remedy for amortentia."

"Yeah, and I'll end up in the hospital wing like Weasley."

"It was poisoned mead, not the amortentia cure itself. You can ask him to make one from the ingredients in the classroom."

"I will," Theo scoffed, "look at you being useful for the first time in your life."

Without another word, Hermione walked away. "Boys..." She muttered to herself.

"Don't tell anyone I told you this!"

≫ ──── ««•◦ ✪ ◦•»» ──── ≪

"What?! He likes me?!" Y/n asked with blush on her face. "Theodore Nott likes me? The boy that has been bullying me for the past five years?"

"And the thinks it's because you gave him amortentia." Hermione giggled.

Y/n wouldn't ever think that he could be into her and the whole story that her sister had told her was simply unbelievable. But Hermione had no business in lying to her very own little sister, especially not about that.

"Does anyone else know about this?"

"Not yet, but I talked him into asking Slughorn for the cure! I suppose he'll do this tomorrow after class, as soon as possible."

"Who are you and what have you done to my sister?"

The girls were sitting alone in the common room and as Y/n laughed, Ron and Harry walked in.

"What are you two laughing about?" Harry asked, ready to hear that story.

"Can I tell them?" Hermione looked at Y/n. The younger Granger nodded. "Nott likes Y/n."

The girls and Ron laughed, meanwhile Harry stood there with his lips in a thin line, far away from laughing.

"The best part is," Hermione continued, "he thinks Y/n gave him amortentia!"

"What?" Harry spoke eventually, his voice a bit more surprised than it should be. "Y/n, did you give amortentia to Nott?"

"No, why would you accuse me of this?!" The youngest girl defended herself. "Is it that unbelievable that he can fancy me?"

"I mean... You're a muggleborn... And-"

"And what?! Does that mean I'm not worthy of that? We don't know him, maybe he doesn't believe in this whole blood purity thing."

"He does. That's why he hasn't asked you out. And he never will. Because they're all the same."

Y/n's eyes became a little glossy, the tears ready to start flowing anytime. "Are they, though? And you're saying this. You, whose godfather was Sirius Black."

"Sirius was different!"

"We don't know because we don't know what Theo is like!"

"Theo? It was Nott for the past few years that he was tormenting you," Harry put an emphasis on the word bullying, "now he fancies you and he becomes Theo?"

"I would actually give him a chance. It's not his fault that he was born into a blood purity obsessed family."

"Don't you think that's a little pathetic? Running into his hands the moment you find out he might fancy you meanwhile you had chances to date...other Gryffindors."

"Pathetic? You call me pathetic?"

"I didn't call you pathetic, I said what you do is-"

A sound of a slap filled the room, but the following silence spoke even louder. Y/n looked Harry in the eyes, a light red mark on his cheek that her hand left.

Harry could see and sense that it was too much, he said unnecessary words. He regretted them, but he just couldn't stop them from coming out.

The Golden Trio watched Y/n run upstairs. She was so glad nobody else was in the bedroom yet.

≫ ──── ««•◦ ✪ ◦•»» ──── ≪

"Excuse me, professor," Theo walked up to Slughorn after the class on the following day.

All the other students were slowly exiting the room, Harry's eyes fixed on the Slytherin standing by the teacher's desk.

"Yes, Theodore?" Slughorn asked. "Do you have some more bright insights you'd like to share with me?" He was clearly happy to have this conversation.

"I actually need help, professor."

The man's expression dropped. "Yes? Do you have a problem?"

"I'm worried that I've been given amortentia."

Slughorn's eyes widened. He was surprised or even shocked. "Are you sure? I remember seeing other people under the influence of several love potions and you don't quite match the criteria."

"There's this girl who I can't stop thinking about... I suspect she has given it to me."

"Who that might be?"

Theo waited until all the other students exit the classroom before he said the name.

"Y/n Granger."

Y/n stopped in her tracks just as he was about to enter the potions classroom. She was about to show the teacher a part of her project, wanting to consult the texts she has written. Instead, she stopped and decided to listen to the conversation.

"Ah, she's one of the best students in her year," Slughorn said proudly, "but I assure you - she wouldn't do that to you."

"How can you be sure, professor?"

"Well, could you describe your symptoms, Theodore?"

"Whatever I do, Y/n is on my mind," the boy admitted, "I can't eat, I can't sleep, I zone out thinking about her. It's not normal, I've never experienced it before."

The teacher gave his student a sympathetic smile. "My dear boy, you might be experiencing the actual feeling of being in love."

"What? And how could it have been caused? Was it a love potion, after all? Maybe a spell?"

"It's a part of muggle science, biology. The chemicals in your brain cause it and it's not something you can control. It happens when it happens. A truly beautiful feeling."

Theo's mouth twisted into a dissatisfied grimace. "Is there anything I can do about it?"

"You can talk to the girl about it, for example," Slughorn looked at the door and shouted, "come in, Y/n!"

Y/n cursed to herself in her thoughts. How could he know she was there?

The girl walked in shyly, holding a paper in her hands. "I wanted to show you my paper, professor," the girl spoke, "if there's anything you think I should change or... anything."

As the girl handed the paper to the teacher, she looked at Theo. They stood dangerously close to each other. The silence between the was so loud, Y/n was praying for the teacher to say something. Anything.

"Amazing, Mrs Granger," he spoke eventually, "although the Draught of Living Dead is an extremely difficult potion to make. I'm glad you're so ambitious, but I'd suggest you get help from someone more experienced."

"I'm pretty sure I can do it on my own." Y/n assured.

"Maybe Mr. Nott here could help you. The sixth year has been just learning about this potion, actually. Theodore, would you be so kind and help Mrs Granger?"

Suddenly, Theo's gaze somewhat softened. There was no more disgust in his eyes. When he stood so close to Y/n, he wondered why did he act the way he did. Why did he do all the mean things to her. Maybe he had always liked her, but didn't want to admit it, even to himself alone.

"Yes, sure," he said, "I can help."

Y/n felt happy. For some reason, she didn't dislike Theo for all the things he did. She secretly always liked him, he was attractive, and she would even sometimes daydream about the day he would finally talk to her like a normal person. Maybe the day has finally come.

[milawritesstuff]

A/N: This was written based on Shakira’s acrostico and the adorable clip of Pedri with the little girl at the Liga celebration in Camp Nou. Anything in italics is flash backs. Enjoy :)

If someone has the gif of Pedri with the little girl can you send it to me to add it onto here please?!?

•••

gif borrowed from @pedripics

You heard Pedri shut the door to your bedroom in rage as you stood in the kitchen. Your heart was beating fast and with the silence around you, you were sure if anyone else had been there they would have been able to hear it. The last few weeks between the two of you hadn’t been very smooth. One argument after another, he had spent more time traveling with the team than at home, and that didn’t help either.

You took a few seconds to calm yourself down before walking over to the bedroom and talking to him. You had planned a nice dinner where you were going to give him the news. It had been eating you up for days and you had finally made your mind. You weren’t sure you were ready but you knew that together you and Pedri would be able to get through it together.

Unfortunately, Pedri didn’t come home on time. You called and sent him messages but they all went unanswered. Towards the end of the night your calls ended up going directly to voicemail. When he walked into the home you were sitting at the kitchen table. You looked up at him. “Hey.” He said as he put his keys down. You scoffed looking at the cold food that had waited alongside you for him.

-Ni de coña, hey, that’s all you have to say?- You raised your voice. It was almost as if this missed dinner had been the final straw for you.

-What do you want me to say?- He responded as he banged on the kitchen table with his fists startling you.

-Where were you?-

-Around.- He said coldly shutting down your questioning.

-I called and messaged you…- He cut you off.

-I know and I had to turn my phone off because you didn’t let me enjoy myself.- He stared into your eyes as he said this. Not a single bit of remorse in his eyes. You bit your inner lip as you tried to hold your composure. You felt your throat choke with sadness and emptiness. This wasn’t the man you had fallen in love with.

He turned around and began to walk away from where you were sitting.

-We were supposed to have dinner together and I was going to…- He interrupted you again as he stopped walking.

-And you were supposed to what? Seguir jodiendo? I can’t ever do anything because you want to know where I am, who I’m with. The day I cheat on you, you won’t even know it.-

-What’s what supposed to mean? That you’re already planning it?- You asked holding back tears.

He brushed his hands through his hair as he turned around to look at you frustrated. -This is so broken, why do we keep on doing this?- He said as he walked towards the hallway and into the bedroom.

-Que quieres?- He said as you opened the door to the bedroom.

-I think we should talk.-

-I don’t want to talk. I come home after days of being away and we can’t even last a few minutes before we start to argue.-

You rolled your eyes, standing silent for a few seconds. You tried to eat your ego up and not say anything. This wasn’t the right time. But of course you couldn’t.

-Why do you act like it’s always my fault?

He turned over to look at you. -Because maybe it is. It’s always Pedri why are you doing this. Pedri why didn’t you call.-

You interrupted him. -If something is broken, you try to fix it, you don’t throw it away. But if that’s how you feel, then I’m not sure why we’re even together.- you spat back after taking a deep breath trying to mask your need to cry.

-I honestly don’t know either.- He responded, immediately regretting the words.

But he was too proud to admit it to you. He sat on the bed scrolling through his phone while you packed your luggage. You rummaged through your clothes and packed a few of your things. You threw your clothes into the luggage as you tried your best to hold in your tears. You felt a knot in your throat as you wiped the tears forming in your eyes.

You grabbed the last shirt when you heard something fall to the ground. You picked up the positive pregnancy test you were going to give to him tonight. You bit your bottom lip trying not to cry as you held the test close to you.

I’m sorry. You whispered as you rubbed your stomach. But he will be better off without us.

You didn’t dare look at him when you walked out of the closet. He looked up from his phone. -Adonde vas?- Where are you going? He asked.

You continued to walk as you pulled the luggage and threw your purse over your shoulder. -Lejos de aqui.- Far from here.

-Estas exagerando.- You’re exaggerating. He said as he stood up from the bed following you.

You felt his steps behind you. You wanted to turn around and tell him everything. Show him the love the two of you felt had formed something beautiful, a life. But you knew that wasn’t the right thing to do.

He needed his freedom and that’s what you were going to give to him. The constant arguments had gotten to be too much.

You wiped your eyes and turned around to look at him stopping him dead in his tracks in front of you. Neither of you said anything for a few seconds. You took that time to look into his beautiful chocolate brown eyes and try to memorize them forever.

-Leave if you want to, I’m not going to beg you to stay.- He said staring at you. You took a deep breathe and began to walk away.

-Adios, Pedro.-

You walked out of the house as fast as you could and got into your car. You began to drive away in silence. You felt as if something was stuck in your throat. And finally a few streets away you let yourself break down. The tears began to roll out of your eyes and you couldn’t help but scream profanities as you hit your steering wheel out of anger. As the tears continued, you felt an emptiness in your stomach. You felt anxious thinking the baby could feel all of the sadness, thinking how horrible of a mother you were already to him or her.

You felt disappointed that this new life had been formed without love. You knew perfectly when you had gotten pregnant because it had been the last time you and Pedri had been together. He had came home drunk and late again. You argued and went to sleep only to be woken up by him asking you to forgive him. You fell right back into his trap and before you knew it you were having sex. But he didn’t kiss you like he used to. His sole focus was on how he felt. His hands didn’t caress your body as they once had. Once he was done he stood up from the bed and went to sleep on the couch leaving you a crying mess in the bed. You knew better but you still wanted to fix things. You were so caught up in not trying to lose him that you failed to see you already had.

-When are you going to tell him?- Asked your mom as she walked over to your bedroom window and opened up the curtains. The light from the sun hit your eyes and you took your covers and placed them over you.

-For what?- You said from under the covers.

-It’s his child.-

You had been back home in Valencia for two weeks since leaving Pedri. You would start your studies again in Valencia and completely forget about Barcelona. Pedri had called you that night as you drove from Barcelona to Valencia. He called the next day. But three days later his calls stopped coming in.

-He gave up in three days mama, I don’t think he’s going to care.-

Your mom had been shocked when you arrived to the home after driving almost four hours. She rubbed her sleepy eyes as she opened the door and saw you stand in front of her, your eyes puffy and red while you held on to one of Pedri’s jerseys. You didn’t have to say anything, immediately throwing yourself into her arms as you nuzzled your face on her shoulder. Again breaking down as you cried in your mother’s arms.

-Esta bien, mi niña.- She reassured you as she patted your back. You felt your body fall more into her, completely vulnerable.

-No, se ha ido todo al carajo- No, everything’s gone to shit. You said as you finally let go of your mother and she closed the door behind you. You fell onto the couch still holding onto his jersey. You had grabbed it without thinking. The smell of Pedri still lingering. Your mother followed you into the living room and stood there trying to take it all in.

-Mami.- You said in between sobs, holding his jersey against your body.

-Que ha pasado, cariño?-

She asked looking down at you. She had been woken up by the knocks on the front door somewhat frustrated but all of that frustration had now turned to worry as she saw you breaking in front of her. Your dad had passed two years ago, and she has given you the space you needed, even if that meant you hardly visited her. In a way she knew you were safe by the way Pedri looked at you when you were together. The way he melted at everything you did. But she hadn’t been around lately. In fact you had avoided her coming over because you were convinced that anyone who spent more than five minutes with the two of you could tell right away your relationship was breaking.

-I’m pregnant.- You looked up at her with pleading eyes. You were just twenty and sure it wasn’t the ideal situations but you didn’t need scolding, you needed her acceptance. You sat there as your own words replayed in your head. It was the first time you said it out loud. In a matter of seconds it felt more real. Your mother embraced you in a hug as the two of you cried. In that moment she didn’t understand the situation but she didn’t want to push you. She knew better with you.

Eventually you had told her most of what had happened. She encouraged you to tell him, telling you he had a right to know.

-What for? So we can get back together and be miserable for the rest of our lives with each other?-

Your mom shook her head knowing you had gotten your stubbornness from your father. -You don’t have to get back with him. Just let him know.-

-You know how he is. He will feel responsible and feel like he has to be with me. I don’t want him to be with me out of pity.-

Despite not agreeing with you she knew it wasn’t her place. She kept her mouth quiet and offered you support.

As the weeks went by you began to see news about Pedri out with people. A few models, some influencers. He looked happy. Meanwhile your belly began to grow. Your mom helped you with massages at night after long days. Some nights you cried yourself to sleep as you felt your life crumble down. You had no idea how you were going to take care of yourself, let alone your baby.

You sat in your car, crying, outside of the clinic when they told you the gender of the baby.

You closed your eyes and remembered how excited Pedri would get when the two of you spoke about your future children.

-Maybe two or three.- He said as the two of you laid on his bed. He laid on his stomach as you faced the ceiling. One of his arms draped around your body as one of your hands played with his hair.

-At least two. I always wished I had a sibling.- You said as an only child.

-What would we name them?- He asked as the two of you laid there. -I don’t know.- You said with a smile on your face.

-If it’s a girl, Rosie como mi madre.- Like my mother. He said. You laughed. -Vale, but if it’s a boy then Sergio como mi padre.- like my father. He smiled and agreed.

A few weeks later you found yourself in Barcelona picking up paperwork from school. Before heading back home you stopped by a small convenience store to pick up some snacks for the train. As you turned a corner you felt your body smash against somebody else causing you to drop everything in your hands.

-I’m sorry.- Said the voice above you as you leaned down trying to grab everything from the floor. You weren’t as agile as you used to be and found it difficult to get up from the floor.

-Joder, help me get up. I need a little help here.- You said as you looked up and your eyes met with Gavi’s.

-Y/N.- He said with eyes wide open and a startled look on his face, his eyes on your pregnant belly.

-Pablo.- You responded as you let go of his hand and grabbed the snacks against your body.

-You. You’re pregnant.- He said pointing towards your belly.

-Si.- You responded quickly hoping he didn’t ask any more questions.

-Is it, is it Pedri’s?- He asked timidly. You rolled your eyes.

-No Pablo. I’ve met someone else.-

He accepted your response. -Take care.- He said as he began to take a step away from you, only stopping when he heard you call out his name.

-Pablo, please don’t tell him.-

He looked at you with pleading eyes. -But he’s my best friend.-

-It’s not his, it doesn’t matter.- You said holding on to your stomach.

-I just don’t understand.- He said. -You leave and meet someone else and get pregnant? It hasn’t even been a year and you’re about to have this baby. He loved you.-

-You’re right, he loved me. But he didn’t love me anymore when I left, Pablo.-

-No, joder you should see him. He didn’t take it well. He’s not the same anymore, he still...-

You interrupted him. -He still what, Pablo? He still loves me? I’ve seen the pictures. He didn’t look too sad holding all of those girls’ hands.-

Gavi shook his head. -Promise me it’s not his. He would never forgive me if I knew and didn’t tell him.-

You shook your head. -It’s not his, Gavi. Don’t tell him, it will break him.-

Gavi agreed and left the store.

You went into labor a few weeks later, luckily knowing Gavi had kept his promise because Pedri had not tried to contact you.

Your mom rushed around the apartment as she grabbed all of your stuff and the two of you walked towards the car. Once at the hospital everything seemed like a blur. The nurse pushed you through the hallways as your mother joined behind. You felt a hole in the pit of your stomach as you saw other couples around. Despite the pain of being in labor it hurt you more to think about what Pedri would have been doing if he was by your side. Would he have been frantic and anxious, yelling at all of the cars who got in his way as he drove you to the hospital. Having to run back to the car because he forgot your bag. Or would he have been calm, eager for the arrival of your baby and given you the strength you needed in this moment.

Tears began to fall down your eyes because you knew it was nonsense. It didn’t matter what he would have been like because he wasn’t there. You were alone.

You felt yourself lose your last breath as you pushed one more time. Your mother held on to your hand as you heard the cry. Your body fell backwards onto the bed as you realized your job was done. You tried to catch your breathe as you laid against the pillow. A second layer they placed Rosie on your bare chest. You looked down at her and smiled, quickly counting all of her toes and fingers. Everything stood still. The noise went away, it was just you and her. She looked up at you and your felt tears come falling down your face when you realized she had his beautiful brown eyes.

Eventually the nurses and doctor left, your mother excused herself to give you time and you sat there with her in your arms. You continued to cry as your heart had never felt this type of love. You were sure your love for her would never end. As she looked up at you, you promised her she would never see you this fragile again. You were going to be strong for her.

You were able to return to your uni classes while your mother helped you take care of Rosie. It wasn’t ideal but you made it work. You stayed up all night doing your class work while she slept, and went to class and worked a job while your mother helped you with her. Sometimes you were able to bring her along.

Having Rosie made you stronger but also broke you in a way. She reminded you of her father every day. From the way she scrunched up her nose and pouted her lips to her eyebrows and light brown eyes. She had came into your life when you unexpectedly needed her the most but would always remind you of what you lost.

One day when Rosie was just a few months old and learning how to crawl you came home to her holding a picture of Pedri in her hands.

Rosie sat in the middle of the living room with the picture, a picture you had taken of him in his Barça uniform after a match.

-Que es esto?- What is this? You asked your mother as you took the picture away from Rosie. She immediately began to cry. Your mother shrugged her shoulders, -La niña la encontro, es su padre, blood calls.- She found it, it’s her father, blood calls.

You rolled your eyes as Rosie continued to cry only calming down once you handed her back the picture. You figured she would let it go when she fell asleep and you could get rid of it. But Rosie had other plans, she clinched on to it as she fell asleep. Her little fingers holding onto the picture of Pedri tightly.

Rosie didn’t let go of the picture. Not that night or the day following. She would place it down to eat or showers but she always looked for it. You tried putting it away once and eventually caved in and gave it back to her so she would stop crying.

One day as your mother, you and Rosie were sitting at the dinner table she began to look for the picture.

-Pa … pa … pa.- said Rosie as she reached for the worned out picture in front of her.

-What is she saying?- You looked over at your mother who took a sip of her drink trying to avoid your question. Her eyes on the plate in front of her.

-Mama!- You spoke up again. She looked over at you.

-Es su padre. You can’t even deny it, she looks like him.-

Unbeknownst to you, your mother had talked to Rosie about Pedri.

Rosie had the picture in her hands. Your mother looked down at her and smiled. She walked over to Rosie and picked her up placing her on her lap. Rosie looked at her and smiled as she took the picture out of her hand.

-I thought your mother was going to kill me when she saw you with this picture.- Rosie looked at her grandma with wide opened eyes.

-Este es tu papa.- Thus is your father. Rosie had just started to make small sounds and was working on saying mama but as soon as she heard your mother say those words Rosie’s eyes lit up. -Papa.- cooed the little girl.

Your mom smiled as she held on to the little girl who was a perfect combination of you and Pedri. Her eyes identical to his and her curly brown her just like yours.

-He loved your mom a lot and I’m sure he will love you as soon as he meets you.- She told Rosie. Your mom proceeded to tell Rosie the story of how you and Pedri had met, Rosie drifting off to sleep in her grandmother’s arms holding on to the picture.

You ran across the street after your last class of the day trying to make it to the metro on time. As you stepped one foot off the curb you felt his car hit you. You landed on the floor in front of a black Maserati.

-Ostia, watch where you’re going.- You yelled. The driver got out of the car quickly and ran over to you. -I’m so sorry are you okay?- He asked as he held you by the arms trying to lift you up. Your eyes met his chocolate brown eyes and you felt like your legs were made of mush and couldn’t stand up. This effect had nothing to do with his car hitting you but by the beautiful man standing in front of you.

-I’m fine. I’ll be fine.- You said as he continued to ask for forgiveness. -I am usually very careful but there were people trying to run after my car for a picture and…-

You interrupted him. -A picture? Are you famous?-

-It’s fine, don’t worry. I won’t sue you now just because I know you have money.- You said causing him to giggle. -Look my legs are fine.- You said pointing down at your legs as you flexed each one of them. Pedri looked at you with a smile.

-But I think I did miss the metro.- You say as you grab your book from the floor and look over at your phone to check the time.

Pedri grabbed your hands trying to prevent you from walking away. -Please, let me take you to wherever you were going. It’s the least I can do.-

A few weeks later you found yourself in Barcelona with Rosie. As much as you avoided going into the city sometimes it was impossible. You ended up near the university close by to Camp Nou and remembered the nearby cafe shop you and Pedri used to visit often. He would stop there every morning before practice for a quick shake and sometimes on his way home to buy you a cake pop, your favorite in the city. Rosie had been a trooper all day from the train ride from Valencia to Barcelona to going around running errands. She deserved a treat.

You walked into the coffee shop holding Rosie on your waist. The line was a little long and you hoped she wouldn’t get fuzzy. A few seconds in you felt someone’s steps get closer and Rosie began to giggle. You smiled because Rosie was always giggling with strangers. You knew it could be a problem as she became mobile but for the time being sometimes you appreciated it because it kept her busy. A few customers paid and the line moved as you continued to wait.

You felt as Rosie began to pull away from you. -Pa pa pa.- You heard her say. You had left the picture in the backpack and had managed to make her forget about it, at least for the day. You knew she would eventually ask for it and the time was now.

-Rosie, you will have to wait for the picture…-

As you turned around you saw him. He was smiling at Rosie. His hand put up in a high five waiting for her to connect it with hers.

Pedri stood there in front of you and his daughter. His face dropped as soon as your eyes met. Your skin tone changed, pale, as if you had seen a ghost.

-Rosie?- He furrowed his brows and looked at you. -Y/N?-

You stood there in front of him and felt heat go through your body starting with your legs. Your heartbeat accelerated as you looked at him and wished the floor would open and eat you up in that moment.

-Pedri.- Was all you managed to say. Rosie continued to pull herself away from you and towards Pedri. He looked at her, you could tell his mind was spinning. The way he looked at every detail of her. He knew within an instant she was his. He felt as if a cold dagger had been pushed through his heart.

-Gavi told me.- He said. His jaw clenched. -That you met someone. That you were expecting a baby with him. No jodas Y/N, es mi hija.- Don’t fuck with me Y/N, she’s my daughter.

You felt yourself choke up. Your eyes filling up with tears as Rosie looked at you. She immediately sensed that you were not okay and leaned in to rest her head on your chest.

Pedri looked at her with endearing eyes. A small smile peeking through his frustrated expression.

-Let’s not do that here.- You said as you looked around the cafe. People had noticed the two of you were in somewhat of an argument. Pedri cleared his throat.

-Then where?-

-Pedri, please.- You pled, this time unable to hold in the tears. Rosie looked up at you and with her little fingers traced down the wet path that the tears left on your face, in an attempt to wipe them away.

The three of you walked towards Pedri’s car in silence. You sat in the back with Rosie on your lap since you didn’t have a car seat and held on to her. Minutes later you pulled up to Pedri’s house. He opened the door to the dark home and turned on the lights.

You choked up as you looked around. Many of the decorations you had brought in still stood. You wondered how many more had came through these hallways and rooms without realizing bits and pieces of you still remained.

You found yourself standing in front of Pedri at the kitchen table. The same way you had the night you left, this time with Rosie in your arms.

-Why?- Was the only thing that came out of Pedri’s mouth as he looked at you.

-Pedri, she’s-

He interrupted you. -Ni de coña do you try to tell me she’s not mine. Her eyes. Rosie, that’s what you and I had said we would name our daughter.-

-You are better off without us.- You spat back. -You hated that I wanted to know where you were or with who. I gave you the freedom that you wanted. I didn’t want you to feel like you had to be with me for her.-

He had kept his eyes on the table, finally looking up at you.

-You made that choice for me. I didn’t ask you to.-

-You didn’t have to. You were miserable with me. Why would having a child change any of that?-

-Don’t act like you knew how I felt.- He raised his voice at you causing Rosie to begin to cry.

You looked over at your baby who you had promised to protect and defend and here you were back with the one person you wanted her to stay away from.

-This was a mistake.- You said as you grabbed your bag and began to walk towards the front door.

-If you leave right now, I’ll make your life hell. I will take her.- You heard Pedri say in a quiet manner behind you.

You turned around with a look of disgust on your face. -Don’t threaten me with taking my daughter away.-

-You’re about to walk out again. You already took her from me once. Si, yo fui un cabron, but you kept her from me. I’ve lost time with her.- Yes, I was as n asshole, but you kept her from me.

-What do you want, Pedri?- You asked annoyed as he took a few steps closer to you. The scowl on his face softened. For the first time in the whole night you look at his face, the details, realizing all of the moles you counted hundreds of times and the small scars were still there.

-Let me hold her.- He asked somewhat shyly. You looked over at Rosie who had stopped crying and was now smiling at Pedri. Pedri looked at her with endearing eyes. His heart was racing and felt like it was going to bust out of his chest any second.

It took everything in you to not turn around and run away. You held Rosie close to you for a few more seconds before handing her over to him. His chest fell in relief as soon as she was in his arms. He held her tight and Rosie rested her head on his chest. Pedri almost melted at her touch. Tears formed in his eyes, eventually beginning to fall down his face.

Pedri stood there holding her tightly against his body. His eyes were on her as he took in every detail of her.

You stood in front of the two and your heart felt like it was going to explode. Seeing Rosie in his arms was something you didn’t think would happen. Now that they were together their similarities were even more pronounced.

-She has your eyes.- You manage to say quietly. Pedri looked up at you and smiled. -And your dimples.-

-Well what is she like?- He asked minutes later as the three of you sat on the couch. Rosie still quietly sitting in Pedri’s embrace.

-She doesn’t take no for an answer. She loves music and …-

-And what?- He asked.

-And watching you play. I put on the Barça matches for her and she sits through them all.-

Pedri smiled. -Do you talk to her about me?-

You shook your head and looked at him. You had never seen him this defeated. He looked at peace with her in his arms but his expression showed the loss he was grieving at the moment. Over a year of Rosie’s life, the pregnancy, her birth.

-My mother does, she thinks I don’t know but I do.-

The two of you remained silent for a few minutes. Pedri continued to look at Rosie while he gently caressed her little hand.

-You know, if you had told me you were pregnant I would have asked you to stay.- He said.

You didn’t look at him, instead focused your eyes on your hands. -You should have asked me to stay regardless. You should have shown me we were worth trying to fix, worth fighting for.-

-We were. Joder, we are.-

You shook your head as you began to choke up.

-Not anymore Pedri. You can see her. You can spend time with her. But please, don’t make us go through this again.-

Pedri looked up at you as he continued to hold on to Rosie. The way he had his arms around her body, in a gentle yet fierce way. Like he was never going to let her go now that he knew her.

-You’re right. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forgive you for keeping her away from me. For making me feel like shit for letting you go thinking you had found someone else. Because at least you had her and I had no one.-

TAG LIST:

@cinderellawithashoe @httpswiftie @simpingmyassoff @bubblebeep69 @fictional-l0v3r @httpspedri26 @0alanasworld0 @l0verl4ne @gaviypedrisbride @footballerficsposts @fashphotolife @beaschampagneproblems @jvsgnjrtpdar5stkd-tv-m @ikkehehe @jjishotasf @quemirasboboandapaya @maricciardo @gaviswh0re @pedriwifefrfr @dustell @elijahslover @formula1mount @iloveyourmom17 @amour88 @footballfan3108

[jkeey4]

love lessons • pedri

a/n: this will have multiple parts and be more smut oriented but i wanted to post it to see if you guys would be interested in a story like that so lmk.

summary: for pedri being a single father was a though enough life lesson but who knew life lessons could turn into love lessons.

warnings: none for now just the sweetness of singledad!pedri

part two three four

All he could remember from that morning was that it was cold. Colder than her touch last night, colder than her looks when she told him to go to sleep. Colder than her closing her eyes when she heard their baby crying and acting like she wasn’t hearing a thing. 

When he woke up, and tried to reach out for his girlfriend, his hands met with the cold sheets. 

Colder than ever before. She was long gone. 

He knew this day was going to come but in his mind, he kept denying. As he laid on their shared bed, lonely, he just wished she was gone to get some breakfast for them. He wished it was one of those nightmares that felt so real everytime. One of those nightmares he will wake up in horror and see her peacefully sleeping face next to him and he will be relieved that she didn’t leave him. Yet. 

They were only 21 when she got pregnant and he saw it in her eyes that she was scared of every second of it. He was there for her, always. He always thought they were going to be amazing parents. He thought his love for her could overcome anything. Even being parents at such a young age. Even her fears about motherhood. 

She was full of life when they first met, she was mouthy, funny, you only live once kind of girl. She was the one who broke him out of his shell, and there they were, the couple everyone loved and adored. They were so in love and full of adrenaline in their veins, the happiness and passion was real and they felt it every second of their relationship, in every kiss, every look and every touch.

When she told him she was pregnant with his baby, she couldn’t stop crying that day, and he knew those were not happy tears. He knew and saw her happy tears before, these tears were full of fear and anxiety.

She was excited but she wasn’t ready for it. She wasn’t ready to be a mother. She said it was okay, she said it will be fine, they even discussed about abortion but she couldn’t do it. Her only choice was to trust him and their baby to make her feel like a mother. 

She never felt like a mother. 

And now she was gone just like that. He knew the moment she gave him a kiss the night before and touched him, he knew it was one last time. That little kiss she gave to him was her silent goodbye, and deep down she also felt he knew it too. When she walked past their baby’s room she hesitated to go inside but she never did. She said her goodbye to him but she couldn’t get herself to give one last kiss to her baby boy.

Now he was alone. 

It was him and his baby, all alone. 

6 years later 

“It’s someone’s wake up time!” He opened the door of his son’s, Teo’s , room seeing him still sleeping peacefully on his bed, tightly wrapped into the football bedsheets that they got him for his birthday. 

He had to stop and lean against the door frame for a second to adore his baby boy. Looking at him sleeping was one of the few things that made him feel filled with pure joy. His son was growing up so fast and this situation was making him feel sad but proud, he knew they were growing up together. 

It was his boy and him together against the world, and he made that promise the moment he saw him for the first time. 

He walked over to his bed, and laid down next to him, pulling the sheets off his tiny body and tickling his stomach. He cackled when Teo let out a loud sleepy whine.

“Papi, I don’t wanna go.” His eyes were still closed when he talked. Teo was having little troubles with school for sure, he was telling his adventures when he came home from school and they were not very bright but he thought they were nothing to be worried about. He remembered his childhood and he had the same issues too. 

Bad handwriting, punching some boys. His 6 year old son was a little troubled but he was going to be fine.

“But I prepared your cereal.” He kissed his temple. Teo ignored his dad and kept sleeping. But he knew what his boy’s weak spot was. 

“It’s Lucky Charms.” He whispered to his ear, tickling him again, which made Teo open his eyes so quickly, making him giggle at his adorable reaction.

“Lucky Charms?” He asked with big eyes. He nodded. 

“Lucky Charms, nene.” 

It was so quick that Teo jumped over his father and went directly to his school outfit which was neatly sitting on his desk chair. He rolled over on his small bed to turn to him. 

“So you’re going?” He asked, looking at his kid quickly dressing up himself.

“Yes, I am. Can you prepare my lunch box too?” 

He smiled so wide as he got up from the bed and ruffled Teo’s hair before kissing his head. “Of course. Be downstairs in 5 minutes, okay?” 

Teo nodded his head as he put on his pants. “Lucky charms can do a lot.” He mumbled to himself as got out of his son’s room to go downstairs.

-

“No fighting with other boys.” He told him as he was driving Teo to school. His son was on the backseat, nodding calmly to everything his daddy says. He just didn’t want to see his child coming home with another bruise on his hand.  

“No pulling girls’ hair because you like them, that’s not how you do it.” He continued and checked the mirror to look at him to see his reaction. 

“I give them papers that have hearts on them.” Teo answered to his dad, as he was calmly looking through the window, making his dad smile. 

“You do, huh?” 

“Eric and the others pulled her hair, that’s why I punched them.” 

He now looked down and giggled, finally realizing what was causing him trouble with the other boys. His little boy was crushing on a girl. He should have guessed that earlier when he asked him to buy red crayons and wanted him to draw a heart shape perfectly because his was always skewed.

He didn’t ask for details.

“Okay but remember gentlemen never use their punches. Girls don’t like rude boys.” 

He nodded in the backseat. “I will try that.” 

“If they pull her hair again, tell it to your teacher. Alright?” 

He saw Teo nodding again and getting distracted by the students and crowd as they got closer to the entrance of the school.

“Good boy.” 

He managed to park the car in front of his school before getting out of the car to get his son out of the car as well. He got his backpack from the backseat and kneeled down to put the straps on to his small body. 

“Ohh, this is heavy, T. Your teacher makes you study a lot?” He giggled as he put the straps over his shoulders. Teo shrugged them like it was nothing, making his dad ruffle his messy dark hair.

He was already hearing whispers and talks around him as he was talking to his son. 

Well, especially women talking, like they do every morning he drops Teo.

“He is incredible, a single dad, dedicated his life to his son, awwww.”

“Look at his arms, definitely has a gym membership.” 

“I can smell his cologne from here, I need to buy this one for Santi too.”

“His wife apparently left them tho.” 

“Ugh how can you leave this man? Look at that tan and hair, he is so fine.” 

He pressed his lips together to ignore the talks that he heard everyday as he put Teo’s lunch box to his backpack too. He turned his boy around from his small shoulders and gave him a kiss. 

“Pa!” He wiped his cheek as he looked around if someone saw it. 

He pinched his nose with his two fingers to his son’s reaction. “All ready! Go, go your bell is ringing.” 

Teo started running immediately and he turned around to go back to his car but he remembered he forgot something so he turned around. 

“Oh, and I love you!” 

Teo returned to him when he was mid stairs to his school’s gate and waved to his father. “Love you too, Papa!” 

He smiled widely and put his sunglasses on shaking his head, already thinking about Teo’s future school adventures that he will have to hear in 6 hours and with that he turned around to walk to his car but he was welcomed with a group of women slyly looking at him. 

“Good morning, ladies.” 

He heard a chord of mornings and giggles as he stepped into his car, and when he started driving he was still seeing them looking from his back. 

“Maybe I still got it.” He laughed before calling his brother and drove to work.

-

“Good morning, kiddos.” 

You put your books and laptop on the desk after you entered your classroom with a cup of coffee on your other hand. “How are you guys doing? Anything exciting happened this weekend?”

You saw Eric raising his hand to talk so you let him. 

“Teo is drawing hearts for Elena!” 

You sipped your coffee as you sat on your chair and squinted your eyes. “Sounds like it was really exciting for you Eric, are you rooting for them?” You smiled and then looked at Teo, who was all flustered, you winked at him, making him smile shyly. 

“If there are no more exciting stories, I am going on with our lesson.” 

You made your students open their books for each of them to pick a word and write it on the board. It was so heartwarming to teach them and see them writing their first words on their lives, holding the pen in their tiny hands. You definitely loved your job and enjoyed every second of it. 

When it was Teo’s time, he made a spelling mistake which was not actually common for that specific word, so you asked him to write another word, which ended with him writing it wrong again and changing the places of the letters. 

“Okay, I am letting you guys go to playtime early today, but promise me I can play tag with you later, okay?” You asked them and laughed when they all started running to get lunch. 

“Teo, can you stay for a minute?” 

Teo was already having a hard day at school, first he was embarrassed by his classmate for giving heart drawing papers to Elena, and then he messed up twice at the board, writing not one but two words wrong. He was a kid but he was feeling the eyes on him. 

“Come here, cariño.” 

He walked up to you shyly. 

“Don’t worry I will just ask you some questions and then you can go play.” 

Teo nodded as you made him sit across your desk. 

“Do you have trouble when you try to read the words I give you daily?” You asked him with caution and calmly. Teo took a moment to think, remembering his practices with his dad, and remembering the times he pronounced the words wrong. 

He nodded his head. 

You gave him a heartwarming smile to not make him nervous. 

“Is it struggling when you try to write them down too?” You raised your eyebrows softly. 

Teo took less time to nod this time, telling that he is also struggling with writing the words too. 

“Okay, that is no problem at all. Go to the playground and I’ll join in a minute.” You ruffled his hair just like his dad did to him a few hours ago before he ran to join his friends too.

You open the drawer of your desk to find the lists to find Teo’s parents information. You knew he was living with his father and he was being raised by him so you guessed how hard it is for both of them. Your heart ached for a moment. Teo was a special kid and you couldn’t believe he was raised without a mother. 

“Fuck, where are these lists… oh here.” You found the one with names and phone numbers and started searching for your student’s name. 

“There he is, Teo.” You mumbled to yourself.

You looked at the space next to his name to find out who the father is and to get his phone number. 

You found your phone on your desk which was covered with sheets now, and you carefully dialed the numbers that were written on the list. 

You cleared your throat when waiting for him to pick up the call and got up from your chair to wander around the classroom as you always do while you are on the phone. You smiled when you heard a young and bright hello from the other side. 

“Hi, am I talking to Mr. González?” 

[starsshoppin-deactivated2023122]

football masterlist

requests are open

☆ - contains smut

jude bellingham

clingy jude 

“quit smiling at me, i can’t stop messing up my sentences when you look at me like that." 

jealous jude   ☆

drunk jude 

getting caught  ☆

baking with jude

friends with benefits  ☆

smut headcanons  ☆

thigh ridding ☆

in which you don’t like thunder storms

size kink blurb  ☆

kylian mbappe

clingy kylian

after match celebration

in which you and kylian are trying to go on a date, but you are disturbed by the paparazzi

in which kylian finds you intimidating

playfighting with kylian turns into more ☆

in which you can’t sleep at night and kylian takes care of you

smut headcanons  ☆

relationship headcanons

size kink  ☆

in which he gets a bit too rough and you need to use your safe word  ☆

in which you ride him  ☆

in which he talks you through an orgasm  ☆

in which you go to one of ethan’s games

gavi

in which you surprise gavi at the world cup 

in which you spend the night with gavi after an injury

in which gavi catches you in his jersey

make out session before a match

in which you are drunk and gavi takes care of you

relationship headcanons

in which you and gavi do things friends aren’t supposed to do

in which you get jealous, because the princess of spain has a crush on him

in which he’s obsessed with giving and receiving neck kisses

in which he hits you with the ball when trying to impress you

protective gavi headcanons

frustrated gavi after a bad game

neymar jr

in which neymar gets injured and you spend the day with him 

richarlison

lazy mornings

nicknames

in which richarlison lets out his frustrations on you ☆

relationship headcanons

face sitting ☆

in which you are insecure about richarlison following models and he reminds you he’s yours  ☆

in which he makes you pleasure yourself in front of him  ☆

in which you have a thing for one of his tattoos 

joão felix

in which joão is insecure you’ll leave him

relationship headcanons

in which he catches you pleasuring yourself  ☆

in which he’s obsessed with your boobs  ☆

in which he’s angry after a game  ☆

in which you have a thing for his hands  ☆

in which you ride his thigh  ☆

in which you and him have a bet about how long you can go without sex  ☆

in which you have a bet about if he scores he can do whatever he wants with you  ☆

dry humping  ☆

pedri

relationship headcanons

smut headcanons  ☆

in which he gets jealous of you wearing a real madrid jersey

princess treatment

in which you two are in a toxic situationship  ☆

in which he lets you play with his ring when you’re nervous

in which you comfort him after an injury

in which you get turned on by his driving  ☆

“i know you can be louder than that“  ☆

face sitting  ☆

in which he fingers you  ☆

christian pulisic 

relationship headcanons

smut headcanons  ☆

in which he has a breeding kink  ☆

erling haaland

size kink + fluff  ☆

in which you wear his jersey at a game

in which people find out about your situationship through the marks he leaves on your body  ☆

in which he’s obsessed with your boobs

in which he helps you relax

kai havertz

in which you comfort him after a loss

sergio ramos

in which he overstimulates you  ☆

aftercare with sergio  ☆

in which he takes care of you after a stressful day  ☆

trent alexander arnold

trent taking you against a window  ☆