Lana Del Rey, The Beatles, Ethel Cain, The Drums, The Weeknd (I also really love late 90s, 2000s, 2010's pop music, it's just nostalgic)
Donna Tart (as of right now) is one of my favorite authors! I love older literature and Southern/Midwestern gothics!
Movie obsessions will always be Coraline, Alice in Wonderland, Little Women and Pitch Perfect
Shows I love are Game of Thrones, The Walking Dead, Avatar The Last Airbender, American Horror Story, Succession and Half Man!
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more about me
I'm from the midwestern countryside in the U.S. and I miss it dearly. I plan on going into business, but before that I was planning on doing film! I'm a writer in my free time. I've been writing for as long as I can remember. I don't know if I'll ever post little blurbs, but I'm definitely open! Winter is my favorite season, I love the snow, but Fall is a close second. My favorite Lana Del Rey album is Norman Fucking Rockwell. My favorite Ethel Cain songs (released) are Two-Headed Mother, Misuse Oh, Tempest and Michelle Pfeiffer. I also had a bit of a kpop phase so I really love G-Idle and Xdinary Heroes! I'm not so much in the fandom anymore, but love never goes away. And lastly my favorite colors are purple and olive green ♡
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DNI
OLDER CREEPY MEN. I HATE YOU. I AM A MISANDRIST. Homophobes, racists, really just anyone who's miserable and spreads their misery.
you feel strong arms wrap around you, pulling you to their chest. you try to scream, but they cover your mouth. "be quiet, luv", a man whispers.
he starts dragging you somewhere, god knows where. you soon realize that he’s dragging you to a car. you whimper and thrash, but he just keeps going.
he forces you in the front seat, putting a gun on your face. "listen, luv, you’ll do as i say, or i’ll blow your brains out", he says. you feel tears forming in your eyes. "you’re gonna be a good girl?" he asks. you nod, sobbing. "aww, don’t cry, luv, you’ll ruin your pretty makeup", the man coos.
he sits on the driver’s seat, starting the car. "who are you?" you ask. "eric", he says. "your husband", he adds. "what?" you ask, panicking. "yeah, you’ll be my wife, come meet my parents", he continues. "i need a girl to do that, and you’re perfect for it, so pretty, all doll-like", he rambles.
"what’s your name, dollface?" he asks you. you hesitantly tell him your name. "pretty", he says.
you keep crying as he drives, hand on your thigh.
you stop at a diner. he buys you food and coffee, watches as you eat with a smile on his face. you’re so beautiful, with your blue dress and blue eyeshadow.
"why do you need me so bad?" you ask him. "i just got out of prison after nine years, i need to show my parents i’m livin’ a good life", he explains. "will you let me go after i meet your parents?" you ask him. eric nods. "promise", he says.
you continue the drive for a while, then he stops at a motel. "we’ll spend the night here", he says. "can i get my own room?" you ask. you really don’t want to be in the same room with him. eric shakes his head. "can’t have my wife runnin’ off", he says.
in the room he lies on the bed, signaling you to join him. you hesitantly go lie next to him, not looking at his direction.
eric carefully takes your hand in his. you try pulling away, but he squeezes hard, not letting you.
you stay like that for a while, hand in hand.
then he rolls on top of you, pinning you down. "no, no!" you cry, trying to push him off. eric pouts. "i jus’ wanna make you feel good, please", he whines.
you continue protesting as lifts your dress, peeling off your tights, leaving you in your blue lace panties. "so pretty", he coos.
he admires you for a while before pulling down your underwear. you start kicking. eric sighs. "do i gotta take out the gun again?" he asks. you freeze. "good girl", eric purrs, kissing your cheek.
"you like being kissed?" he asks you. you shake your head. that doesn’t stop him. you whimper as he forces his lips on yours in a messy, wet kiss. he’s a really bad kisser, probably hasn’t done it in years.
he licks into you, tongue pushing past your teeth, finding your tongue. he twirls his tongue around your stiff one, fondling your breasts.
then he starts kissing down your neck and chest, pulling your dress to the side, exposing your breasts. he latches onto your tits, licking and sucking like he’s your baby.
then he descends, nestling between your trembling thighs. "don’t be scared, luv, please.. i jus’ wanna give you pleasure", he says, looking at you with soft, puppy-dog eyes. his eyes are blue.
you cry as he licks. a long, slow stripe up and down your folds. then his mouth crashes onto you. he licks hungrily, like he’s been looking forward to this for his whole life.
"eric, please stop", you sob, trying to ignore the warm feeling in your lower stomach as he licks into you like a starved man. eric shakes his head, motorboating you.
you choke on a sob, legs shaking already. eric moves his lips on your clit, closing them around it. as he starts sucking he shoves his two fingers inside you.
you cry out, arching your back. you squirt on him then. warm spurts of clear liquid splash on his face, and he happily drinks it all up. "little fountain, aren’t you?" he purrs, content to make you feel good.
he hooks his fingers inside you, your walls clenching. you cry out from pleasure.
you try to stop yourself from coming, but you can’t. you let out a loud sob as you come on his face and fingers.
eric kisses your clit and withdraws his fingers from your cunt, licking them clean. "you taste like sugar, doll", he says with a smile.
then he starts pulling down his pants. you turn your head, shutting your eyes. "look at me!" eric whines. "i want you to see me, baby", he adds, coaxing your chin between his thumb and index finger. you open your eyes, not being able to resist the urge to look at his cock.
it’s huge. you cry as he lines up, rubbing the broad tip on your clit, making you whimper.
"i wanna make love to you", eric murmurs, leaning in to kiss you again. his tongue pushes in again as he drags it against your teeth and gums, drooling all over you.
he’s swallowing your cries with his mouth as he starts pushing inside, stretching you out painfully.
"you feel amazing", he moans as he bottoms out, balls glued to your ass.
he starts thrusting, slow at first. but soon he can’t control himself, starting to fuck you fast and rough, fingers digging into the fat of your hips.
"f-fuck- hhaa-", he moans, burying his face into your neck, sloppily kissing on it.
you keep sobbing as he fucks you, cock hitting your g-spot every time he slams inside. it’s hitting that good, deep spot, your tight walls clenching around it. it’s driving him crazy. the way you clench around him, the way you cry.
he moans your name as he comes, trembling violently. you feel thick spurts of cum pouring inside you.
he crashes on top of you, panting hard. "i’ve changed my mind", he breathes.
I made a list of Ethel's story in order based on my own interpretations and others as well as the facts I've managed to gather - feel free to discuss ur own in the comments <3
Walk w me.....imagine lion and reader who are in a relationship playfighting and reader cant throw a punch to save her life and lion is offended at this so he insists on teaching her how to throw punches 👀🫣
Sorry for the delay in posting this 😭 this has literally been sitting in my drafts for weeks now and I finally got around to finishing it 🫣 Hope you enjoy!! 💕
The first time you swung at Lion, he didn't even flinch.
You'd been aiming for his shoulder—playful, harmless, the kind of half-hearted swipe couples exchange when they're cuddled on the couch and he's being an insufferable tease. But your fist sailed past with all the lethal precision of a drunken butterfly, missing by a solid three inches.
Lion blinked.
Then he looked down at your hand, still hovering in the air, then back at your face with an expression of such profound offense that you burst out laughing.
"That," he said, his voice carrying the grave disappointment of a man who'd dedicated his life to the art of hitting things, "was the saddest thing I've ever witnessed. And I've seen a man try to fight a raccoon for a sandwich."
"It was playful," you protested, retracting your limp-wristed attempt at violence. "I wasn't actually trying to hit you."
"Thank Christ for that," he muttered, catching your wrist before you could retreat completely.
His thumb traced the inside of your palm, calloused and warm. "You'd have dislocated something. Your shoulder, probably. Maybe your dignity."
You tried to swat him with your free hand. He caught that one too.
"See?" He held both your wrists now, his grip gentle but unyielding, that familiar smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "No form. No follow-through. You're basically just… flailing. Like a beautiful, violent noodle."
"I am not a noodle."
"Prove it." He released you and stepped back, rolling his shoulders with theatrical menace. "Hit me. Properly. Right here." He tapped his own shoulder, the muscle solid as stone beneath his thin cotton tee. "Put your weight into it."
You bit your lip, suddenly hyperaware of the living room's dimensions, the way he'd positioned himself between you and the couch. The afternoon light filtering through the blinds caught the gold in his hair, the sharp line of his jaw, the focused intensity in his eyes that you usually only saw right before he—
"Stop looking at me like that," you complained. "I can't concentrate when you're all…"
"All what?" He raised an eyebrow, that infuriating smirk deepening.
"All Lion about it."
"That's just how I come, baby." He spread his arms wide, inviting. "Now stop stalling and hit me. Make me feel it."
You took a breath, tried to remember every boxing movie you'd ever half-watched, and swung.
Your fist connected with a soft thud that barely qualified as contact. Lion didn't rock back so much as sway slightly, like a tree bothered by a gentle breeze.
He looked down at where your knuckles pressed against his shoulder. Then he looked at you. Then he sighed—a long, suffering exhalation that seemed to originate from his very soul.
"That's it," he announced, catching your hand before you could retreat. "Lesson time. Right now. I cannot sleep at night knowing my girl throws punches like she's trying to swat a fly."
"You're being dramatic."
"I'm being concerned." He pulled you closer, suddenly serious in that way that made your stomach flip. "What if you need to defend yourself? What if some idiot at a bar gets handsy? I need to know you can handle yourself."
"Lion—"
"Please?" The word was soft, almost vulnerable. His thumb traced circles on your wrist. "Let me teach you. Just the basics. I promise I'll make it… educational."
The way he said educational sent a pleasant shiver down your spine.
"Fine," you relented. "But if I break my hand on your stupid hard muscles, you're explaining it to the ER."
He grinned, all sharp teeth and mischief, and suddenly you were being guided backward until your shoulders met the wall. He positioned himself in front of you, close enough that you could smell the cedar soap he used, the faint trace of sweat from his morning run.
"First," he said, his voice dropping to that register that did things to you, "your stance."
His hands found your hips, adjusting your position with careful precision. "Feet shoulder-width apart. Good. Now, dominant foot back—yeah, like that. Weight on the balls of your feet. You want to be mobile. Light."
He moved behind you, his chest pressed against your back, his arms coming around to position your own. The heat of him surrounded you, distracting and deliberate.
"Hands up," he murmured against your ear, his breath hot on your neck. "Guard your face. Elbows in- there you go."
You tried to focus on the mechanics, but his mouth was tracing the shell of your ear, his hips subtly aligning with yours as he demonstrated the torque of a proper hip rotation.
"Lion," you breathed, not entirely sure if it was a complaint or encouragement.
"Pay attention," he chided softly, but there was laughter in his voice. He knew exactly what he was doing. "The power comes from here—" His hand splayed across your stomach, fingers pressing just below your navel. "Core tight. Hip turns into the punch. Not just your arm. Your whole body."
He guided your fist forward in slow motion, his larger hand wrapped around yours, showing you the rotation, the way the shoulder rolled, the snap at the end.
"Like that," he said, his voice rougher now. "Feel it?"
You felt a lot of things. Most of them had nothing to do with boxing.
"I think so," you managed.
"Show me."
He stepped back, giving you space, and you missed his warmth immediately. You tried to replicate the movement—the stance, the rotation, the snap.
It was better. Marginally. But still soft, still hesitant.
Lion watched, arms crossed, that intense focus entirely on you. Then he shook his head, chuckling. "You're still holding back. You're afraid of hurting me."
"You're you," you pointed out. "You get punched for a living. I'm not going to—"
"Hit me," he interrupted, stepping close again. His eyes were dark, serious. "Really hit me. I can take it. I want to feel it."
Something in his tone shifted, the playful instruction giving way to something hungrier.
He wanted your violence, however small. He wanted your strength, your effort, your intent directed at him and him alone.
You adjusted your stance, remembering the hip, the core, the rotation. You looked at his shoulder—that broad, solid target—and you stopped thinking about being gentle.
Your fist connected with a satisfying smack.
Lion's head rocked back, his eyes widening, and for a heart-stopping second you thought you'd actually hurt him. Then he laughed—bright and delighted and utterly charmed.
"That's it," he breathed, catching your fist and bringing it to his mouth, pressing a kiss to your bruising knuckles. "There's my girl."
"I did it?"
"You did it." He was beaming, proud as if you'd just won a title belt. "See? Not a noodle. You're a natural."
"I had a good teacher," you said, letting him pull you in, his arms wrapping around your waist.
"The best," he agreed, smug and unrepentant. His hands drifted lower, settling possessively on your hips. "Now. We practice. Every day. Until you can drop me."
"That seems ambitious."
"Or—" He dipped his head, mouth finding the sensitive spot below your ear. "We could practice other things. Self-defense is important, but so is… stamina."
You shivered as his teeth grazed your neck. "Is that part of the curriculum?"
"Advanced studies," he murmured, already walking you backward toward the bedroom. "Very hands-on. Requires extensive one-on-one instruction."
You laughed, letting him lift you easily, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you from the living room. "You're ridiculous."
"I'm dedicated," he corrected, his eyes gleaming with that particular focus that you loved. "To your education. In all things."
As he laid you down on the bed, his mouth finding yours with practiced precision, you decided that maybe—just maybe—you wouldn't mind being his student after all.
Even if you never managed to throw a punch that could actually hurt him, you had other ways of bringing Lion Kaminski to his knees.
And as he groaned your name against your skin, breathless and reverent, you knew you'd already mastered the most important lesson.
A/N: LET ME JUST SCREAM FOR A SEC 😭 this has been like my most prized imagine ever. Like, as a Lion girlie, I NEED to be in that moment. This is literally my dream imagine of Lion teaching me how to throw a punch… but then it leads to other things 👀🫣
Pairing: Landlord!Remmick x Fem!Reader - One Shot, A.U. (No Beta)
A.N.: Wanted to give Landlord!Remmick a go, so I came up with this. Please enjoy! Likes, Comments & Reblogs are always appreciated. Thank you in advance to those who take the time to read! 🖤❤️
Content Warnings: MDNI, 18+, Non-Con, PeepingTom!Remmick, Perverted!Remmick, Landlord!Remmick, Masturbation (F & M), Bondage, Cervix Contact, Fingering, PiV, Forced Orgasm, Forced Creampie, Oral (F!Receiving), Praise, Dirty Talk, Spanking, Biting, Rough Sex, Degradation, Overstimulation, Blood Drinking. (If I missed something plz lmk!)
Summary: After months of searching for a new place you find a decent apartment complex close to work. You speak to the landlord over the phone and finalize paperwork by email. It's the end of the week and late in the evening when you return home from grocery shopping. Once everything is put away you take a shower and decide on some personal time to relax as you lay in bed, completely oblivious of the stranger hiding in your bedroom closet.
W.C.: 9.1k
MASTERLIST
The humid summer night clung to your skin as you struggled with three overloaded grocery bags, the plastic handles digging into your palms. You hurried to your front door, setting down the bags to grab your key to unlock the door.
Inside the apartment, unbeknownst to you, a man stood in your room. Deeply inhaling a pair of freshly laundered panties, his pupils dilated with predatory hunger. The scent of body wash and warm skin made his fangs throb, but then came the metallic jingle of keys at the door.
"Shit—" He cursed, his head snapped toward the doorway as he calculated the distance to the bedroom. He moved faster than human eyes could track, silk and lace still clutched in his grip, before he vanished inside your closet just as the front door creaked open.
"God, I need a drink," you muttered, kicking the door shut behind you with your heel. The apartment smelled faintly of citrus, from where you spent a good amount of time deep cleaning. You sighed and dropped the bags onto the counter with a thud.
After grabbing a glass from the cabinet, you poured yourself a generous helping of red wine, almost spilling over the rim, before taking a long sip. "At least I'm off till Monday," you murmur, rolling your shoulders. You were eager to enjoy your weekend.
With the groceries put away and your wine already gone, the faint sound of your bare feet on the hardwood floors filled the hallway as you headed toward the bedroom. You tug at the damp fabric clinging to your chest. The air conditioning kicks on once you adjust the settings. Your arms raise over your head, stretching as you enter the bedroom.
You removed your dress and tossed it to the floor at your feet.
He watches through the slats, pupils blown wide as the dress pools around your ankles. The scent of warm skin and scented lotion flooded the enclosed space.
His fingers tighten around stolen silk as your curves catch the dim lamplight. He freezes momentarily when you reach for a drawer, the same one he'd rifled through earlier. You pause, fingertips brushing the disorganized contents.
"That's odd..." You frown at the jumbled panties, certain you had folded them yesterday, then shrug, brushing it off as exhaustion before grabbing a baggy t-shirt and sleep shorts from the second drawer. You stretch again, yawning this time, and the sound that escapes you makes his undead pulse stutter against his ribs.
After making sure you had everything, you made your way to the bathroom.
The water's spray echoes against the tile. You test the temperature with your wrist, steam already curling around you. He exhales through parted fangs, your discarded dress still warm where it lies on the floor, and he debates whether to bolt or indulge just one more stolen glance.
You hum absently under the hot water, fingers massaging shampoo into your scalp, blissfully unaware of the ancient predator currently pressing his forehead against your closet door. His cock strained against his pants when your scent permeated the air.
You step out of the shower, toweling off briskly before wrapping yourself in a robe, the damp fabric clinging to your hips. You moisturize, then leave the bathroom to get dressed, putting on the large black t-shirt. Completely skipping the shorts. The top barely covered your ass as you collapsed onto the bed. With a deep sigh, you lie face down, your feet facing the closet door.
His nostrils flare when your bare legs stretch toward him, toes curling into the sheets, only a few feet from where he hides. The shirts rids up, revealing the curve of your ass beneath the hem.
"Christ," he breathes against the closet door, unable to resist pressing his palm flat against the wood, then freezes when the bed creaks beneath shifting weight.
You roll onto your back, stretching languidly as the hem rides up, revealing the hair between your thighs. 'Maybe I should...' You think to yourself as your fingers trace absent circles on your stomach, contemplating whether to indulge yourself tonight.
His breath hitches as your fingertips graze dangerously close to where he aches to taste, his knuckles whitening against the closet door.
Your fingers trail lower, hovering over your pubic mound. The air feels charged, like static before a storm. "Hmm..."
The bed shifts as you arch your back, fingers slipping beneath the shirt's hem to circle your clit, slow at first, teasing, until your breath hitches and you reach blindly for the nightstand drawer, fumbling past random items for the silicone rabbit vibrator buried beneath.
"Gods," he mouths silently, transfixed as your thighs part wider. The scent of your arousal thickened the air until his fangs pierce his own lips, blood blooming across his tongue. His cock strains painfully against his trousers, fabric slightly damp with precum where it tents, every muscle taut as he resists the urge to burst through the door and take you right there.
The closet door creaks infinitesimally under his grip when your fingers curl around the vibrator. The same one he'd pressed to his own nostrils a half hour prior, still faintly tasting you on his tongue. His free hand palms himself roughly through his trousers, hips jerking involuntarily when you flick the toy on, the buzz muffled against your skin but vibrating straight through his bones.
You arch off the mattress with a soft moan as the vibrator buzzes against your clit, a shudder rolling through you. His pupils swallow the last remnants of blue as your thighs tremble.
Your breath comes in shallow pants as you slip the toy inside; the vibrating arm against your clit makes your hips jerk involuntarily. You tug at your nipple through the thin fabric, biting your lip to stifle a moan.
His claws sink into the closet door, splintering wood as your scent floods his senses. "Look at you,"* he growls under his breath, watching your thighs quiver, "playin' with yourself while the devil himself watches." His cock throbs, wetness seeping through his trousers as he imagines sinking into you.
A floorboard groans beneath his shifting weight, his control fraying by the second as you arch higher, the vibrator's hum taunting him. "Fuck," he snarls, and the closet door suddenly flies open, your head whipping toward the sound just as he looms over the bed, eyes black with hunger.
Your eyes widen in shock as a loud gasp escapes you. You scoot back until your back hits the headboard. The toy, now completely forgotten, lay buzzing on the bed at your feet. "Don't come any closer or I'll scream," you threaten in a shaky voice.
His lips curl into a slow, dangerous smile as he steps closer, enjoying the way your pulse thrums in your throat. "You'll scream, hmm?" He asks in a deep southern drawl. "Funny thing 'bout screamin' in this buildin', walls're thick enough to muffle any sound. But by all means, darlin'... give me a show."
Your pulse stutters as you take in the sight of his unnaturally long and sharp teeth, as well as the glowing crimson eyes. "Get out," you demanded.
He chuckles, prowling forward until his knees press into the mattress, the predatory grace in his movements sends shivers down your spine. "Now why would I do that when you're sittin' there all pretty and wet for me?" His nostrils flare as he inhales deeply. "Smell that? Fear and desire, always the sweetest cocktail."
Wet for him? You didn't even know he was here, let alone hiding in your closet like some creep. "Because this is my apartment, and you're clearly delusional."
He licks his fangs slowly, eyes locked on the vibrator still buzzing at your feet, his cock twitching at the sight. "Oh, I'm many things, darlin'," he murmurs, grabbing the toy between clawed fingers, "but delusional ain't one of 'em." He inhales deeply against it before turning it off. "You got taste."
You stumbled out of bed, almost falling as you stood on the opposite side of the bed to put distance between him and you. "You're disgusting," you mutter, but to your surprise, the words have an opposite effect. They seemed to only get him more worked up.
His grin widens as he advances around the bed with unhurried steps, tossing the vibrator onto the nightstand with a dull thud. "Disgustin', am I?" His Southern drawl drips with amusement as he loosens his tie with one hand, the other sliding into his pocket to retrieve a crumpled pair of lace panties, your panties, which he brings to his nose with a theatrical inhale. "Funny how your body says otherwise, darlin'. You're practically drippin’ down those pretty thighs."
With every step forward, you took a hurried step back, desperate to keep space between him and you. "You broke into my apartment, stole my underwear and hid in my closet like some loser. So, maybe you're right. Disgusting is an understatement." You replied snarkily.
He lunges forward with inhuman speed, pinning you against the wall before you can blink, his body flush against yours. The cold hardness of his belt buckle pressing into your bare thigh. "Loser?" His laughs as his nose brushes along your throat, inhaling sharply. "Says the woman whose cunt's leakin' down her thighs."
You struggled against his grasp, but it was futile. He was impossibly strong and fast. He effortlessly pins you against the wall. Your wrists come together above your head with a wave of his hand. You let out a startled gasp as you fought against the invisible restraints.
How was he doing that without touching you?
"Hush now," he cooed against your throat, his breath chilling against your flushed skin. "You can't lie to a Vampire, your pulse jumps like a rabbit's when you lie." His lips traced your rapid pulse, savoring the way your body shuddered. "Ya like this... the danger of it."
Vampire?
"N-no!" You struggled again, shivering as his tongue trailed along your pulse point. But he was right, even though you were fighting him, your body gave you away. The hardened nipples visible through your shirt and the heady mess between your legs.
His chuckle vibrated against your throat as his free hand slid up your bare thigh, claws retracted, but fingertips still light enough to raise goosebumps. "Ah, you're a terrible liar," he kneads the soft flesh of your inner thigh before dragging one finger through your slick folds.
Your gasp was louder than your protests.
"Fuck, you're drenched," he groaned against your collarbone, rolling your arousal between his fingers like fine wine. "Tell me, darlin'... how long since someone touched you proper?"
His question caught you off guard, and you found yourself too flustered to speak as you looked away with no intention to reply.
He chuckled darkly, capturing your chin between thumb and forefinger to force your gaze back to his. "No need to answer, love. Your body tells me everything." With deliberate slowness, he brought his slick finger up to your parted lips.
You pressed your lips together and turned your head away in defiance, refusing to play along.
His nostrils flared at your defiance, pupils dilating further as he pressed his damp fingertip harder against your sealed lips. "Oh, stubborn lil' thing," he rumbled. The free hand slid up to grip your throat, enough pressure to feel your pulse hammer against his palm. "Your mouth says no, but this pretty body of yours?" He dragged his tongue along your fluttering pulse. "Tells me ya want to be ruined."
You froze as you felt his erection and how thick he was. There's no way you could take it without it hurting. Your legs instinctively closed tight.
"None of that now," he scolds in disapproval, wedging his knee between your thighs. The fabric of his pants grazed your bare skin as he forced your legs apart. His free hand slid up to grip your hip, fingers digging into soft flesh as he ground his cock against your pussy.
His hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head back to expose the trembling column of your throat. "I'll make it good for you," he promised darkly, rolling his hips against you in a slow, filthy grind that dragged a soft whimper from your lips. "Gonna ruin you so sweet you'll beg for more."
He felt your thighs tremble around him, your body betraying you even as you try to turn your face away. The hand on your hip slid up to palm your breast through the thin fabric, thumb circling the peaked nipple achingly slow. "Look at you—already half-gone and I haven't even started."
"S-shut up," you stuttered, whimpering softly when he pinched the nipple hard.
His fingers tightly squeeze your breast. "Make me," he teased. "Unless that pretty mouth of yours is only good for lyin'."
"Like you'll ever know," you murmur under your breath.
"Oh, I'll know soon enough," he assures you, dragging his fangs down to the swell of your breast before biting down just hard enough to make you gasp, not breaking skin, but leaving a mark that'll bruise beautifully by morning. His knee presses higher between your thighs, flawlessly settling his hips between your legs and forcing a strangled moan from your lips.
The scent of your arousal was intoxicating as he grinds his clothed erection into your slick heat. He could feel every shuddering breath you took beneath his palms, every rapid flutter of your pulse beneath his lips. His cock aches with the need to claim you properly, to sink into your cunt until you forget every lover who came before him, until you scream, only for him into the night.
He keeps your wrist pinned above your head with the invisible restraints as he presses his body against yours so there's no space between you. A breathy moan escapes your lips when he grinds his erection into your soaked cunt, the wetness transferred onto his pants. Your back arches in the attempt to move away, but it only results in your body pushing into him.
His breath hitches against your throat as you arch, the heat of your body searing through his clothes. "Fuckin' tease," he growls, sinking the tips of his fangs into the tender skin where your neck meets your shoulder, just enough pressure to make you gasp. His hand slides down to grip your thigh, hiking it up around his hip before he grinds against you in slow circles. "You want it rough, don't ya? Want me to ruin you proper?"
You whimper and shake your head as you try to ignore the friction from his grinding.
He grins, pressing his forehead against yours, the dim light highlighting his fanged grin. "Still playin' hard to get?" With one brutal motion, he tears your shirt down the middle, exposing your bare breasts to the chilled air, nipples pebbling instantly under his hungry gaze. "Let's see how long that lasts."
He palms your breasts roughly, thumbs circling the nipples with agonizing slowness. "Christ, you're perfect," he murmurs against your lips before capturing them in a searing kiss. All teeth, tongue and dominance, swallowing your startled gasp as one hand slides between your thighs.
Your eyes widened in shock before narrowing in anger when you felt his tongue slip past your teeth. Then, without a second thought, you bite down on his tongue, but you're confused and disappointed when he isn't affected.
He growls low in his throat as your teeth sink into his tongue in perverse delight. His cock twitches against you at your defiance. "Fuck, you're feisty," he rasps against your lips before claiming your mouth again, deepening the kiss. The hand between your thighs finds your clit, already swollen and throbbing. His fingers glide through your slickness with obscene ease, circling your clit just enough to make your legs tremble. "Tell me you don't want this," he challenges darkly, dragging his fangs along your bottom lip.
Your breath hitches as his fingers work you over with cruel precision, hips bucking against his hand despite yourself. He smirks against your lips, savoring your moan as his thumb presses harder against your clit, just shy of painful, while his other hand teases your nipples. "That's it, pet," he purrs in that whiskey-rough drawl, spreading you wider. "Let go for me."
"Not your Pet." You muttered angrily.
His breath fanned against your skin as he laughed before you felt his fingers curling tightly in your hair, tilting your head back further to expose the frantic pulse in your throat. "Oh, but you are," he murmured against your damp skin, he pressed two thick fingers against your entrance without warning, the sudden stretch making you gasp. "Every. Quiverin'. Inch." He punctuated each word with a shallow thrust, savoring the way your walls clenched around him.
Your body arched from the unexpected intrusion, walls fluttering around his digits as he pushed them deeper.
"Gods, so tight," he growled, twisting his fingers just to feel you clench. The slick sounds were loud in the quiet room. "Been too long since someone fucked you proper, hasn't it?"
"S-shut up," you murmured, avoiding his gaze.
His fingers curl deeper inside you, stretching your walls with slow but rough thrusts as his thumb drags against your clit. "Mmm, that's what I thought," he purrs against your throat, then inhales sharply. "Body don't lie." His other hand releases your hair to trace the outline of your parted lips, slick with shared saliva. "Bet that pretty mouth could take me just as sweet."
"Try it, and I'll bite it off," you threatened.
He threw his head back with a deep, throaty laugh that vibrated through your body where you were pressed together. "Oh, darlin'," he murmured, his fangs lightly tracing down your throat as his fingers twisted inside, "you'd miss my cock too much once you tasted it." His thumb left your clit and slid between you to unbuckle his belt with a metallic clink, the leather sliding free with a whisper against the fabric of his pants.
Your heart hammered at the sound of his belt being undone, thighs instinctively trying to close despite your legs that were wrapped around his waist.
His palm pressed flat against your sternum, pinning you to the wall with effortless strength while his other hand worked the button of his trousers open. "Still fightin'?" His Southern drawl dripped with amusement as his cock sprang free, thick, flushed and painfully hard; the tip glistened and dripped with precum. "Your cunt's drippin' down my fingers like honey," he murmured against your ear before licking the shell sharply. "Admit it—you want me buried balls-deep in you."
His fingers withdrew with an obscene sound, glistening slick in the dim light as he pressed them against your parted lips, smearing your arousal across your mouth. "Taste," he commanded, eyes glowing crimson with hunger as he watched your tongue dart out reflexively.
The growl that escaped him when you swallowed was animalistic, his cock twitching against your thigh. "Good girl," he purred in approval, gripping his shaft to stroke himself slowly, the veined length brushing against your sensitive folds tauntingly. "Now let's see if that pretty mouth backs up all that sass."
You turned away, cheeks burning as your body betrayed you, hips lifting instinctively toward his touch in betrayal. "You're disgusting," you hissed, but the tremor in your voice undercut the venom.
"Disgustin', am I?" He dragged the head of his cock through your slick labia with a filthy groan, the sensation making you whimper as precum mixed with your wetness. "Then why's this sweet cunt weepin' for me?" He forced you to meet his gaze as he pressed forward, just enough to stretch your entrance, the blunt pressure stealing your breath. "One word... say stop and I walk out that door." His smirk was wicked. "But we both know you won't."
Your nails dug into your palms as the first inch of him breached you, the stretch bordering on painful. Your breath hitched when he stilled, watching the conflict flicker across your face. His nostrils flared as your body trembled, slick heat clenching around him in reluctant welcome. His fingers flexed against your hip, leaving crescent indents in your skin as he fought the urge to slam home, savoring the way your pulse raced like a caged bird.
"There we go," he murmured against your lips, rolling his hips in a slow, torturous circle that dragged a whimper from your throat. The head of his cock catches on your inner walls with every movement. His free hand slid between you to circle your clit, his smirk widening when you arched off the wall. "Knew you could take me, darlin'," he breathed, dragging his fangs along your jaw. "Now let's hear you say it."
"N-no!" You refused stubbornly with a glare of anger.
He chuckled darkly, withdrawing almost completely before thrusting back in with deliberate slowness. The sensation made you gasp as your walls fluttered around him. "Mmm, that's alright," he says, voice thick with amusement. "Your cunt's doin' all the talkin' for you." His free hand slid up to grip your chin, forcing your gaze to his as his hips snap forward with a filthy wet smack that echoed. "Fuck! You feel that? How you're squeezin' me like a vice?" He smiled seductively as he pressed deeper; the stretch burned. "Body never lies, love."
He was only halfway inside, and the stretch was a conflicting combination of pain and pleasure as you groaned softly.
A growl rumbled low in his throat as he felt your tight walls flutter around him, hips stuttering forward another inch. Your sharp inhale was music to his ears. "Christ, you're snug," he rasped against your throat, his hand slid down to grip your thigh, hiking it higher around his waist. "Can't wait to stretch you out."
Your breath hitched as he pushed deeper. The stretch became unbearable as your body arched against him. "S-stop...too much!" you gasped, but the way your hips tilted instinctively betrayed your words.
He moaned low in his throat at your half-hearted protest, his grip tightening on your thigh as he bottomed out with a brutal thrust that made you cry out. Your walls quiver uncontrollably around him.
"Liar," he muttered. "Look at you—talkin' all sweet while your cunt's suckin' me in deeper." His fangs scraped your jaw as he inhaled sharply. "Gods—You're fuckin' drippin' down my thighs."
Your breath came in ragged pants as he filled you. The fullness was intense, yet your hips moved instinctively to meet his next thrust. His tongue traced the frantic pulse beneath your skin as he withdrew almost completely before slamming back in with enough force to shake the wall behind you.
"There's my good girl," he praises softly.
"N-not your g-good girl..." You stutter in a shaky voice.
His laugh vibrates through your body as he lifts you higher against the wall, driving into you with deep, punishing strokes. Each thrust punctuated by the wet slap of skin. "Tell me that again when you're screamin' my name," he growls, moaning when he feels you tighten around him like a fist.
"I don't even know your name," you reply. In fact, you've never seen him before in your life. However you couldn't deny that there was something oddly familiar about his voice.
"Remmick," he says, thrusting deeper just to feel you squeeze him. "Your landlord," he added as he inhaled your scent, salt, fear and arousal. "And soon to be the only name you'll be screamin'."
Your eyes widened in shock, this was the man you had only ever spoken to on the phone? The realization made you squirm, but his grip tightened, fingers digging into your thigh as he drove into you relentlessly. "You—you bastard!" you gasped, your insult ruined by the way you bucked into his thrusts.
His chuckle sent a chill down your spine as he kept your wrists pinned above your head with the invisible restraints.
"Flattery will get you everywhere," he growled, rolling his hips in slow circles, the movement pushing him deeper than you thought possible. He gripped your chin hard, forcing you to watch as your own arousal dripped down his thighs. "Your lease agreement didn't mention this perk," he murmured before claiming your mouth in a bruising kiss.
Remmick pulled back just enough to watch your eyes widen as he suddenly lifted you effortlessly, your legs tightening around his waist instinctively. "Did you even read it?"
But he didn't give you the opportunity to reply before slamming into you, the head of his cock rutting against your cervix. Your screams were muffled by his shoulder as he pounded into you with brutal, unforgiving strokes that shook the wall. "That's it, keep makin' those pretty noises for me," he taunts, fangs scraping your earlobe. "Whole building's soundproof."
Your arms fell limp at your sides when the unseen restraints suddenly vanished, fingers scrabbling uselessly against the wall as he fucked you relentlessly. Each deep thrust forced punched-out whimpers from your throat. The stretch was intense; your hips rolled instinctively to meet him. Your body betraying your protests as pleasure coiled tighter in your belly with every snap of his hips.
His growl vibrated against your sweat-slicked skin, nails digging into his shoulders. Remmick’s fangs scraped your pulse point when you arched into a particularly brutal thrust. "There we go," he groaned as his hands slid down to grip your ass, holding you to fuck up into you with sharper angles. "Knew you could take it, darlin'."
The obscene slap of skin echoing off the walls with each punishing thrust, the scent of your arousal clung thick to the air, salt, musk and something distinctly you, making his cock twitch inside you as he buried himself to the hilt. "Gonna ruin you so sweet you'll forget anyone else ever touched you."
Your head thumped back against the wall as pleasure coiled tighter with every deep stroke, thighs trembling around his waist. The friction bordered on too much yet not enough. "H-harder," slipped out before you could bite it back, cheeks burning at the hungry growl it earned.
He hummed in approval against your throat as he obeyed, slamming his cock harder into you with enough force to make you scream. The wet slap of skin drowning out your ragged breaths. "Atta girl," he praised, fangs scraping your jugular when you clenched around him like a vice. "Knew you'd beg eventually."
His hips snapped forward without mercy now, each brutal thrust stretching you impossibly deeper. Your thighs tremble around his waist as pleasure coiled tighter. "Gonna make you cum on my cock like a good lil' slut," he teased against your ear before biting the lobe sharply. With one hand, he circled your clit, syncing with his thrusts. "Right fuckin' now."
The dual stimulation pushing you towards the edge faster than you could fight, back arching off the wall as your cunt fluttered around him in erratic pulses. "N-no I—" The protest died in your throat when he pinched your clit hard, your vision whiting out momentarily as your climax crashed over you with devastating force.
"That's it, let it out," he coaxed huskily as your walls clenched around him in rhythmic convulsions. Your entire body trembled through the aftershocks while he fucked you through it with brutal strokes. The scent of your climax flooded his senses, thick and musky and utterly intoxicating, his cock twitching inside you as you milked him shamelessly. "Fuck, feel that?" he murmured. "Your cunt's beggin' for my cum."
Your breath came in ragged gasps as you regained awareness, panic flaring when you realized he was still buried deep inside. His hips snapped forward with renewed vigor, the telltale tension in his muscles signaling his impending release.
"W-wait—pull out!" you pleaded, fingers weakly pushing against his chest, your voice hoarse from screaming. "You can't—"
Remmick's growl vibrated through your body as his claws flexed against your hips, thrusts turning erratic. "Too late, pet," he says, one hand fisting in your hair to yank your head back. "Gonna fill this cunt so deep you'll taste me for days." His hips stuttered as he buried himself to the hilt with a snarl, hot cum flooding you in pulsing waves that made you whimper at the overwhelming sensation.
Your breath hitched as warmth spilled inside, thighs shaking around his waist, but the panic returned tenfold when you felt him twitch against your inner walls, still rock-hard despite his release. "W-why aren't you—" The protest died in your throat when he rolled his hips lazily, pushing his cum deeper.
"Vampire stamina, darlin'," he explains smugly before his tongue drags over the bite marks he'd left earlier as his fingers trace the bruises blooming on your hips. "Told you I was gonna ruin you proper." He chuckled darkly as you squirmed, the movement making your walls flutter around his still-thick cock.
Remmick's arms tightened around your waist as he lifted you again, your thighs instinctively clamping around his hips before he crossed the room too fast for you to see. The mattress groaned under the combined weight when he dropped you onto the rumpled sheets, his fangs flashing in the dim light as he crawled over you like a predator circling prey. "Now let's see how many times I can make you cum before sunrise," he grins against your inner thigh, tongue tracing the sensitive skin there before biting down just hard enough to make you cry out.
Your fingers twisted in the sheets as his mouth trailed higher, breath hitching when his tongue flicked against your still-sensitive clit, hips jerking off the bed at the sudden burst of pleasure. "Stop—I can't—" The protest dissolved into a moan when he sucked that throbbing bud between his lips, the vibrations of his chuckle sending shockwaves through your oversensitive nerves. Your thighs trembled as another orgasm built alarmingly fast, toes curling when his fingers slid back inside your still-slick entrance without warning.
He added a third finger, stretching you mercilessly while his tongue worked your clit in rapid circles. You arched off the bed with a shattered scream when you came again, his name tumbling from your lips unbidden. "There's my good girl," he praised against your quivering flesh as he lapped up your arousal greedily. "Knew you'd say my name."
Remmick's hands slid under your hips, lifting your legs over his shoulders as he aligned himself at your entrance. He watched your eyes widen with delicious fear when he pressed forward in one slow, inexorable thrust that stole your breath. The stretch was overwhelming as your walls convulsed around him. His cock twitched when fresh slickness spilled between you. The scent of mixed release clung thick to the air, heady and primal as his hips began moving slowly.
You weakly tried to push him away, your body trembling from overstimulation as breathy whimpers escape you.
His fingers dig into your hips hard enough to bruise as he sets a rhythm, each thrust punctuated by the wet slap of skin. Remmick’s fangs gleaming when you arched off the bed with a choked moan. "You take me so sweet," he growls out, tongue lapping at the sweat on your neck.
Your thighs quake as he ruts into you relentlessly, oversensitivity sparking with each deep stroke. You clawed at his forearms in a futile attempt to ground yourself. "S-slow down," you gasp, but your hips tilt up instinctively to meet his next thrust.
"Not a fuckin' chance," he snarls, his grip tightens, lifting your lower half effortlessly to fuck deeper with each snap of his pelvis. The wet squelch of your combined slickness fills the room when he bottoms out; your breathless whimper was music to his ears.
Remmick laughed softly against your collarbone as he adjusted the angle, your breath hitching when his next thrust visibly distends your lower belly, the obscene bulge of his cock pressing against your womb as he targets that sweet spot ruthlessly. "Christ," he moans, dragging a finger down your trembling abdomen to trace his own outline beneath your skin. "Takin' me so deep you can see where I belong."
He withdraws completely, his cock glistening with your mixed release before he grips himself lazily, smearing your slickness along his shaft while admiring how your swollen entrance pulses around nothing, gaping slightly from his girth. "Fuckin' perfect," he rasps, dragging the head through your folds just to watch you shudder. "Like this cunt was made for me."
Your breath catches when he suddenly flips you onto your stomach without warning, forcing you into a deep arch, his knee spread your thighs wide. "N-not again—" you whimper, but the protest fades into a moan when he presses forward in one smooth thrust, your body accepting him effortlessly now.
"That's it," he moaned in satisfaction, his hips snap forward. Your slickness making the slide obscenely easy despite the stretch. His fingers tangled in your hair, yanking your head back to expose your throat as he bottoms out with a groan. "Gods, you feel even tighter like this."
One hand slid beneath you to palm your swaying breasts, pinching a nipple sharply just to hear your gasp. "Still pretendin' you don't want this?" He growls just before his pace becomes punishing as your ass slaps against his thighs rhythmically. "When this pretty pussy is suckin' me in deeper?"
Your fingers tightly grip the sheets as he fucks you, each brutal stroke lighting up oversensitive nerves, your body trembling when his thumb finds your clit again, circling it slowly. "F-fuck," you whimper, arching your breasts into his palm while your hips rock back instinctively.
"There's my good girl," he groaned ferally.
His hips snap forward with bruising force, the wet slap of skin echoing off the walls as he bottoms out, your breath hitching when his palm lands sharply on your ass, leaving a stinging red imprint. "Gonna mark every inch of this body," he whispers against your ear. "Till you forget what it feels like not to have me inside you."
You cried out as his hand connected with your ass again, your entire body tensing, walls squeezing his cock hard. Your fingers clutch the sheets to ground yourself against his merciless thrusts.
His growl vibrates against your damp skin as he feels you clench around him, leaning over you to pinch your sensitive nipple. Your gasp, lost in the wet and obscene sound of your bodies connecting. "So fuckin' good," he rasps against your shoulder before biting down just hard enough to leave indents that'll surely bruise. His hips snap forward, and your whimpers turn to breathless moans.
He suddenly stills deep inside you, withdrawing just enough to make you whine before flipping you onto your back in one fluid motion. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist as he sank back into you with a guttural groan. "Wanna see your face when I make you cum again," he purrs against your lips. His cock twitches when your walls flutter around him in reluctant welcome.
Your breath hitches when his thumb finds your oversensitive clit again, hips jerking off the mattress, but his free hand pins you down effortlessly as he begins a slow, torturous rhythm. "P-please," you whimper before you can stop yourself, nails digging into his forearms when he suddenly angles his hips to brush that perfect spot inside with every thrust.
Remmick's answering growl vibrates through you as he licks up your jugular, fangs scraping the skin when your cunt flutters around him like a velvet vice. "Beg me," he purrs against your pulse, thrusts turning shallow just to feel your hips chase his cock with desperate little rolls. "Tell me how bad you want it—how you need me to ruin this sweet cunt."
You turned your head away defiantly, heat spreading across your face, neck and chest as guilt warred with pleasure.
He chuckled darkly, dragging his fangs along your exposed throat, tasting the frantic pulse beneath the skin before rolling his hips. "Beg," he repeated, pressing deeper, enjoying the way your lashes fluttered. His thumb circled your clit in torturous circles.
You squeezed your eyes shut tighter, nails digging into the sheets as conflicting sensations overwhelmed you. His relentless rhythm against your clit, the way his cock stretched you impossibly deep with each thrust, the scrape of his fangs leaving goosebumps in their wake. Your hips lifted instinctively when he slowed, a frustrated noise escaping before you could swallow it back.
Remmick suddenly withdrew completely, watching your swollen entrance flutter around nothing. Your thighs trembled when he dragged the head of his cock through your slick folds with deliberate slowness. "Say it," he purred, tracing your lower lip with his thumb as your breath hitched. "Or I walk away right now and let this sweet cunt weep all night."
His fingers tightened in your hair, your lashes fluttering when his fangs pressed against the sensitive skin of your throat, tasting salt and reluctant arousal. The slow drag of his cock against your oversensitive clit drew another whimper from your parted lips. His smirk widens when your hips lift instinctively toward the teasing pressure. "Last chance," he murmured, the cold bite of his fangs contrasting with the heat of his breath. "Beg."
Your thighs trembled around his waist, jaw clenching in frustration, the slickness dripping down his thighs as you squeezed your eyes shut tighter. Your voice was barely above a whisper when it finally cracked. "Please..." The word tasted like defeat on your tongue, nails digging into his arms when you arched toward him shamelessly.
Remmick's growl vibrated against your throat. He rewarded your plea by slamming back into you with enough force to shake the bedframe. He smirked devilishly when you cried out, your walls convulsing around him sporadically. "Louder," he urged against your parted lips, his voice thick with satisfaction as his fingers tightened in your hair, tugging hard enough to make you gasp. "Tell me exactly what you want."
"Keep going..." You muttered with more volume, still avoiding his gaze.
He gripped your thighs to spread them wider, fangs peeking out when you arched off the mattress with a shattered moan. "That's all you got, darlin'?" Remmick taunts, biting down sharply to mark you.
Remmick suddenly lifted your legs over his shoulders, bending you nearly in half. The new angle allowed him to go deeper. The wet slap of skin echoed when he buried himself to the hilt, your gasp cut short by his bruising kiss. "There we go," he purred against your swollen lips when they parted for air. "Now beg."
Your body trembled uncontrollably when his thumb circled your clit, toes curling as pleasure coiled tight, fingers clawed frantically at his shoulders when his cock brushed that perfect spot inside. "Please...don't stop," you gasped before you could stop yourself, your voice cracking on the words as your thighs trembled.
He suddenly pushes your legs flat against the mattress. The new angle allowed him to sink deeper than ever before with a groan. "Fuck," he rasped, fangs scraping your chin as his hips snapped forward in perfect strokes. "Perfect lil' fucktoy—takin' me balls-deep."
His praise sent heat flooding throughout your body, drawing another choked moan from your throat. The way he murmured perfect against your damp skin made your stomach clench, your traitorous hips lifting to meet each deep stroke despite the oversensitivity humming through your nerves.
Your thighs trembled around him as the pressure of his thumb on your clit increased, every thrust hitting your G-spot. The scent of your arousal clung thick to the air when you arched off the bed with a broken cry, walls clamping down around him in rhythmic pulses that made his cock twitch.
"Fuck yes," he snarled against your throat, fangs grazing your pulse as he fucked you through the convulsions, hips stuttering when your slickness dripped down his balls. "There's my good girl—makin' such pretty sounds for me."
Remmick's hips snapped forward with enough force to make the headboard slam against the wall, his fangs peeking out when your scream dissolved into broken whimpers. "Gonna breed this tight cunt so deep you'll feel me for days," he says, the scorching heat of his release flooding you in pulsing waves that made you shiver.
Your breath hitched as warmth spilled deep inside, thighs trembling, but the panic returned when you felt him twitch against your inner walls, still rock-hard despite his release. "N-not again—" You gasped, your protest morphing into a moan when he rolled his hips lazily.
"Oh, darlin', we're just gettin' started," he purred, tongue dragging over her collarbone before he bit down sharply. His hips already moved in slow, torturous thrusts that made you whimper. "I'll make sure you can't walk tomorrow."
Your thighs trembled around him, one hand sliding beneath your hips to lift you as his cock dragged against your oversensitive walls with each deep stroke. "Shit—listen to that," he growled, the wet squelch of your mixed release filling the air as your slickness trickled down your ass and thighs. "Your cunt's still beggin' for more."
You whimpered while his fingers worked your swollen clit with ruthless precision, thighs trembling around his waist. Your instincts scream to pull away, even as your hips rock shamelessly against his hand. "N-no more," you pleaded, the lie crumbling when his thumb pressed harder, and your muscles fluttered around him in helpless pulses.
"Sweet lil' liar," he purred, tongue lapping at the sweat beading along your collarbone before biting down sharply. "Your cunt's hungry for it—clenchin' 'round me like a greedy lil' thing."
His fingers dug into your hips hard enough to leave bruises as he suddenly lifted you higher, the new angle allowing him to sink deeper with a groan that shook his chest. "Gods, look at that," he growled against your parted lips, his thrust visibly distending your lower belly. The obscene bulge of his cock pressed against your G-spot as he targeted that spot ruthlessly.
Your vision whites out momentarily as another climax crashes over you with devastating force. The dual stimulation of his relentless thrusts and clever fingers pushed you past the point of coherent thought, your body trembling as the aftershocks crashed over you.
He felt you convulse around him, his fangs teasing your pulse while his hips stuttered. His release floods you deep once more in hot, pulsing waves that made you whimper at the overwhelming fullness. "Fuck, that's it," he groaned as his cock twitched wildly. "Takin' every drop like a perfect lil' fucktoy."
He slowly withdrew, watching your swollen entrance flutter around nothing, your thighs trembling when his fingers traced the mess of your combined release dripping down your inner thighs. "Such a good girl," he purred, lifting your limp wrist to lick the pulse point there with deliberate slowness. "Still fuckin' twitchin' for me after all that. You really love takin' my cock, huh?" He gave a fanged grin when you tried to turn away, his grip tightening possessively on your hip.
A soft gasp escaped you as his fingers trailed through the sticky evidence of your coupling, cheeks burning when he brought them to his lips with a groan of satisfaction. Your stomach clenched at the way his crimson eyes darkened with hunger as he licked the slickness from his fingers.
The question lingered between you, heavy and humiliating, but your traitorous body still arched toward him when his thumb brushed your oversensitive clit. "Shut up," you muttered weakly.
Remmick's grin was pure sin as he dragged your limp body up his chest while his palm slid possessively down your trembling abdomen. "Still drippin' with me," he murmurs against your racing pulse, his other hand squeezing your plush thigh hard enough to leave a handprint. "Whole bed reeks of us—bet if I fucked you right now, you'd cum before I even bottomed out." He laughed when you whimpered, hips twitching instinctively toward the teasing pressure of his half-hard cock against your thigh.
You huff softly in protest and avert your gaze, trying to calm the subtle trembling throughout your body.
He lays you down on your back, pinning you beneath him again. His half-hard cock presses insistently against your slick entrance. "Still pretendin' you don't love this?" he purrs, thrusting shallowly just to watch your lashes flutter. "When your pretty cunt's suckin' me back in already?"
Remmick sinks into you with one smooth stroke, your gasp muffled against his shoulder when he bottoms out, your walls fluttering around him instantly despite exhaustion. "Gonna keep you like this all night," he murmurs against your throat. "Till you can't remember your own name—just how good my cock feels."
"All night?" You repeat in shock and disbelief. A soft whimper escapes you as he nips your collarbone.
He rolls his hips in slow, torturous circles. "Till sunrise at least," he adds while his fingers trace the bruises blooming across your hips. "Gonna make sure this sweet cunt remembers exactly who owns it."
Your fingers twist helplessly in the sheets as his cock stretches you, thighs trembling uncontrollably around his waist. Every oversensitive nerve alight when his thumb finds your clit again, circling it with cruel precision. "S-sensitive—can't," you gasp.
"Christ, that sound—" He moans, tongue dragging over your rapid pulse as the wet slap of skin fills the room. "Still beggin' for more even when you're full of my cum."
Your body sinks deeper into the mattress with exhaustion, muscles pliant beneath his merciless rhythm, every protest dying on your lips when his thumb circles your oversensitive clit just right, drawing a shuddering whimper from your throat. The weight of him pressing you into the sheets feels strangely comforting now, your thighs falling open wider in silent surrender as pleasure coils tight in your belly again.
"There's my good girl," he praises before biting down sharply.
Your vision whites out momentarily as he pounds into you mercilessly. Any coherent thought obliterated by the overwhelming pleasure-pain of his cock stretching and filling you. A broken moan spills from your lips, body convulsing around him as another orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave. Your overwhelmed walls flutter around him in helpless pulses that milk his cock shamelessly.
"Fuck, that's it—squeeze me just like that," he groans when your cunt spasms around him. His hips stutter when your inner muscles ripple along his shaft in greedy little flutters. His fingers tighten in your hair, yanking your head back as his thrusts turn erratic, you arch into his touch with a shattered moan.
Remmick's cock twitches violently inside you while your body instinctively milks him dry. "Greedy thing," he snarls, hips jerking forward uncontrollably as another hot flood of cum spills deep inside you.
Your breath hitches when you feel the intense heat of his release, your vision blurring momentarily when the sensation of being so thoroughly filled triggers another involuntary pulse of pleasure through your oversensitive nerves. You whimper weakly, hips rocking instinctively to keep him buried inside.
He pins your hips flush against his own, ensuring not a single drop escapes. His fangs peek from his curved lips when you arch into his touch.
Remmick suddenly rolls, his cock still buried deep, your whimper muffled against his chest when he settles you atop him with effortless strength. "There we go," he murmurs, hands roaming your quivering thighs as your slick walls flutter around him instinctively. "Ride me nice and slow—show me how good you take it."
Your exhausted body barely responds, muscles limp and pliant. Your limbs tremble weakly when you try to lift yourself, only to sink back down onto his cock with a soft moan. The oversensitive stretch makes your toes curl, your forehead dropping against his chest as you pant against his skin. "Can't...too tired..."
His laugh rumbles beneath your cheek as his hands slide up your sweat-slicked back, fingers tangling in your damp curls to tilt your head back. "Bullshit," he rolls his hips upward sharply to make you cry out. "You're still suckin' me in deeper...beggin' for more."
You whimper softly in protest and make no attempt to move as you lie pliant above him, your body still shuddering from oversensitivity, thighs trembling weakly around his waist.
Remmick's hands slide down to grip your hips possessively, lifting you effortlessly before dropping you back onto his cock with a wet slap. Your cry muffled against his chest when he bottoms out. He groans when he fills you.
Your body trembles from the sensation of his cum leaking, pooling around the shaft of his cock.
He watches in admiration as you quiver, his hands squeezing your waist as he keeps you pinned flush against him. "That's it, darlin'," he whispered. "Just let it happen...you were made for this."
His fingers trace the bruises blooming along your hips with possessive satisfaction, tongue flicking over his fangs when you whimper. Your slickness drips down his thighs as his cock twitches inside. "Fuck, look at you," he growls. "Still takin' me."
Your eyes drift around the room, landing on the clock on the table beside the bed. Did you really lose track of time? How was it already almost 1am?
He follows your gaze. "Don't worry your pretty lil' head 'bout the time, darlin'," he purrs, rolling his hips lazily. "Sunrise is hours away, plenty of time for ruin."
Your fingers twist helplessly in the sheets as his cock grinds deep from this angle, breath hitching when his palm lands sharply on your ass, the sting radiating and making you involuntarily clench hard around him.
His voice grew rough when you whimpered softly. "Shit," he groans, his pace faltering. "Your greedy cunt's still milkin' me dry."
Your eyelids flutter weakly as another wave of pleasure-pain washes over you. The steady rhythm of his hips rocking into your limp body, his warm cum leaking between your thighs. A soft sigh escapes your lips as darkness creeps at the edges of your vision, consciousness slipping away despite his relentless pace.
He feels you go limp above him, your shallow breaths warming his chest where you had collapsed against him. His cock is still buried deep inside your twitching cunt.
The smell of coffee jolts you awake, sharp against the lingering musk of sex clinging to your sheets. Sunlight cuts through half-drawn blinds, painting stripes across your bruised thighs as you blink at the unfamiliar silk robe draped over your body.
'Did I...dream all that?'
Your legs tremble when you attempt to stand, biting back a whimper as sore muscles protest. The robe slides like liquid against oversensitive skin, its crimson silk embroidered with Celtic knots that tighten around your waist when you tie it, too perfectly fitted to be a coincidence. 'I don't remember buying this robe', you think as you use one hand to support yourself against the wall and slowly make your way out of the bedroom.
The scent of coffee grows stronger as you limp toward the kitchen, only to freeze when your eyes land on Remmick leaning against your counter, the silver espresso machine he's operating with practiced ease. His crisp white shirt sleeves are rolled to reveal forearms still littered with your nail marks, the top buttons undone to show fresh marks you don't remember making.
'Definitely wasn't a dream', you concluded.
Your eyes narrowed as you glared at him. Why was he still here? You assumed he'd be long gone by the time you woke up. But here he was, in your kitchen, drinking your coffee.
Remmick's fangs peeked out as he grinned when he caught you staring. He poured steaming espresso into a second cup, the rich scent mingling with the musk of your earlier activities still clinging to your skin. "Mornin', darlin'," he greeted you, pushing the cup in your direction, his blue eyes tracking every wince as you shifted your weight. "Sleep well?"
You ignored the offered coffee and his question, instead grabbing the counter's edge to steady yourself as you glared at him. "Get out," you managed through gritted teeth, your voice rougher than you expected. More than likely from all the screaming last night. The thought made your cheeks burn hotter as you straightened your robe self-consciously.
You head for the door with the intention of ordering him to leave, but you're greeted by someone standing on the other side. You turn, expecting to see Remmick, but he's nowhere in sight.
"Miss?" A male voice called out from the doorway, "I just wanted to check if everything was alright." He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, "We heard some...noises last night and wanted to make sure you weren't hurt." His eyes dart around the apartment, catching sight of the robe you wore.
Your entire body goes rigid as realization dawns, you're wearing Remmick's robe while answering the door to a neighbor who definitely heard everything last night. Heat floods your body as you clear your throat, fingers tightening on the doorframe. "I'm fine," you croak out, voice still rough from overuse, "Just...had a rough night."
The neighbor's raised eyebrow makes you want to melt into the floor, especially when his gaze drops to the unmistakable marks peeking above your robe's collar. You shift uncomfortably, wincing as sore muscles protest. "Really loud movie," you blurt out, hoping he doesn't notice the bruises on your thighs, faintly visible from beneath the hem.
The man's eyes dart over your shoulder, landing on the abandoned coffee cup still steaming beside the sink. His lips purse with dawning understanding before he coughs awkwardly. "Right. Well...welcome to the building, I guess."
You mutter, barely audible, "thanks," before closing the door with trembling hands, forehead pressing against the cool wood as you exhaled shakily. The sudden feeling of being watched comes over you, making your pulse stutter.
When you turn around, Remmick is leaning against the counter exactly where he'd been before, as if he'd never moved. His eyes gleam with amusement as he sips from the same coffee cup; he grins at your stunned expression.
"You said that the walls were soundproof," you murmur. A shiver rolls down your spine as you're reminded of what he is, a real vampire.
Remmick sets the cup down, blue eyes gleaming with mischief. "Did I?" He asks, his eyes shamelessly roamed over your body, "I never said which side of the walls were soundproof."
You exhale sharply and roll your eyes before turning away and heading to the bathroom. "I'm taking a bath; you better be gone by the time I'm finished." However, your intuition told you that even if he did leave this wouldn't be the last time you saw him.
"Now why would I do that, darlin'?" His voice drops to a purr as he adds, "When I can just join you instead?" The sound of his shoes against the hardwood echoes behind you, slow and predatory.
You paused, halfway down the hall and turned to face him. "No," your voice was stern despite the sore throat. "Don't you have Landlord stuff to do? Other than harassing your tenants?"
He chuckled as he leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his crisp white shirt stretching over his chest and shoulders. "Consider this...a personal house call. Quality control."
"Quality control?" You repeat, skeptical and unconvinced. Your annoyed tone only amused him more.
Remmick pushed off the wall, closing the distance between you in one smooth stride. His fingers hook into the belt of your robe to tug you flush against him. "Exactly," he replied, taking a step closer. The movement was too fast for your human eyes to see. With one hand, he traced the fresh bite marks along your shoulder. "Gotta inspect my property thoroughly...make sure last night didn't leave any structural damage."
Your expression shifts from annoyance to confusion as he slips past you, heading for the bedroom. He inspects the scratches on the hardwood floors and dents in the wall from the headboard.
Remmick runs an index finger over the deep claw marks in the headboard, his claw marks. He turns, his eyes glowing a deep crimson, to find you hovering awkwardly in the doorway. "Structural damage confirmed," he says in mock disappointment, licking a drop of dried blood from his thumb while his eyes remain locked on you. "Gonna have to increase this month's rent."
At first you weren't sure you heard him correctly. Your eyes widened in disbelief as the implication hit you. He was actually going to charge you for the damages he caused.
"You've got to be kidding me," you groaned, fingers tightening on your robe's belt. "You're the one who—" The words died when he flashed you that infuriating smile. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath to calm yourself; you were on the verge of cussing him out.
He closed the distance between you in a blink. His hands slid beneath the silk robe to grip your bruised hips possessively. "Or," he purred against your throat, "we could work out...alternative payment arrangements." He playfully nipped at your neck, tongue tracing the tender skin. "Interest rates are very favorable."
Remmick hummed in approval when he felt you shiver, pressing closer until your back met the wall. His knee parted your thighs slowly, fingers tightening in the silk at your waist. "Already wet for me again, and here I thought you wanted me gone."
“No way,” Cook says, voice muffled against your mouth before he pulls back just enough to stare down at your chest like he’s been personally wronged by the universe for not knowing sooner.
His hands are still shoved under your shirt, palms hot and greedy against your ribs, fingers digging in like he’s trying to keep you pinned there even though you haven’t made a single move to get away. Not that you could anyway, not with him sprawled over you on your bed.
He’d only come over to “hang out,” or at least that was the bullshit excuse both of you pretended to believe when he showed up with messy hair, red-rimmed eyes, and that shit-eating smirk that always made you want to slap him.
Now his knee is jammed between your spread thighs, your shirt rucked up under your chin, and Cook is eye-fucking your pierced nipples like you’ve just handed him the meaning of life and a loaded gun.
“You’re joking,” he mutters, except there’s zero joke in the way his thumb drags slow and heavy under one tit, lifting the soft weight so the little silver bar catches the light.
His mouth parts, and his eyes flick from one stiff nipple to the other with this stunned, filthy awe that makes your stomach tighten. “Nah, you’ve been walking round with these under your clothes, yeah? Just out there? In public?”
You try to laugh, but it comes out a shaky, needy whimper when his thumb strokes right over the piercing. The metal shifts and tugs through your stiff nipple, sending a hot spark straight to your clit, and the way your face twists must be obvious because Cook’s grin turns mean and hungry. He’s always been a loud, obnoxious prick, but right now he looks like he wants to devour you.
“Oh, you like that?” he says, dragging the pad of his thumb over the bar again, lighter this time, just to watch your lips part. “Course you do. filthy, ain’t ya?”
You’d tell him to shut up if his mouth didn’t get there first.
Cook licks a slow, sloppy stripe over one nipple, tongue catching the cool metal before swirling hot and wet around the tight, sensitive bud. Your fingers fist tight in his hair and he groans loud against your tit, the vibration shooting through you. He sucks the piercing into his mouth with obscene care, lips sealed tight while his tongue flicks and toys with the bar, sucking hard enough to make your back arch clean off the bed.
“There we go,” he mumbles, lips wet against you as his hand slides up to your other breast, squeezing until the second piercing presses against his palm. “Knew you had something mad hiding under all that.”
His teeth graze the metal just enough to make you jolt, not enough to hurt, but enough to send a hot, sharp tug straight down between your legs. Cook laughs into your skin like an absolute bastard, then licks over the same place as if he’s apologizing with his mouth instead of words.
By the time his hand starts wandering down your stomach, your panties are already damp enough to embarrass you if Cook wasn’t currently sucking on your nipple like a man with no morals and even less shame.
His fingers dip under your waistband with no ceremony, no smooth little pause, no asking like he isn’t already sure you want it. And God help you, you do, because your hips lift into his hand as soon as he slides lower.
“Fuckin’ soaked,” he says, sounding genuinely thrilled. His fingers drag through your messy folds, spreading your juices everywhere before he starts rubbing tight, filthy circles over your swollen clit. “All this from a bit of mouth on your tits? Babe, that is dangerous info to give me.”
You make some half-formed complaint that doesn’t survive the next stroke of his fingers, and Cook, because he’s Cook, takes that as encouragement.
He keeps his mouth latched to your nipple while he touches you, tongue working the piercing in slick, lazy flicks as his fingers rub you through the slippery heat between your thighs. One hand in your panties, one hand kneading your tit, mouth hot and wet on the silver bar, hips grinding down against your leg because apparently he’s enjoying himself enough to make it everyone’s problem.
When he finally pushes two fingers inside you, your cunt tightens around them, warm and dripping.
Cook makes a noise against your chest that’s more animal growl than human, his knuckles grinding deep as he curls those fingers and watches your face from under heavy lashes.
The smugness is still there, obviously—because he’d probably find a way to be cocky at his own funeral—but something darker and hungrier burns underneath when your slick coats his hand and the wet, obscene squelching of your cunt fills the room with every thrust.
Every curl of his fingers forces your thighs wider apart, and every time you try to clamp them shut, he shoves his knee in harder like he owns that sloppy, dripping space between your legs.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, kissing messily across your chest until his mouth finds your other nipple, giving it the same nasty treatment. His tongue swirls around the piercing, then tugs it between his lips while his fingers keep pumping into your soaked hole, rubbing that spot inside you until your brain goes stupid and your cunt gushes around him.
You’re pretty sure you say his name, call him a dick, and beg all in the same broken breath, but none of it matters because Cook starts rubbing your swollen clit with his thumb at the same time his fingers curl up hard and mean.
The pleasure slams into you so fast it almost pisses you off. Your legs shake violently around his arm, your fingers yank hard at his hair, and he moans loud against your nipple like the pain is making his cock throb.
His mouth doesn’t stop, not even when your tits start feeling raw and oversensitive, not even when you squirm and whine because the piercing is dripping with his spit and aching from how greedily he’s sucking it.
“Cook,” you gasp, trying to shove your hips away even though your greedy cunt keeps rocking down onto his hand, fucking yourself on his fingers.
He lifts his head with shiny, spit-slick lips, hair wrecked from your grip, eyes dark and wild. “Nah, don’t run from it now,” he says, far too pleased with himself as he presses his palm harder against your throbbing clit. “You’re right there, I can feel it.”
And unfortunately, he can.
Your orgasm rips through you wet and filthy, hips jerking off the bed as your cunt spasms and gushes hard all over his hand. You soak his fingers, his wrist, the sheets underneath you, and Cook actually freezes for half a second, eyes wide.
The low, wrecked sound he makes should embarrass him, but shame has never lived in this man. He stares down between your spread legs like he’s witnessing a miracle, then immediately starts fucking you with his fingers again, drawing out every sloppy pulse.
“Oh, that’s fucking unreal,” he says, laughing under his breath while you squirm beneath him. “Did you just—nah, you did.”
“Cook,” you whine, dragging his name out because he hasn’t stopped. His fingers still buried deep in your oversensitive cunt, every curl making fresh sparks shoot up your spine and making your thighs twitch helplessly around his arm.
He looks up at you with the most evil, delighted grin you’ve ever seen, then drops his mouth back to your nipple like he’s found the switch that ruins you.
The piercing is soaked and shiny from his tongue, your skin hot and slick, and when he flicks the bar again your whole body jerks violently against his hand. The overstimulating feeling crashes through you in a nasty, overwhelming rush, making your toes curl and your eyes squeeze shut while he keeps rubbing your swollen clit with his thumb—slower now, meaner, dragging out every tiny, devastating movement.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, almost tender if his fingers weren’t still knuckle-deep in you and his mouth wasn’t busy making a sloppy mess of your tits. “Look at you, babe. All fucked up and I’ve barely started.”
You hate when your cunt answers with another helpless, wet clench around his fingers, and Cook groans like he’s the one about to lose it.
His hips grind hard into the mattress, cock obviously leaking and desperate in his jeans, but he refuses to pull his hand out of your ruined panties.
He doesn’t stop playing with your piercings, doesn’t let you come down. He just keeps dragging it out until the pleasure turns thick, syrupy, and cruel, until your gasps melt into broken, slutty moans and the sheets are soaked under your ass where his wrist keeps grinding.
When he finally pulls his dripping fingers free from your fluttering pussy, you’re panting like you’ve run a marathon. Your shirt is still shoved up, nipples puffy, stiff, and glistening with his spit, silver bars shining under the lamp.
Cook sits back on his heels to admire his work, hand absolutely drenched in your cum and fluids, mouth glossy and wrecked, looking so proud of himself you’d slap him if your bones hadn’t gone useless.
“Mate,” he says, staring at your tits like he’s about to build a shrine to them. He drags his soaked fingers slowly up your thigh instead of wiping them off, leaving a shiny trail of your own slick, then leans down to press one last filthy, open-mouthed kiss to your nipple piercing. “I’m never leaving this room.”
You laugh, shaky and breathless, pushing weakly at his shoulder as he grins against your chest. “You’re disgusting.”
Cook hums, completely unbothered, and gives the piercing another slow, teasing lick just to make your hips jerk. “yeah, well,” he says, crawling back up to kiss you deep, his tongue still tasting like metal and your skin, “you’re the one with pierced nipples and ruined knickers, so I reckon we’re both doing quite well.”
❤︎ Remmick (Sinners) x female reader
❤︎ Remmick fucks you dumb enough to ask if he enjoys having sex with you/if it feels good and he nearly strokes out
❤︎ came home after watching sinners for the 9th time and decided who needs sleep! wouldn't be getting much of it if he were here anyway
His tongue met the edge of your hip. A wet moan muffled against your skin, Remmick dragged it toward your belly button, then trailed messy kisses and sloppy bites up to your breasts, where his mouth found the raised flesh of your nipples, darkened with their hardening. Your fingers burying themselves in the locks of black curling around his ears and matting to his forearm, your chest lifted as he suckled needily on one then the other, switching with a crude popping sound and a hurried exhale. His saliva dribbling onto you and smearing his cheeks, the next he lifted up, you cupped his cheeks and brought his face to yours, squirming beneath the weight of his body.
His gold chain dangling from his neck, your fingertips then danced down the back to his spine. As soon as your touch dragged further down his back, your arms wrapping around his wide torso, Remmick buried his nose into your neck and began inhaling your scent in between deepened groans. You wriggled your hips upward some more, kissing and biting his shoulder as he had done to you, until he pushed his knees beneath your thighs and lowered himself enough you felt the hard edge of his cock slide across your wet belly. With a shiver at the contact and the flex of his lower back, arching his ass back before grunting and glancing down the length of you to make sure he was angling himself properly, you ached to feel him stretch you open and hold himself inside the way he always did, slowing his breath and adjusting to the feeling of your walls clenching around him, never totally used to the sensation of your pretty cunt damn near weeping for him.
Nonetheless, despite this need and the racing of your heart to dizzy you with the anticipation, your hands met his neck and chest and you stilled him with a hush of his name, distracting him just long enough you could turn your shoulder, then tuck your hands beneath you and push up against him, turning to lay of your belly. Remmick's calloused hands slid down the curve of your back and swept downward to cradle your abdomen, his long fingers and hard knuckles groping at your supple flesh while he cursed beneath his breath and realigned himself to your swollen entrance, this time hurriedly. His other hand moving from your hip to reach up and grab a fistful of the hair at the back of your skull, he craned your jaw back and as soon as the gummy head of his leaking cock disappeared between your folds, he punched his pelvis upward and sheathed himself completely inside, nearly buckling forward over you as you simultaneously tightened so much the delicate tissue almost squeezed him out, yet with the hollowing of your lungs, he felt he couldn't have been able to pull out if he tried. His mouth hung open, and another string of saliva trickled down his chin; his eyes darkened and dilated. Jagged teeth revealing themselves when he clenched and bared them, he knotted his fist again and earned a high-pitched whimper from you as your breath hitched and your blurry gaze looked upward.
He began thrusting hard, a rough exhale matching the increasing tempo until he left bruises where his hands met you and he released your hair to wrap his palm around the front of your throat. Finally falling forward to wrap his opposite arm around your chest, you felt his teeth meet your scapula and the back of your neck before he sat back on his knees and brought you up with him onto his lap, never ceasing his thrusts, only changing how much he pulled out before snapping back to the hilt with a squelch of your wetness mixing with the sweat and precum glistening on his skin. He was surprisingly quiet while fucking you, too concentrated to turn his thoughts into words, instead letting you hear the open mouthed sounds that escaped and were choked from him, strangled from his strained and striated throat as his eyes squeezed shut. When he fell forward again, releasing one arm to shoot out beneath next to where where your hands fell from his forearm, you stretched out and rested your head against the ground, sucking sweet air into your burning lungs through flaring nostrils while Remmick took hold of your waist again and used the curve of your hips between his palms to yank at you until the quivering burn of his thighs and the yanking tension deep in his belly came undone, causing him to bury himself as deep as he could get one last time and lean his shoulders back, wincing while hot seed spurted against your cervix, sticky strings of it feeling like an extension of each heavy kick of his throbbing cock as his hips tensed and rolled forward each time his balls contracted.
Tenderly, his chin to his chest and his panting sounding like a dog's, Remmick pulled himself out and immediately fell to your side, collapsing on his back with half-lidded eyes following yours while his fingers stretched out and beckoned you to nestle into him.
You pressed small kisses just beneath his jaw to his cheek, then asked quietly, "You alright?" When he remained silent. You touched his forehead and swiped some hair away, observing his expression. He had a habit of drawing back into his thoughts, his memories, but rarely when the two of you were being intimate--which was more often than not. You began to feel like there was something else to the way he fucked you hurriedly, like it was a task to get himself off, until Remmick caught your wrist and lifted his face in the same motion, catching your cheek in his other hand to kiss you like it was taking a needed breath. He tugged at you so your chest pressed to his, before you swung your leg over him and straddled his waist. When he planted his hands on your ass and tugged at the plush meat, your sore folds separated, and a glob of his cum dripped like cream onto his abdomen.
His lips hovered only centimeters away from yours when he finally responded. "You're fuckin' unbelievable."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You--m'lass, askin 'bout if I'm alright as soon as I get done fuckin' ya as if I ain't flutterin' down from heaven on earth at this very moment. And as if I ain't plannin' on gettin' righ'back in there." His words melted into a grumbly purr, then a soft moan once he kissed you again.
"I just wa..." he kissed you, and kissed you, and kissed you, barely letting you get another word out. You had to sit up to do so, although he followed to his elbows and tilted his head with doe eyes that made your heart twist. "Want you to enjoy yourself--with me, to enjoy me. It feels good, doesn't it?" The statement hadn't sounded that serious when it crossed your mind, but there was a change in Remmick's expression as soon as he heard it out loud.
It was like blasphemy to hear you even for a flinch of a second doubt if he enjoys you. You could see the frustration, the agony in the scrunch of his eyebrows and nose, the opening and closing of his lips like he couldn't even begin to adequately express how wrong you were--and the stupidity in thinking it wouldn't feel good. His Adam's apple shot upward when he swallowed, and frustration became determination.
At the same time he cupped your face, smashing his mouth against yourself, full of sharp teeth and with a red glint to his eyes, he hoisted your waist up so he could force you beneath him again, this time pinning you on your back and slinking down to bury his face between your thighs. He would make you apologize, of course, but first he would make you fucking grateful his manhood needed a break before achieving another erection. Although his vampirism sped up the process and enabled him to go more times in a row than the average human male, his increased stamina and endurance be damned with you. There were times he thought he would cum not a minute into fucking you.
The sound of his name choking in your throat was sweet, but it wasn't enough. His fingers curved upward and buried in your core, his tongue flicked over the already overstimulated bud of your clit, and he would continue to do so until your clenched your legs around his head and pushed at his skull, curling upward and trembling as if he were about to exorcise demons from your pussy and swallow them whole. He wouldn't stop until tears ran down your cheeks, and you would think him cruel for this punishment.
Only at that point would he push your legs open again and grab your jaw with slick fingers to keep your eyes locked on his while he slowly, deliberately slid back inside you, fucking you nice and good and slow, cradling one of your legs open in his other arm all the while not letting you turn away from him so you could see each twinge and strain of his face and hear loud and clear the obscene words that could set a whole church on fire from its sin if uttered within a mile radius. But he didn't just utter it, he commanded it, as if it hadn't been centuries since he'd even thought it, longer since he doubted it even existed. Oh, but it did, and it trickled from his tongue, breathless, vicious and biting.
Can you write something about Remmick letting reader check out his vampire teeth? His vampiric body is so interesting I’d sit for hours just looking him over✨
Remmick’s mouth curled into a lazy, teasing smile as you climbed onto his joined legs, fingers idly trailing over the waistband of his lounge pants. The soft golden lamp behind him cast an intimate halo around his pale frame, but his grey eyes gleamed in the half-dark. He tilted his head back against the couch, chest rising slowly, like he enjoyed being looked at. He knew you were staring. He wanted it.
“Yer after starin' at me mouth again,” he purred, voice syrup-thick and smug. “You wanna see, love?”
You nodded — maybe a bit too fast — and he laughed low in his throat. The sound was sharp and sweet, like wine poured over sugar. Then, slowly, like a gift unwrapped in reverence, he opened his mouth and let you see.
Those fangs — long, curved, pearl-white against the wet pink of his tongue — made your breath hitch. They gleamed as he let his tongue glide over them, deliberately slow, like he knew just how much it affected you. The tips were so sharp, so pristine, you could almost feel the sting of them in your imagination. He smiled wide, revealing the full set in a grin not quite human.
“Pretty, aren’t they?” he asked, breath brushing against your cheek as you leaned closer. His claws flexed against the couch cushions. “Yer always lookin' at me like I’m some specimen. You like how unnatural I am, don’t ya?”
You nodded again, this time slower, more reverent. “I could watch you forever.”
Remmick let out a pleased hum, shifting just enough to allow you to hold him tighter and closer to your body with your legs.
“You wanna touch?” he whispered.
Your hand was already rising. His mouth stayed open for you. Remmick’s hands clutched the hem of your shirt like he needed something to hold onto — something to brace him against your gaze, your touch.
Your thumb brushed over his lower lip first — soft, pink, still damp from his tongue. You eased it down just slightly, watching how obediently his mouth stayed parted. His fangs caught the light again, but now you leaned in closer.
God, they were perfect.
Longer than you expected up close. Not just the upper canines — though those were the stars, twin ivory scythes — but the bottom ones, too, subtler but just as sharp. You reached up and touched the tip of one with your index finger.
He whimpered, the danger of it making your heart race. He was so sensitive there — the vampire equivalent of a gasp against a lover’s neck. His claws clutched the sofa material, tighter, desperate.
“They—eh… they’re wired into me nerve. Not just for bitin', y'know.”
You dragged the pad of your finger along the inner curve of one fang. It was smooth, cool, hard as enamel but with an organic feel — like carved bone warmed by his body. There was a faint, almost imperceptible ridge near the gum line. His lips trembled under your touch.
Then, with slow intent, you slipped your finger along the inside of his mouth, tracing the edge of the opposite fang with the same reverence you’d use to touch a blade. He whined, barely able to sit still.
“Are you okay?” you asked, taking your fingers out of his mouth so he wouldn't bite you.
He nodded, eyes wide. “No rush, darlin'. Pretend I’m yer own private monster on display.”
You still had your thumb at the corner of his mouth when you caught it — the flicker. A shimmer under the surface of his irises, like coals catching flame.
Remmick looked wrecked already — flushed, trembling under your touch, claws curled in tightly against his own ribs like he didn’t trust himself to touch you back. But then his eyes… oh, his eyes.
You leaned closer. “Look at me.”
He obeyed — breath hitching — and that’s when you saw them fully.
The blue-grey of his human disguise had fractured. Beneath it, that deep, impossible red pulsed to the surface. Not just a glow — no, these were layered, swirling like smoke and blood beneath glass. Dark scarlet slowly taking over the entire iris.
You cupped his face, thumbing under one eye so you could study it up close, and the moment you did, he shuddered.
“Your eyes,” you murmured. “They change when you get worked up.”
“I can’t help it,” he whispered, voice raw. “Not when ya touch my fangs like that—not when ya look at me like...like this.”
You laughed softly, warm and low in your throat, dragging your nails up along Remmick’s pale chest until his breath caught. You weren't sure what look he was referring to, but you were sure the adoration you felt for the way he opened up to you was reflected well in your eyes.
“Do you have anything else to show me?” you asked, sweet and teasing.
And oh, that did something to him.
Remmick’s chest rose with a shaky inhale, and then — all excited — he moved just a little below you and held out his hands for you like a dog presenting its paws.
You took them gently in your own, watching him squirm under the weight of your stare. His claws were out — long, graceful, wicked — like delicate pearls knives at the end of his slender fingers. Each one tapered to a fine point, perfectly shaped, gleaming faintly in the low light just as his teeth.
You turned one hand palm-up, stroking down the center with your thumb. His fingers twitched in your hold, then curled — just slightly — as if they wanted to hold you back but didn't want to interrupt your in-depth study.
“You have such elegant hands,” you hummed, tracing from the base of his palm to the very tip of his middle finger.
You brought one clawed finger to your mouth, eyes never leaving his, and kissed the tip.
He whined. He, actually, whined.
His hips jerked slightly under you — not demanding, just a desperate twitch like his body wanted more of whatever this was.
And then you said it.
Soft. Unshaken. True.
“You are beautiful.”
Remmick’s breath hitched. Just a little.
You kissed the next fingertip. Then the next. Then slid one of his long, clawed fingers into your mouth and sucked, slow and hot, letting your tongue glide over the smooth underside.
He looked at you, ecstatic and confused at the same time. It was hard for him to understand how you could love such a monster.
You popped the finger out slowly, dragging your lips over the knuckle, and watched his face melt into something soft and overwhelmed.
Red eyes wide. Mouth open. Claws trembling.
And beneath it all, his cock was hardening, twitching against the fabric of his pyjama pants — aching, grateful.
A delicious thrill crawled down your spine.
“Touch yourself for me, Rem.”
Remmick’s breath caught. The glow in his eyes pulsed brighter.
His hands hovered uncertainly for a second — those long, pale fingers — and he looked up at you like he was asking permission with just his eyes.
His right hand slipped down his abdomen, past the trimmed patch of hair above his cock, and hovered over it — flushed, twitching, leaking. He was aching, and he hadn’t even wrapped his hand around it yet.
“Tease yourself like I would.”
He swallowed hard and untied the laces. You gave him a little room to let him pull his pants down below the curve of his butt, freeing his hard erection.
One claw traced down the line where thigh met groin, curving in toward the base of his cock. He shivered violently, muscles drawn tight as wire.
“Aw, look at you. Following instructions like a pro.” Your hand nestled at the base of his neck, playing with the dark hair. “What, trying to impress me?”
Without wrapping around it fully, he lets his fingertips glide along the underside — from the base, where the skin is taut and sensitive, all the way up to the tender head. The touch is featherlight, almost reverent. Just as you told him.
He lingers there for a moment, brushing side to side in slow, delicate touches. His breath hitches, then deepens — quiet but building, each inhale slightly shakier than the last.
But what really makes your breath catch is his eyes.
They’re locked on you now — riveted — his mouth slightly open, panting, but utterly entranced. His own pleasure is secondary. The true thrill is in pleasing you.
Being good.
“C'mon, stroke it.”
He did.
A long, slow pull from root to head, his breath catching, fangs bared with the effort of holding still. The red in his eyes was burning now — full-blown lust, desperation, devotion.
“Faster.”
He moaned your name and obeyed.
His hips trembled beneath the rhythm you ordered, stroking fast and tight, his abnormal fingers surrounding delightfully his shaft. You watched his stomach flutter, his thighs tense.
“Look at yourself,” you said. “Look at those deadly hands. Look what they’re doing for me.”
He glanced down at his hand wrapped around his cock, claws glinting, dripping with precome. His breath caught in his throat.
“I look—” he bit his lip, blood flowed, “—I look like a fuckin' whore.”
“You look perfect.”
He let out a strangled moan.
“Don’t come yet,” you warned, seeing his rhythm stutter.
He whined. “Please—please, I want to. Please let me come for you—please, I’ve been good—”
The wrist slows its movement, the thumb rubbing against the foreskin to hold back. His claws scratched light red marks around his thighs by accident, but he didn’t stop.
Your free hand rose to cradle his face, rubbing the blood from his chin.
His glowing red eyes are glassy now, struggling to stay open, flicking between your face and your mouth.
“Ma'am...kiss me,” he begs. “Please, need yer mouth on mine when I come. Want to fall apart in yer kiss, ma'am. Please.”
And it’s not performative. There’s no seduction in the way he says it. It’s raw.
You slid closer to his lap, giving him just enough space to continue touching himself, and leaned over his red-slicked lips.
“Fuck your hand, pet.”
When you finally press your lips to his — hot, open — he breaks for you.
He quickly regained control, squeezing and pumping himself rapidly, chasing the long-awaited orgasm and when the taste of iron blooming in his mouth as his fang accidentally nicked your tongue, he lost it.
With a loud cry, his whole body tensed, cock twitching in his own fist as he spilled across your t-shirts, thick and hot and messy. His legs shook, the free claws digging into his own thigh as aftershocks racked him.
And even after, when the tremors fade and his hand drops away, he doesn’t stop kissing you — desperate, sweet, clinging.
“Thank ya, darlin',” he purred between kisses. “Thank ya. Thank ya—”
In a world where night creature adoption centers dotted every city block like pet shops once had, it had become almost unusual not to own one. Whether it was a shade for companionship, a domesticated kelpie as a therapy creature, or a vampire—rare—nightlings were everywhere. They had been folded into daily life, marketed as living luxuries, symbols of status and style. You couldn’t walk three blocks without seeing someone cooing over their duskbeast or posing their feathered hellcat for likes on Instagram.
For decades, night creatures were hunted on sight. No trials, no containment—just cold, clinical extermination. Vampires were the most visible, but they weren’t alone. Kelpies drowned in dry tanks. Fairies were burned to ash in “containment fires.” Merrows were dissected for study under the flickering lights of whitewashed labs.
It was done under the guise of safety. Public protection. Clean streets and peaceful nights.
But people watched. And people remembered.
It started with the footage.
Blurry, shaky clips taken on contraband phones. Videos of people laughing as a werewolf hissed and begged. Images of black bags dragged into trucks. The limp hand of a nightborn child, fingers twitching with the last of its stolen strength.
They called it evidence. The government called it fabricated.
The protests started small—signs painted on old bedsheets, marches in the dead hours, flowers left on government steps. “They Bleed. We See.” but the movement grew faster than expected.
The government could no longer call it fringe hysteria, they had to call it a crisis.
But they didn’t want to concede. Not fully. They didn’t want to admit they’d been wrong.
So they compromised.
They stopped the killings.
Not because they saw personhood but because they saw profit.
Sanctioned containment was proposed not as mercy, but as an “ethical, manageable alternative to wasteful culling.” The motion passed in the midnight hours, slipped beneath the noise of another budget bill.
The bill wasn’t called the Night Creature Protection Act.
It was called the Domestic Integration Reform Initiative.
DIRI.
Ownership was encouraged, even expected—especially in cities where the rehoming shelters were “overburdened” and the euthanasia rate for unadoptables hovered quietly above 38% and so it all began.
But you didn’t want one.
Not a vampire. Not a fairies. Not a werewolf, not a dreamhound, not a thing that could look at you and feel and still not be considered a person.
So you made yourself a promise.
No night creature. Ever.
No matter how lonely you got. No matter how beautiful they were. No matter how often your friends said you’d be such a good match for a nervous one.
No.
You didn’t want obedience, you wanted choice.
You wanted to look someone in the eyes and know they were staying because they wanted to.
You had stuck to that.
For years.
Until you met Remmick.
The road to the adoption shelter cut through the forgotten edge of the city, where the concrete split in long, pale veins and the warehouses loomed like sleeping giants. Chain-link fences rimmed the road in either direction, hung with tattered warning signs and the quiet menace of barbed wire. Steam leaked from the gutters, pooling low and slow around the tires of passing cars like smoke that had nowhere left to rise.
You rode in silence, watching the landscape slide by, as your friend hummed under her breath in the driver’s seat. Her scarf was slung loose around her neck, fluttering when the breeze slipped through the open window.
She was smiling, excited. Her fingers tapped rhythmically against the wheel as she navigated the turns, already imagining the collar she’d pick out, the bed she’d set up, the first photo she’d post online with a caption like “Welcome to the family.”
You stared out at the ruins of the old freight yards, where the government once processed surplus creatures for destruction—before legislation had shifted, before public outrage had spilled loud enough across newsfeeds and city halls to change the system.
Your friend was one of the good ones, you reminded yourself.
Her family had marched for nightkind rights during the following round of protests. She had stood beside you at rallies. Her father had donated to shadow-lawyers trying to push protection bills through the House.
But now, here she was—smiling as she pulled into the shelter lot, ready to adopt her second creature, like she was visiting a petting zoo.
“You really need another one?” you asked, eyes on the road. Your voice was flat, tired before the conversation even began. “What about the kelpie one?”
She sighed. “My brother wanted one. But he’s too young, and I want him to take care of something that’s… safe. Something trained. Predictable. So I give it to him.”
You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you looked out the window, watching the different types of creatures that were dragged around the city tied to their obligatory collars and harnesses.
“And do you seriously need one?” you said it in an almost reproachful tone of voice, even though you didn't mean to but she caught it anyway and looked at you askance.
“You know I’m not like that,” she said softly. “You’ve known me since we were kids. You know my family fought for them. They’re safe because they serve.”
The truth hung between you like fog in the car.
She was right. They’d been spared mass extermination only by offering usefulness in return.
As the car rolled to a stop, you caught sight of the shelter building ahead: squat and windowless, flanked by metal fencing and dead trees. A faded sign out front read:
NIGHTKIND INTAKE & ADOPTION CENTER – UNIT 7
The letters were plain. Official. Cold.
The kind of wording that left no room for mercy.
You stared at the sign, a bitter taste rising in your throat.
Your friend cut the engine and glanced over. “You sure you want to come in?”
You didn’t answer right away. Your hand was already on the door handle.
“I’m sure,” you said quietly, entering in the shop before her.
The creatures shelter smelled like antiseptic and something worse—like despair that had dried into the grout. Like bleach failing to hide the scent of fear. It was clean, yes, but in that too-quiet, state-funded way—where the color palette was limited to grays and yellows that used to be white, where every sound was swallowed by concrete walls and cheap, humming fluorescents overhead.
The kind of place where silence wasn’t restful. It was resigned.
Your friend didn’t seem to notice. She was radiant with excitement, practically floating beside you as the shelter clerk led you both through the first corridor. Her coat flared at her hips, stylish and bright against the monotony, and her boots clacked like punctuation against the linoleum floor. She was already talking about names.
You watched as she leaned in closer to the clerk, nodding enthusiastically as he launched into a lazy explanation about temperament ranges and adjustment phases. He looked bored. She looked enraptured.
“Now,” the clerk said with a grunt, stopping at a wide door, “the real stuff’s in the back.”
The lock disengaged with a mechanical clunk. The door hissed open.
Your friend lit up. She practically skipped ahead, her heels clicking against the floor like applause. Her silk scarf fluttered behind her, slipping from her shoulders as she disappeared around the corner.
You watched it float down near a cell in the middle of the corridor, totally forgotten.
“You coming?” she called, her voice light, sweet, unaware.
You sighed, moving forward beyond the door and entering the new wing. There was something heavier about this hallway. The quiet wasn’t sterile anymore—it was strained. Like the space itself had learned to brace.
You bent to pick up the scarf, its fabric whispering across the floor.
And then another hand reached for it.
A pale hand.
Too pale.
You froze.
The fingers were long, elegant in a strange, haunting way but covered in small sores. And when you looked up, you saw him.
He was crouched in the shadows of a side cell, where the corridor turned at a sharp angle. The bars cut harsh vertical lines across his face, but you could see him clearly enough. His hair was dark and matted. His face was like his hands, with scratches and cuts scattered here and there that were trying to heal. But it was his eyes that held you there.
Blue-grey. Bleached pale, like winter skies before snow.
They weren’t feral. They weren’t angry. They weren’t anything you expected.
They were… sad.
You stared. He stared back. Neither of you moved. The scarf lay limp between your hands, caught in the moment like a truce.
Then came the crack.
A flash of motion.
The clerk slammed his truncheon against the bars, the sound sharp and brutal. The vampire jerked back like he’d been struck, mouth parting just enough to flash two small, pitiful fangs.
He whimpered.
Not a snarl. Not a growl. Not even the sharp hiss they all expected from his kind. Just a soft, broken sound—like a wounded dog too scared to bare its teeth. It cracked something in you.
“Don’t do that,” you snapped, voice low, tight with something you didn’t want to name. You stood up without thinking, your body angling instinctively between the cell and the clerk like a barrier.
He looked at you with a scoff, as if you were the one being unreasonable.
“Trust me, this beast is unstable,” he said, lazily spinning the truncheon in one hand, like it was just another tool. “People keep bringing him back here after a week or two. Always angry. Always panicked. Bit a guy once just for trying to pet him days ago.”
He jerked his head toward the vampire, who had retreated into the furthest corner of the cell. There was barely any light back there—just the dim bleed of fluorescence from the hallway—but you could still see him.
Still watching.
He’d curled in on himself in a way that didn’t look defensive, just… small. His knees drawn to his chest. Shoulders bowed. Arms wrapped around himself like they were the only warmth he’d ever known. The long, tattered sleeves of his issued shirt had worn through at the cuffs, and his bare feet were pressed flat to the concrete, toes curled like he didn’t quite trust the ground beneath him.
He didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. He just stared, like he was bracing for the next blow—only it didn’t come from the truncheon this time.
It came from the clerk’s next words.
“Another few weeks and I’ll get him out of my way once and for all,” the man muttered, tired and unbothered, like it was just the weather or paperwork. He leaned against the cell, tapping the baton absently against the bars. “Useless stock like that? We can’t keep him forever. Not worth the space.”
Your blood ran cold.
Not adopted. Not rehabilitated. Not transferred.
They’ll end him.
Some quietly sanctioned protocol. A needle. A bolt gun. The kind of solution they saved for animals no one wanted.
Your friend called your name from the other end of the hallway. She’d picked a fairies already—a small, doll-like thing with green eyes and perfectly combed hair.
You turned back one last time.
He hadn’t moved.
Still curled against the wall. Still watching.
But now his eyes were different.
Not just sad.
Hopeful.
Like somehow, he knew you weren’t like the others. That you saw something—someone—underneath the filth and the hunger. The raw, trembling bones of a person no one else had bothered to look for.
You left with your friend. Her new pet levitating securely at her side, encased in a pink collar and leash.
You didn’t sleep that night.
The shelter was quieter the next evening.
It stood at the end of the street like a mausoleum waiting to be filled. No birdsong, no passing traffic—just the slow grind of your boots on frost-slick pavement and the low hum of distant machinery behind reinforced walls. The sign out front was the same as yesterday.
You had barely slept. You’d spent the night pacing your apartment, drowning in silence. Every room had felt too full and too empty all at once, like a life you’d half-stepped out of. The image of Remmick—curled in the back of his cell like something exiled from warmth—wouldn’t leave you.
Not his face. Not his eyes. That look—raw, trembling, and quietly hopeful—had followed you into your dreams. And when you woke to the first colorless light of morning, you already knew.
You couldn’t leave him there.
Not in that cage. Not with them.
The clerk at the front desk barely glanced at you as you stepped inside, his face lit with the glow of a cracked tablet screen. The front office smelled of sterile citrus and overheated plastic. Somewhere in the distance, a muffled voice called out a unit number, followed by the sharp click of boots on tile.
You cleared your throat. “I’m here for one of the nightkind. The one from Cell 17-B.”
The clerk sighed. “What for?”
You raised your eyebrow, your jaw clenched. “Adoption.”
He continued to stare at the tablet, looking perpetually bored. “Which breed?”
“Vampire. Dark-haired. Blue-grey eyes. Cell 17-B,” you repeated, harder.
Recognition flickered in his eyes, and then something colder settled in his expression as he looked up at you. He leaned back in his chair, sighed, and said flatly, “The biter?”
You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.
He clicked his tongue and stood, muttering, “I hope you know what you’re doing,” before disappearing into the back.
You waited in the small metal chair beside the front desk. The air conditioning was too cold, the hum of fluorescent lights like a constant headache burrowed behind your eyes. A security camera in the corner buzzed faintly. Time moved differently here—thick, slow, and hard to swallow.
When the clerk returned, he had a clipboard in one hand and a data-slate in the other.
“Your name? We’ll assign him an owner record” he asked.
You gave it. He typed it in. The screen flickered blue for a moment, then green.
“You’ll need to acknowledge liability. He’s been flagged. Former owners returned him twice for aggression. You saw the notes yesterday, didn’t you?”
“I did.”
“Still want him?”
“Yes.”
He looked at you again then, really looked—like he was trying to gauge whether you were stupid, noble, or just hopelessly naïve. But he said nothing more. Just handed you the stylus.
You signed.
And the deal was done.
They made you wait in a different room—a release bay with heavy double doors and iron anchors built into the walls. The walls were gray, institutional, and bore the telltale scuff marks of boots and struggling creatures dragged in or out against their will.
When the door opened, it was not the creature who stepped through first, but two handlers in matte black uniforms. Between them, shackled at the wrists, bound in a collar and with a muzzle over his mouth, was the vampire.
Remmick, from what you read in his file.
His head was lowered, hair wet from you didn't know what. His posture was hunched, shoulders curled inward, as though bracing for a blow. He was thinner than you remembered—sunken in, fragile. His skin had the translucent quality of someone who had gone too long without nourishment, wounds that failed to heal properly.
But his eyes—
The moment they found you, everything changed.
They widened first in disbelief, then in something else—something too complicated to name. His lips parted, just barely, and his breath hitched like he hadn’t drawn air in hours.
You stepped forward. “Take those off.”
The handler frowned. “Protocol says he stays restrained until he’s secured on property. For your safety—”
“I don’t care about protocol. Take them off,” you said, louder.
There was a pause.
And then, wordlessly, one of the handlers knelt and undid the cuffs. The metal dropped from Remmick’s wrists with a soft clatter. The other loosened the muzzle, and it slid down his face like dead weight. The collar remained. They were not allowed to walk without it, or they would be considered "unowned."
You took a careful step forward, keeping your voice low.
“Remmick. That's your name, right?”
His head twitched slightly at the sound, as he recognised his name.
“Do you remember me? We saw each other briefly yesterday.”
No reaction. You were starting to get nervous. Maybe you'd misunderstood. Maybe he had no intention of leaving with you.
“Do you want to come home with me?” you asked.
That word—home—must have done something. His shoulders gave the smallest jerk, and his eyes narrowed, confused, as if trying to decode a word he’d never heard used without consequence. He blinked slowly, once.
Then, finally, he took a single step forward.
You didn’t reach for him. You just stood there, hands at your sides, letting him decide.
It was slow.
Tentative.
Like every motion cost him something.
But eventually, he crossed the last bit of space between you and you took the leash that was hanging from his collar and swinging in front of his body.
The walk out was slow. You kept your hand tight around the rope but you didn't pull or tighten it, you let Remmick decide the distance and pace at which to walk. He suddenly tensed up at the sound of a horn in the night. Every sound made him twitch. Every light made him glance over his shoulder. But he stayed beside you, clinging to his collar like a lifeline.
The front desk clerk didn’t say a word as you passed. But you saw the way he looked at Remmick—like something broken that should have stayed on the shelf.
You met his eyes.
And kept walking.
Outside, the cold air wrapped around you both like a sheet of glass. Your car waited at the curb. You opened the passenger door and helped Remmick in gently. He stared at the seat, then at you, as though unsure he was really allowed to sit.
“Go on,” you said softly. “It’s okay.”
He settled in slowly, limbs still unsure. You closed the door after him, circled to the driver’s side, and got in.
You hadn’t meant to linger in the doorway, watching him.
But there was something about the way Remmick stood there—just inside your apartment, arms curled close to his chest, eyes wide as he took it all in like a wild animal unsure if the trap was hidden in the warmth.
His clothes hung off him in layers of gray and brown—threadbare fabric that clung like a second skin of dust. He smelled faintly of old concrete and damp metal. You didn’t say anything about it. You just smiled softly and said, “You must be freezing. Let me run you a bath.”
The water steamed as it filled the basin—an clawfoot tub tucked into your tiny bathroom, old porcelain but nice and clean. You added a handful of the nicer soap you’d been saving for yourself, watching bubbles bloom over the surface like fragile clouds. The steam fogged the mirror. It felt quiet in there. Safe.
You loved your bathroom. It was the one place where you could relax and leave your troubles at the door. You hoped Remmick felt the same.
You stepped from the bathroom and saw him standing in the hall, silver-eyed and hesitant. The guilt of his position prickled—somehow, you felt less human for seeing him so stripped of fear, so entire in his insecurity.
"Come." You called to him, waving a hand to inviting him closer.
He blinked, then walked slowly across the lacquered floor.
When he reached the bathroom door and glimpsed the tub fully—steam rising like mist from a secret pond—he halted again. Regulators clicked in his mind. Hope, indecision, fear.
He cleared his throat, voice rough as gossamer. “…All of this—is it… for me?” His fingers brushed the rim of the tub.
You nodded. “Yes, of course.”
He stared at you. Then he asked, voice pointed at the bubble-laced water, thick with fragrance and light flicker, “How long can I stay?”
You blinked. “You mean...in the bath?”
But just nodded. He wasn’t looking at the water anymore. His eyes were on you now—direct, uncertain, fragile.
You swallowed, your throat suddenly tight. “…As long as you want.”
He blinked at that. Once. Twice. Like he wasn’t sure he heard you right.
Then he looked back at the bath. His hand lifted slowly—hesitating in the air like it was reaching into a memory—and he touched the rim of the tub, tracing the porcelain edge with his fingertips.
“Alright,” he said softly.
And then, without any preamble, he started to undress.
Right in front of you.
The motion wasn’t sultry. Wasn’t calculated. It was casual, automatic—like the idea of modesty didn’t register to him as something that applied. He pressed his thumbs into the waist of his pants, tugged them down inch by inch, exposing thighs pale as polished bone.
Your breath hitched when the room suddenly felt too small. Embarrassment flushed every inch of you. Your heart thundered. You bolted upright.
“There are towels… on the sink.” You coughed, voice tight, a little choked. “And, uh, soap’s already in, just—uh—take your time!”
You didn’t wait for a response. You backed out of the bathroom like it was on fire and shut the door with a little more force than you meant to.
Outside, your heartbeat was in your throat.
You leaned against the wall and let out a long, slow breath.
It was fine. Totally fine. He didn’t mean anything by it. He wasn’t flirting. He wasn’t trying to make you uncomfortable.
You headed to your bedroom and grabbed the loose, comfortable clothes that your ex-boyfriend left at your place without ever coming to pick them up. You'd never felt like throwing them away, especially since if he ever knocked on your door again, you didn't want to tell him you'd thrown them away. At least they'd have a use now, even if only briefly.
The bathroom light glowed beneath the door, soft and golden. You’d given him time. Enough to sit, to soak, to breathe. Enough to warm the chill from his skin and loosen the weight in his bones.
But eventually, you needed to make sure he was alright.
You raised your hand to the door.
Knuckles hovered for just a moment. Then—gently—you knocked.
“Remmick?” you said, your voice low so it wouldn’t startle him. “Can I come in?”
There was a beat of silence. Then you heard the soft splash of water shift, a towel rustle on tile.
And then—his voice. Throaty. Thin.
“Of course.”
You opened the door gently.
Remmick was standing with a towel around his waist, hair damp and curling slightly now that it had been washed. He wasn’t looking at you directly—just standing there, uncertain, his hands gripping the towel too tightly. His collarbones jutted out like fragile sculpture, a faint bruise still visible beneath one. Steam clung to his skin like silk.
He was very frail; you could see the bones sticking out too far, and his skin was an ugly, faded color. He had probably not been properly nourished in months.
He cleared his throat to bring your attention back to his face, and you mentally slapped yourself for being so indiscreet in your analysis.
“No need to be askin' me for permission.”
You blinked.
A chill moved through you—not because of his words, but what lay beneath them. The quiet resignation in them. The learned pattern.
“…I belong to ya now,” he added, quieter.
You wanted to tell him that you didn’t agree with the system. That he could choose to say no to anything that was being forced on him. That he wasn’t a slave. He was no longer human, but he was still a living being.
However, a speech like that could have thrown him into a crisis or pushed him toward behavior that would get him into trouble.
So you simply added:
“I will always ask your permission,” you said softly, stepping in with a folded bundle in your arms. “For anything involving you.”
He looked up at you then. The light caught his face at an angle that made his eyes look like bright rubies.
You offered the bundle out.
“Here,” you said. “Clean clothes. They’re probably a little big, but soft. Thought you’d be more comfortable for tonight.”
He hesitated for a long second—then reached out, fingers brushing the sleeve of the shirt with awe. He stared at it in his hands like he didn’t quite understand what he was holding.
“There’s a hoodie in there too,” you added. “And tomorrow, if you’re feeling up to it… we can go out. When the sun goes down.”
His eyes flicked up again.
You smiled gently.
“I thought we could go to one of the nice shops. You can try on anything you want. Choose what you like. It’s up to you.”
Remmick didn’t answer.
Not right away.
He stood there, half-dressed in steam and silence, holding soft cotton like it was treasure. His lips parted, but no sound came out. For a moment, you thought maybe he didn’t hear you—or didn’t believe you.
Then, finally, in a voice that cracked on the first word, he whispered:
“I can… choose?”
“Of course you can.”
Another pause.
“No one’s ever…” he began, but the words trailed off. His shoulders slumped a little, eyes glassing over—not with fear this time, but something closer to disbelief. Hope, maybe. Soft and shaking and half-buried.
His fingers dug into the hoodie at his chest. He looked down at it like he was afraid you can take it away from him at any moment. Take away that moment of happiness for your own personal enjoyment.
“I don’t really know what I fancy,” he said, almost apologetically. “Clothes, sure. I just… wore what they handed me. What they picked out.”
“We’ll figure it out,” you said.
He blinked.
You could see it in his eyes: the way the idea bloomed. Slowly, quietly. The way it tried to take root in soil that had never been made to grow anything. The shape of a life he’d never been allowed to imagine.
“Thank ya,” he said finally. Not performative. Not automatic. Just quiet. Real.
The first weeks Remmick spent in your home felt like living inside the slow thaw of an ancient winter. He moved quietly, like someone learning how not to disturb sunlight—careful around corners, lingering with purpose but not permanence. It was as though he was still bruised by the shape of captivity, carrying the echo of barred cells inside his bones, and every step he took beside you was a question: Am I allowed this?
He never asked for help, but soon enough he offered it. You’d wake in the morning to find the living room arranged: pillows fluffed, the coffee table wiped, dust erased from corners you hadn’t even bothered to see. Dishes cleaned before breakfast. Laundry taken in sets, towels folded and stacked neatly on a rack.
He never show off. But you could feel him: the way he hovered at the edge of chores, hesitant, not sure yet if it was his space. Eventually, he began to follow timid instructions—“If you’d like help, Remmick…”—and he nodded, like an apprentice afraid to claim the title, learning fast.
You still found him watching you when you weren’t looking. His eyes—those eyes of his, grey during the day, and carmine red at night—drifted from the hallway, peeking around doorframes or across the kitchen threshold as you moved about. Not because he distrusted you. Not in any way you’d ever make something for ill intent. But because he hadn’t been sure anyone was trustworthy before.
In those first days, his hunger stayed muted. You left blood packets outside his laundry room door like a ritual—gentle, hands gloved, voice soft: Here’s today’s pack. I’ll check back in a while. He never asked for more. He never even lingered at the door. He took it. Walked away. Waited.
Blood for him was life. A way of reconditioning a body that had known deprivation. You found him this way: perched on the corner of the bed after dinner, blood packet in hand, head bowed. Trying not to make the slightest noise.
Almost cute.
That afternoon, you came home with groceries, groceries for you, groceries for your evening at home, and within the crate, tucked under your arm, a fridge box for his blood sacs. You rested the box on the counter, half-inclined to set it aside and when you looked up you found him sitting on the other side of the counter.
His eyes darted toward the box in your hands. His nostrils flared, just a bit. A tiny betrayal of the need he was trying to suppress.
You lifted the sac with a gentle tilt of your hand. “You want another one?”
The question was casual. Offered like anything else you might ask a friend. But the moment it left your lips, his body tensed.
Remmick’s gaze dropped. Then, slowly, he lifted his eyes to meet yours. Not directly. Slightly to the side of your face. A habit, you’d come to learn. A softened way of looking without confronting.
His voice came out quiet, dry with shame.
“I… I don’t wanna be a pain, ya know,” he said. It cracked partway through the sentence, just a tremor. His hands twisted in front of him, fingers digging nervously into the hem of his sleeves. “It’s grand by me. You’re already too kind. No need to be spendin' any more on me.”
He tried to smile after that, and it was the worst part of it all. That broken attempt at reassurance—at making you feel better for what he needed.
That smile, half-curled and tight at the corners, said more than the words had.
The bag in your hand felt heavier than it should’ve.
You set it down gently on the counter, your heart tightening in your chest. You took a small step toward him—not too fast, not too close—just enough that he could see you fully now, without obstruction. His breath caught slightly, a barely audible inhale, like a reflex he hadn’t meant to make.
“Remmick,” you said, softly, as if trying not to disturb something delicate. “You’re not a bother. You’re not costing me anything that matters.”
He blinked, rapidly, like the words didn’t compute. His jaw worked—once, twice—as if he were trying to bite back a response before it escaped on instinct.
“I mean it,” you continued, your voice steadier now. “If you’re hungry, you tell me. That’s not something you have to earn.”
His hands fidgeted again. A slow, unconscious gesture—you recognized it now. Like a tic he used to keep himself grounded when the emotions were too much to handle all at once. When shame wanted to eat through him faster than hunger ever could.
“I’m fine with less,” he murmured. “I can go a few days… or even weeks, sure. I’ve done it before. I just thought—I didn’t want to seem ungrateful.”
You exhaled, slow and aching. “You’re not ungrateful. You’re just… used to people expecting you to apologize for being alive.”
That made him flinch. Not visibly. Not in a way anyone else would’ve noticed. But you saw it. A twitch at the edge of his eye. A small shift in his stance. The way he held himself tighter.
“I’m here to make sure you’re safe,” you said, “not to ration your comfort. You’re allowed to ask for more, Remmick. You’re allowed to want more.”
He stared at your hand. For a moment, you thought he might back away because of your proximity and walk away. But he didn’t. Instead, he let out the softest, weakest laugh you’d ever heard.
“That’s… really hard to believe,” he said. “But I’m givin' it a go.”
You nodded once. “That’s enough for me.”
And then you handed him the blood sac.
He took it this time.
Carefully. Reverently, almost. Like it was a gift he hadn’t known how to accept.
And when his fingers brushed yours in the exchange, cold and trembling, you didn’t flinch. You just held his gaze for a moment longer than before. To make him understand that you neither feared him nor disgusted him.
Then, you turned back to the fridge and started putting away the rest of the box like it was just another part of your day.
But in your peripheral vision, you saw him.
Still standing there. Still holding the sac. Still stunned, somehow, for your unusual behaviour.
From that day on, you offered aloud: “Do you want two or three tonight?” And he began answering: “Maybe three… if that’s okay.” And it always was. You made sure it was—tucking away guilt with each pack you placed, ensuring his body could begin to heal and finally breathe.
Remmick hadn't gotten physically close to you until that fateful night.
The hum of the TV filled the living room. You’d chosen something mindless—a late-night reality show with canned laughter and predictable drama, the kind of background noise that didn’t require your attention more than necessary.
Remmick sat at the far end of the couch, knees drawn up, arms tucked in the pajamas he had chosen himself at the store under your constant urging. He had started sharing your space, becoming more verbally present. He was no longer just a presence, but also a companion. Sometimes he even made suggestions. Small ones, sure, but always made on his own initiative and with pleasure.
He especially loved playing and singing, so you bought him a banjo, which he strummed every now and then, writing down the lyrics and chords in his notebook.
But not tonight, tonight he seemed to want to share the evening of TV with you.
You were halfway through an episode when the camera panned across a couple on-screen, nestled in a corner of a nursery. A small baby curled between them, cheeks round and flushed. The father kissed the child’s head. The mother held them close. It was simple, mundane. Affection dressed in soft cotton and domestic warmth.
And beside you, something in Remmick shifted.
You didn’t notice it at first. Just a faint change in how he held himself—shoulders rising slightly, eyes flicking toward the screen, then away.
The next moment, he wasn’t watching the TV anymore. He was watching you.
You felt it more than heard it—that brittle stillness that signaled something unseen was breaking open beneath the surface.
Remmick didn’t speak. Didn’t fidget. He just sat there, folded in on himself, like something inside him was twisting tighter and tighter with every beat of quiet that passed.
His eyes were wide and red, unfocused, like he wasn’t seeing the room anymore. Like his thoughts were somewhere else. And then, without warning, without a sound—
He leaned in.
It was slow. Hesitant. Not like a predator approaching prey. Nothing calculated or hungry in the movement. It was more like watching a wilted flower lean toward the last light of the day—weak, instinctive, a pull toward something it couldn’t name.
His cheek came to rest against your shoulder.
You froze, not out of fear, but surprise. You hadn’t expected it—not from him. For weeks, he’d kept a careful, respectful distance.
But now he was here, curled gently against your side, head pressed just under your collarbone, like a creature trying to relearn touch.
His body was trembling. Not violently. Just a faint, barely-there shiver—like he was holding in every impulse not to bolt. And still, he stayed there.
“Just a bit,” he whispered.
His voice was raw, barely audible.
Then, after a breath, you felt something else.
Air moved across your neck. Cool, unnatural.
His breath.
His lips parted.
You didn’t see it right away. You felt the shift first—the soft draw of muscle, a change in tension where his mouth hovered just at your pulse.
And then you saw them.
Fangs.
Not bared. Not flashing in threat. Just there—half-covered behind his pink lips.
Your body reacted before your mind could catch up.
Your hand rose to your neck, more from the tickling than anything else. But Remmick probably interpreted it differently.
He recoiled like he’d been struck, crawling away from you before you could say a word. His face twisted in confusion and something that looked horribly like shame.
“No—” he gasped, voice cracking. “I—I wasn’t—didn’t mean to—I wasn’t gonna bite ya, I swear it—”
His hands flew up like he expected to be grabbed, shoved, punished.
“I was just—just—” His breath hitched again. He backed away further. “I’m sorry.”
His knees touched the floor of the apartment, right in front of the sofa you were sitting on. Clawed hands covering his face, and then—you saw it.
He bit down. Hard.
Not on you.
On himself.
His fangs dug into the side of his thumb, teeth sawing through the flesh like he couldn’t tell the difference between punishment and pain anymore.
You moved forward on instinct.
“Remmick—”
But he was already biting harder, his other hand twitching as he tried to steady himself, nails raking down his arms like he couldn’t bear the skin he lived in.
“No, no, no,” he muttered. “Stupid. I’m stupid. Ye were kind and I— I ruined it—”
You caught his wrists gently before he could draw more blood and do more damage.
He didn’t fight you.
Just stood there, shivering, eyes wide and terrified.
You guided his hands down slowly.
And in that moment, you understood.
He was asking about being held. About being seen. About the terrible, unbearable yearning to be near someone who didn’t flinch from him like he was a monster.
“Remmick,” you said softly. You didn’t let go of his wrists. “You didn’t ruin anything.”
His eyes flicked up to meet yours—startled, desperate, disbelieving.
“I know you weren’t going to bite me.”
He opened his mouth like he wanted to argue, but no sound came out.
“I saw you,” you continued, your voice as gentle as you could make it. “I saw what you were trying to do.”
He shook his head slowly. “But ye—ye froze—”
“I was surprised,” you admitted. “It’s not the same thing as being afraid of you.”
That stopped him.
His lower lip trembled. His arms had gone stiff beneath your touch, but he wasn’t pulling away anymore.
He was listening.
“Next time,” you said quietly, “tell me. That’s all.”
A long, shaky silence passed.
Then he nodded—once. Barely.
And then he did something you weren’t ready for.
He pressed his forehead into your stomach and let out the smallest sound you’d ever heard from him.
A whimper.
Not from pain. Not from fear.
From the awful, weightless relief of not being rejected.
Your arms came around him slowly, your hand absentmindedly scratching the base of his head.
He melted into you like a creature whose bones had forgotten how to hold shape without comfort. He sagged against you, arms around your waist, breath hitching softly. Not crying—he didn’t make a sound after that.
But you felt it in him.
The tension giving way.
The hunger easing—not the one for blood, but the other one.
The one deeper than anything physical.
The need to belong.
And you held him.
As long as he needed.
The bond deepened like rot in the walls—not sudden, not loud, not even visible at first. It wasn’t something you could name when it began, just a presence. A feeling.
Remmick began to exist nearer to you, in ways that weren’t quite deliberate but not accidental either. His hand brushing yours when you reached for the same mug. The way his shoulder sometimes bumped yours when you passed too close in the kitchen, and he didn’t recoil—didn’t apologise.
You stopped keeping physical distance like a boundary and started doing it like a dance. Testing where closeness didn’t overwhelm either of you. Letting moments bloom and soften instead of snapping them shut with polite withdrawal. You noticed how, when you curled into a blanket, he curled with you. How his head would sometimes tilt and rest lightly against your shoulder, and then stay there.
Months passed.
And also his appearance started to change. Slow, but unmistakable.
The vampire who had once been curled in your laundry room like a broken thing was growing into himself.
His hair, once matted and dull, now shone in the light. You caught him once in the hallway mirror, gently running his fingers through it, lips parted in faint disbelief. He hadn’t seen himself like that in years. Maybe ever.
His body had filled out, too. The sharp angles of his ribcage softened. There was muscle on his arms now, not from effort, but from consistency. From nourishment. From safety.
He still moved quietly, but no longer with the crouched, skittish gait of someone expecting to be punished for every step.
And his fangs—once a source of fear, of tension, of held breath and flinching instinct—now brushed your skin in moments of affection.
He’d lean in as you passed on the stairs, nose nudging your collarbone, his lips ghosting over your neck—not biting, never biting—just being there. You’d feel the faint scrape of fangs against your shoulder when he laid his head on you, and he always pulled back after, embarrassed, whispering, “Sorry,” even when it hadn’t hurt.
You stopped finding excuses for liking it.
Sometimes, in the quiet hours—when the lights were low and the world had gone still—he’d curl into your side and fall asleep like that, arm flung over your waist, breathing shallow but real. He didn’t make a sound. He just rested against you like someone who had finally found a warm place to die and realized, to his own confusion, that he was living instead.
Everything seemed to be going well.
Until something changed.
It was cold enough outside that your breath fogged the air. The city had quieted down to its late-night lull—stores closing, streetlamps flickering, the distant buzz of someone’s late dinner delivery echoing across the sidewalks. You walked side by side without touching, but close. Always close.
That evening, you felt like going for a walk after getting home from work, and it had been weeks since Remmick had set foot outside the house. He didn't seem to particularly enjoy going out (also because of the strange looks he got), but when you reached the old park, you could see his shoulders visibly relax. He loved nature and the solitude of the night.
You also liked it there. The wildness made it feel private.
Remmick’s eyes wandered like a child’s, curious and quiet. The moonlight caught his face in glints—his long lashes, the soft shine of a smile on his lips. He didn’t look like something anyone should be afraid of. Not like this.
You sat on a low stone, the surface cold beneath you, and leaned back slightly to look at the sky. He stood for a while, then crouched beside your knee. His fingers brushed the grass.
The trees were tall here. Older than the buildings that surrounded the block, their trunks thick and gnarled with time. At night, they cast deep, comforting shadows—like guardians rather than watchers. And when the wind moved through their leaves, it made a soft sound, like breathing.
And Remmick shared the same millennia-old age. Perhaps that was why he seemed to feel so at ease.
The lampposts barely worked—only one or two flickered on after dusk. They made the whole place feel like it lived just outside of time.
Then, he broke the silence.
“I used to sleep outside, before they took me back,” he said quietly, not looking at you.
You turned your head, unsure what thread of thought had led him there. But something in his voice made you pay more attention than you usually already do.
Remmick didn’t speak for another minute. Then, so softly it barely rose above the creek, he said, “I tried not to need folks.”
Your heart gave a small twist.
“I used to think… if I acted just right, maybe someone'd keep me.” He tilted his head back, exhaling. “Me first owner was an old woman. She was very… precise. Gentle, but distant. She fed me, trained me to sit proper, speak proper. She even let me read in the evenings. But I wasn’t meant to ask for more. When I started lingerin' too long by her chair, or… talkin' too much, she got cold. One night, I fell asleep by her bedroom door. Next day, she brought me back.”
You didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
“She said I was exhaustin'.” His smile was faint, tired. “She said I was clingy. Said I needed too much.”
Your stomach knotted. You wanted to reach for him, but he kept speaking, and something about the way his voice emptied itself into the night stopped you.
“The next one was a man. He believed in structure. Obedience. He never hit me, but he never let me touch him either. Not even to help him with his coat. I remember once, after he had a nightmare, I went into his room without knockin' to see if he was alright. I tried to explain, but he said I was manipulat'n him. Called me creepy. He locked me out of the flat for the night, and the next, I was sent away again.”
You exhaled slowly. The moon was brighter now, painting the grass in pale silver. Remmick kept his eyes down.
“I stopped tryin' after that,” he said. “For a while, anyway. I tried to be the right kind of quiet. Didn’t know when it was alright to look at someone. Thought maybe if I watched closely enough, I’d learn when to speak. When to smile. When I was too much.”
You reached out then, slowly, and let your fingers rest against the curve of his hand.
“I tried,” he whispered. “I tried so hard to be what they wanted. Quiet, obedient, grateful. I didn’t even ask to be touched after a while—I just wanted to be in the same room. Thought that'd be enough.”
He turned to face you, finally. His eyes looked too big for his face, luminous in the dark.
“But I was always too much. Or too little. Too clingy. Too cold. Too hungry. Too strange, so I was.”
You swallowed against the tightness in your throat.
“They didn’t know what they wanted,” you said.
He smiled again, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “They didn’t want me. That was all.”
The wind shifted. A few dead leaves skittered across the path.
“You’re not too much,” you said, barely more than a whisper. “You’re human.”
“Not technically,” he said with a soft laugh.
“You know what I mean.”
You didn’t take your hand away. Neither did he.
You stayed in the woods for a while, talking about this and that. You told him the reasons why you had never wanted one of them — and the reason why you wanted him instead. The atmosphere, and his devoted attention, made you want to tell him everything. To get closer and open up in ways you couldn’t allow yourself.
You walked for a while, following the beaten paths, venturing into the small dense grove further ahead. Away from the city lights.
Remmick walked ahead for once.
You let him. Unclipping the leash from his harness. No one would see you, no one would report this improper behavior of yours.
He seemed to be looking for something with his gaze, shifting his head from side to side as you kept a respectful distance. Then, when he found it, his face lit up.
He turned toward you with a small, crooked smile. “Close yer eyes.”
There was no command in it. No expectation.
You obeyed before you knew you had decided to.
The darkness behind your eyelids was soft and strange. You felt vulnerable in a way that wasn’t frightening—like laying down trust in its purest, simplest form. You could hear him shift beside you, the gravel beneath his shoes crackling faintly as he turned toward you.
And then you felt it.
His hand, reaching out. His fingers hovered near yours.
Not grabbing.
Offering.
You opened your hand without hesitation.
When his palm finally met yours, the contact was almost nothing—just warmth, cool around the edges, a trembling stillness beneath the surface. But it was everything. Because it wasn’t just a touch.
It was pure and complete trust that you were giving him.
He led you a few steps deeper into the grass, toward the little clearing where the trees bowed back and let the sky in. You could hear the creek nearby. The night was full of quiet things—crickets, the rustle of leaves, Remmick’s breath.
“Alright,” he whispered. “Ye can look.”
You opened your eyes.
He’d led you to a place where the grass opened like a nest, and there—tucked into the curve of a mossy root—was a tiny cluster of white flowers. You recognized them immediately: moonblossoms. Fragile, delicate things that only opened at night.
He knelt beside them and picked one.
Carefully.
Like it was a sacred thing.
He stood again, approached, and without a word—tucked it behind your ear.
“There,” he said softly, fingers lingering near your cheek. “It matches the way ya glow.”
You laughed gently—because that was what you were supposed to do. That was how people responded to soft gestures, right?
But your throat was suddenly too tight.
His smile faltered. “Was that… weird? I just thought ye’d like it. I can take it off, I didn’t mean—”
You grabbed his wrist before he could pull away. Held it. Pressed your face in his open palm.
“Remmick,” you whispered. “You’re perfect.”
He blinked at you, startled. Blushed faintly.
And in that moment—his eyes glowing faintly under the moon, his mouth soft and uncertain, his hand brushed your cheek slightly—you felt it.
Like something cracked open in your chest.
The shift was subtle, but it roared through you: I’m falling in love with him.
Not kindness.
Not pity.
Not caretaking.
Love.
You were in love with the way he looked at you like you were the only safe place he’d ever known. With the way he was learning how to smile again. The way his fingers grazed yours when he thought you weren’t looking. The way he wanted to make you happy, even if he didn’t know how.
And gods, it terrified you.
You pulled back, turning your face away from his hand.
He frowned.
“…Did I do somethin' wrong?”
“No,” you said too quickly. “No, it’s not that.”
Then softer: “It’s me.”
He tilted his head, brows creased.
You stepped back another inch. Your skin ached where he had touched you. You could still feel the weight of that flower behind your ear.
You weren’t allowed to love him.
Not by law.
Not by society.
And not by the promise you’d made to yourself the day you first saw him, curled in that filthy cell like a broken thing. You had sworn you would never become one of them. You would never use him. Never blur the line.
But love… love had blurred everything.
“I can’t—” you whispered, mostly to yourself.
Remmick’s expression shifted—softened into something so heartbreakingly gentle.
“Ye don’t have to say nothin',” he murmured. “I know what we are.”
You looked at him.
Really looked.
And it shattered something else inside you. Because he meant it. He was trying to make it easier for you. Trying to protect you.
Even now.
Even when it hurt him.
You wanted to fall into his arms. You wanted to kiss him. You wanted to take his hand and run as far from the world as you could until the only thing left was the feeling of him, safe and warm and yours.
But you couldn’t.
So instead, you nodded, barely holding back the tears. And whispered the only thing you could manage.
“Thank you… for the flower.”
He smiled faintly.
But it didn’t reach his eyes.
And neither of you said another word on the walk home.
Relationships between humans and nightcreatures weren’t just taboo.
They were illegal.
The law was clear: no intimacy, no romantic involvement, no crossing the line. Not even implied affection. Nightkind existed under conditional protection—leased, trained, collared. They could serve. Be owned. Be fed. But never loved.
Never wanted.
The consequences for violating that law weren’t a slap on the wrist. They were sharp, immediate, and permanent. And Remmick… he had already been marked once. A returned “asset.”
You knew better than anyone that if someone reported him for behavioral aggression—or worse, for unauthorized companionship—he’d be taken away in hours. No trial. No questions.
So you never crossed the line.
The days piled up quickly. You dedicated a lot of time to work and your deadlines — partly to push away that knot in your stomach, partly because you needed to bring order back into your life (the one you had set aside to help Remmick recover).
As busy as you were, you didn’t notice the vampire’s response to your behavior, but he had begun to withdraw again. Afraid he had made — or might make — another misstep.
When you came home, he always tried to have everything ready and in place for bedtime. He no longer sought your touch, but his fingers would tremble and claw at the fabric of his pants whenever you passed too close or brushed against him by accident.
But he said nothing. He remained respectfully silent — so you wouldn’t have the chance to start a conversation he’d already heard a million times.
One evening, however, you decided to take a step that might finally drive Remmick out of your heart for good — and everything would go back to the way it was before.
You told him you had a date.
You tried to say it casually, just a murmur as you passed through the living room. You were barely even out of sight before you heard the change in the air.
Remmick’s breath hitched. You turned. He was sitting hunched on the couch, blanket half-fallen off his shoulder, face pale, eyes wide and dim.
You forced a smile. “I won’t be long.”
“…oh,” he said.
That was all.
But you felt it. Like something inside him wilted.
You left anyway.
You had to.
Some part of you needed to prove—to yourself, to the law, to your own racing heart—that you could still live within the lines. That Remmick was a creature you had saved, not a man you were falling in love with.
The man you met at the bar was nice. Polite. Handsome in a polished, too-clean kind of way. He talked about his job. His apartment. His own registered nightkind—one of the elegant, docile ones, purchased for status.
You laughed in the right places. Smiled when he touched your hand.
But as you stood together at the curb, shoes scuffing concrete, something began to twist in your chest. A wrongness. Subtle. Creeping. Like a stone lodged just behind your ribs.
He stepped in close.
Too close.
His hand brushed yours, then settled at your side like he had every right to it, and your spine stiffened under your coat. His scent—cologne and something warm and unfamiliar—clung to your skin. Then his hand slid further around your waist. His voice dropped, a murmur meant to be sweet, intimate.
“I had a really great time.”
And before you could answer—before you could step back, laugh it off, say me too and mean it without meaning more—he leaned in.
For a kiss.
It wasn’t hungry. It wasn’t aggressive. It was gentle, even tentative. But the moment his face moved toward yours, the moment you felt his breath brush your cheek, your entire body tensed like an animal beneath a spotlight.
No.
Something cold snapped through your gut. Not because of him—not entirely. But because this wasn’t it. This wasn’t who you wanted this closeness from. The thought made your throat tighten, made the moment feel strange and unreal.
But just before his lips could touch yours, an arm wrapped around your neck from behind, and you were yanked away from your date in a sudden jerk.
You landed hard against a cold chest, your back pressed into something solid and trembling. Arms locked tight around you. An embrace—not tender, but possessive. Shielding. Terrified.
Remmick.
You knew it was him before your brain caught up to the moment. The chill of his body. The way he pulled you in, arms around your neck, one hand splayed flat across your stomach like a barrier.
He was shaking.
Not with fear.
With fury.
You could feel it rolling off him in waves—hot and icy at once, a storm under skin. His breath came fast, sharp through his nose. You turned your head just slightly and saw the way his eyes had narrowed —two bright red discs lit by something primal locked on the man in front of you.
Lips peeled back. Fangs bared.
Like a wolf guarding a mate.
“W-What the fuck—” your date staggered back. “Is that—is it yours?!”
You didn’t answer right away. You couldn’t. Your heart thundered in your chest, not from fear, but from the sheer violence of the moment. Not violent in action—Remmick hadn’t hurt anyone—but in presence. In the way he loomed behind you, wrapped around you like armor.
His fingers twitched against your side, and you realized then: he was waiting. Not for permission to attack—but for you. For your reaction. For confirmation that you were okay.
“…yes,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper. “He’s mine.”
Your voice shook.
Your date scoffed and took another step back, already shaking his head. “You should have him collared if he’s gonna act like that in public. I could call enforcement, you know—”
“There’s no need,” you interrupted, faster this time. “It’s my fault. I forgot to feed him before I left. He… he gets anxious. I’ll take him home now.”
You didn’t wait for more. You just turned, guiding Remmick with you, his body still taut and coiled around yours. You opened the car door with one hand, and he followed wordlessly, slipping into the passenger seat like a storm being ushered into a bottle.
The ride home was quiet.
Your hands shook on the wheel from the sheer weight of what had just happened.
And beside you, Remmick sat curled into himself. His posture hunched, head bowed, one hand gripping the hem of his hoodie like he might unravel it.
He looked broken.
Ashamed.
You pulled into the drive, turned the engine off, and turned to him—but before you could speak, he did.
“I’m sorry.”
His voice was barely a thread.
You stared at him, then the fury came.
“What the hell were you thinking?!”
Remmick flinched, taking a step back. His jaw clenched. His mouth opened. Closed.
You kept going. You couldn't stop. Your brain was spinning, your heart was pounding against your ribcage.
“If someone had called the police—you could’ve been taken—do you understand that?! You could’ve died! I wouldn’t have been able to stop it—you’d be gone, Remmick!”
His eyes widened. His shoulders curled inward. His voice came out small, quiet.
“I didn’t mean to… I wasn’t tryin' to be scary. I just… I saw him that close to yer face, and I—I didn’t think. I didn’t even know I was running until I had ya.”
You shook your head and got out of the car without looking back. You knew Remmick was following you back into the house.
“I'm sorry if I—I scared ya. Y'know I would never hurt ya!”
You kept walking. You didn’t want to listen to him. You needed to calm down. But before you could take another step out of the apartment hallway, his claws wrapped around your wrist, forcing you to stop your escape.
“Please… please don’t be angry with me.”
You stared at him. Breath caught in your chest.
You ran your free hand through your hair, letting out a loud sigh. You hadn’t meant to let the words slip out. They came out on a breath, caught in the thick silence of the room like an echo you immediately regretted.
“God,” you murmured, voice thin, “I don’t know what to do with you.”
You sighed. Loud. Tired. Overwhelmed—not by him, never by him.
But Remmick didn’t hear the fear in your voice. He didn’t hear the heartbreak. He only heard the sentence.
And it shattered him.
He flinched like you’d struck him.
His whole frame tensed, and then he dropped—just dropped—to his knees with a breathless panic, his hand came off your wrist like you burned it with your skin.
“No! No, please—don’t—don’t send me back!” he cried, eyes wide, face crumpling into desperation. “I can do it right this time, I swear, I swear I will—just don’t—don’t give up on me, please—”
Your eyes widened. Confused by his reaction. Your heart fractured.
“I’ll behave, I’ll stay quiet—I was bad, I know, I shouldn’t have gone out—I’m sorry, just punish me if ye have to, just don’t abandon me—please—”
He was trembling, folding in on himself, hands splayed on the floor like he was trying to ground himself in the floor of your apartment so that it couldn't be dragged away. He was breathing too fast. His shoulders shook with the effort of holding in tears, because he’d learned not to cry out loud. Even that had been trained out of him.
And you—
You dropped to your knees beside him, the motion swift and wordless, driven by instinct more than thought. One hand went to his cheek, guiding his face up to yours, the other curled gently over his shoulders. His skin was cold, but his panic was burning.
“Remmick,” you said, voice breaking around his name. “No. No, no, no, listen to me—baby, please, look at me.”
His eyes snapped to yours. Wide. Shining. Desperate. And it gutted you.
“I’m not angry,” you whispered. “I’m not sending you back. I’m never sending you back.”
His lips trembled. He didn’t believe you. Not yet.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” you said, brushing a tear from his cheek with your thumb. “I was scared. Not of you—but for you. I don’t know what I’d do if they took you away. That’s what I meant. That’s all I meant. I didn’t choose the right words and I’m so sorry.”
He was still shaking, still clinging to disbelief like it was the only thing that had protected him for years. He tried to apologize again, stammering, but you stopped him—gently, firmly—with your fractured words.
“I can’t lose you.”
That word hung in the air—thick and raw and real.
You leaned in, pressing your forehead to his, your breath soft between you.
“I’m the greedy one,” you whispered. “Because I want you. Because I keep thinking of you. Because I’ve fallen in love with you.”
His breath hitched.
“And it’s okay if you don’t feel the same,” you whispered, your voice threading between the silence and his heartbeat. “I’ll never force you to do anything you don’t want to. I’ll keep protecting you. I’ll keep caring for you, no matter what—”
You didn’t get the chance to finish.
Remmick’s lips found yours before the next breath could pass.
He kissed you—hard, desperate, like the truth between you had finally split open and neither of you could survive keeping it buried anymore.
His hands tightened gently against your back, and your body answered before your mind caught up, leaning into him like you’d been waiting for this touch your entire life.
You let him pull you against him, mouth devouring yours like he’d been starving for it since the first moment you’d touched him and not been afraid.
The world stopped narrowing to logic. It bloomed around sensation.
You had barely caught your breath from the kiss—your heart still fluttering wildly in your chest, your fingers still curled in the fabric of his shirt—when he pulled back just enough to look at you. Really look.
His eyes were wild with disbelief and something rawer, something almost wounded in its hope.
But then, slowly, his mouth softened into a smile—wide and crooked and so heartbreakingly sincere it made your chest ache.
And then he laughed.
Not loudly. Not mockingly. But stunned.
“For heaven’s sake, darlin',” he whispered, his voice rough with emotion, eyes shining as he leaned closer, “ye should’ve told me months ago.”
His hands cupped your jaw like you were something fragile and holy. His lips brushed against your cheek, then the corner of your mouth, then lower—trailing to the base of your jaw where he kissed you once, twice, then lingered, the warmth of his mouth sending a shiver down your spine.
“What the hell were ya waiting for?” he murmured against your skin, the words half-laughed, half-confessed.
You couldn’t speak. Your throat was too full. Your hands slid up his back hair, clutching at him with something between relief and disbelief, like now that you’d opened the floodgates, nothing would ever be the same again.
He pulled you on his lap—arms wrapping around your waist with the kind of desperate reverence that said I need you close or I’ll fall apart. And then, quieter, his lips still against your jaw:
“I love y'too,” he breathed. “So fuckin' much.”
It came out cracked, like he was afraid it would break if he said it too loud. But he said it anyway.
You touched his face with careful hands, your thumbs brushing the soft hollows beneath his eyes. His skin, always cool, seemed to flush beneath your fingertips—not with heat, but with something just as alive. You tilted your head, searching his expression, trying to decipher the look in his eyes.
There was too much of it—too much feeling. Too much need.
“Are you sure it’s not just gratitude?” you whispered. The question came out too small, too soft. Your heart bared itself in the silence that followed, every beat echoing like footsteps in a chapel.
His eyes darkened—not with sadness, but with something else entirely. They burned low and rich, like embers finding oxygen, igniting from within. The red hue bled through the pale blue of his irises like spilled ink in water. He blinked once. Slowly.
And then he moved.
You gasped as his hands gripped your hips—not rough, but firm, possessive, grounding. His fingers curled against you, claws barely grazing the fabric at your waist, not threatening, just present. He pushed you gently, deliberately, until your body hovers over his and your hips are perfectly aligned — pressed against each other. Your legs wrapped around his waist, his legs neatly positioned beneath him.
He held you down against him with one hand behind your neck and an arm wrapped around your waist, chest to chest, breath against breath.
His voice was a low growl in your ear, but it wasn’t angry—it was honest. A deep, raw vibration of restraint and need wrapped in reverence.
“Gratitude?” he repeated. “Y'think this is just gratitude?”
The space between your bodies was gone. You could feel him—every line of him—solid and real. The hard, undeniable form of his cock pressed against your thigh through clothes that suddenly felt like they barely existed. Your breath hitched again, this time from the sudden pulse of heat that spiraled low in your belly.
“Do ya have any idea what ye’ve done to me?” Remmick's mouth closed over the curve of your ear, making you shiver and clutch his hair tightly. His warm tongue licked and wetted your skin, and you’re sure that something else between your legs was slowly getting drenched too.
“I was a ghost before ya. Not just locked up in that place—they’d already buried me inside meself. No one ever saw me. They wanted obedience, silence, something that smiled when fed and vanished when ignored. And then ye—”
His nose brushed against your temple, and you could almost feel his lips trembling slightly against your cheek as he continued.
“Ye treated me like I was real. Touched me like I mattered. Ye let me want things. Feel things. Ye were gentle. I’d follow ya into sunlight if it meant one more second being yers.”
Your breath caught. Your heart raced.
His voice, laced with fierce devotion and vulnerability, reached into the deepest, quietest corners of your heart, lighting fires you didn’t know were waiting to be ignited.
He pulled his head back to look you in the eyes. He looked desperate, eager to make you understand.
“Please don’t call this gratitude. It’s love. For ya. All of it is for ya.”
And without waiting any longer, you lunged forward, your mind blinded by a sudden impulse you could no longer contain. You tilted Remmick’s neck, your fingers tangled in his soft hair, and pulled him toward you with a firm, almost possessive force to devour his lips.
You felt his body respond beneath your touch: a slight tremble, a muffled sigh that turned into a soft moan, almost a whisper of surrender. His lips, soft and warm, gave way to yours as he held you balanced against him, moving his hips in small, quick thrusts.
His lips parted slightly, silently inviting your tongue in. You felt his breath deepen and slow as his mouth closed around yours gently, as if wanting to suck away every thought and hesitation.
His words slipped against your lips like a whisper filled with devotion, each syllable soaked in an almost sacred sweetness.
“Me mistress is so sweet,” he murmured in a low, vibrating voice, his eyes shining with an intense light as he looked at you like you were the center of his universe. “So carin'. Think so much about me well-bein'.”
His breath grew deeper as he lifted you up so your feet were back on the ground and he was kneeling before you. The promise in his voice became palpable, almost tangible.
“Let me make ya feel good,” he continued, the determination to make you happy clear in every word. “I’ll be so good, darlin'.”
He grabbed the waistband of your elegant pants — the ones you had carefully chosen for someone else and that were clearly driving him crazy. You felt enveloped by a wave of emotions — tenderness, desire, and a warm, comforting certainty that only he could give you.
“Ask me. Like a good boy.”
You looked down at his lips parting into a dumbfounded, fucking smile, his sharp teeth on full display.
“Ride me face, love. Ya won’t regret it.”
You nodded slightly, letting Remmick pull down your clothes all at once with a tug. You were almost certain you heard a rip, but you didn’t want to think about it — not when Remmick’s face and tongue were desperately reaching for your center.
You pressed a palm against his hair and tilted his face enough to free yourself above his mouth, one leg straddling his shoulder to keep yourself steady.
His name rang on your lips like a sacred whisper, a spell lost between his cold breath and the racing beat of your heart. His tongue slid slowly and surely, drawing soft, delicate curves over your clit, exploring every millimeter with a precision as sweet as it was voracious. Every small movement was a caress that lit fires beneath your flesh, and when he lightly nibbled your thighs, an electric shiver ran through you, making you spread your legs just enough to let him turn, inviting him to discover new corners of your desire.
A cool hand rested on your ass, the contact featherlight, as the heat flowing between your legs grew, palpable and enveloping. His rough beard caressed your skin in perfect contrast, sending shivers down your spine. You felt his warm breath as you brought your hips closer to his mouth, as if his breath could merge with yours, warm and protect you. Your muscles tensed, your senses sharpened, and time seemed to slow around you.
Then, suddenly, his tongue invaded you with a sudden thrust, making your head spin and erasing all other thoughts. You felt yourself engulfed in waves of pleasure as he whispered words that intertwined with the heat enveloping you. “Ye’re incredible,” “So perfect,” “Let me lose meself in ya.” His other hand, the one not pressing you against his mouth, rose slowly, like a promise, and began to move over your body with sweet determination. His fingers traced light, bold lines on your clit, like an artist painting his most precious work, and each caress was an invitation to let go, to immerse yourself completely in that moment of intimacy and pleasure.
“Remmick…Remmick, God,” you murmured, your voice broken by desire, an echo that shattered your soul.
“Gimme everythin', darlin',” he begged you, his mouth hovering just to touch yours, “ye taste so good.”
His fingers curled and rubbed against your bundle of nerves and the orgasm hit you in waves, making you cling to his shoulders and head to keep from being dragged away.
The whorelike moan of pleasure that escaped your lips echoed through the hallway, but you didn't have the strength to be ashamed. Your legs trembled under your weight, but Remmick was already there, supporting you and sliding you back down, straddling his hips.
His lips covered you in soft kisses, scattered like rain across your face, while his fingers dug into your hips with gentle urgency, holding you close. You felt the cold of his skin against yours, his breath brushing over you in deep pants—a symphony of longing and intimacy.
Your thighs parted gently, embracing the sides of his body, as your hands tangled at the nape of Remmick’s neck, pulling him softly toward you for another slow kiss, heavy with promise.
His whimper, lost between your lips, vibrated like a whisper of deep pleasure, and he held you with a strength that felt like he wanted to fuse your souls into a single breath.
You could taste yourself on his lips, and it made you smile without even realizing it.
Your hands began to wander downward, fingers brushing along the waistband of his clothes, tentative but steady. But before you could go further, Remmick’s lips pulled away, just enough to speak, and a faint growl rumbled from deep in his chest.
“Ye don’t have to,” he murmured, breath catching. “I’m great. I don’t need—”
You tilted your head, meeting his gaze with a calm you didn’t quite feel, false sadness outlined all over your face. “You don’t want to fuck me, Remmick?”
His breath faltered, and he closed his eyes as if the weight of the question undid him.
“Jesus, darlin',” he whispered, almost broken, “there’s nothing I want more than this. Than ye.”
You leaned forward, brushing your nose against his. “Then shut up.”
Remmick became docile, remaining still as his hands gripped your hips tightly, anchoring you to him. You gently and confidently sank your hands between his legs, pushing apart the barrier of his jeans and firmly grasping his thick, throbbing cock. A muffled moan escaped him as he clamped his lower lip between his sharp teeth, his head tilting back slightly, his chest heaving in ragged breaths to contain his impatience.
“Fuck…”
You felt the thick, moist tip press against your entrance, and for a moment it felt like the world stopped.
Then, slowly, painfully, inch by inch, you let go, sinking into his length. The sensation was dizzying, a sweet and powerful relaxation that filled every corner of your body, as if every fiber craved that union. Your flesh welcomed him eagerly, sucking him in with an ancient and necessary intensity.
A low, muffled moan escaped his lips as you reached the bottom, the sensitive tip of his penis gently resting against the deepest part of you, a contact that sent both of you shivering.
“You feel so good, darlin',” he gasped, his words broken as he nuzzled his forehead into your shoulder. “So perfect around my cock.”
His tongue slowly slid down the side of your neck, leaving a trail of hot shivers that made every fiber of your body vibrate. Then, with malice and desire, his teeth barely grazed your artery, that light, dangerous touch that made your heart race, as a thrill of pleasure and tension mingled within you.
With a decisive movement, his legs spread further, forcing your thighs apart, granting him complete access. He sank into you with a new, profound depth, as if wanting to melt completely inside you, awakening every hidden corner of your desire.
His name escaped your lips spontaneously, a bold, shameless moan that was lost in the air, filling the room with that intimate, burning confession.
Before you could truly grasp the full force of his movement, his hips snapped upward with sudden, almost ferocious force, echoing the sound of his skin slapping against yours—a wild, primal rhythm that saturated every sense.
The pleasure that washed over you was so intense it dazzled you, igniting your nerves and vibrating every nerve beneath your skin. His thrusts were swift and precise, penetrating you with a consistency that made your heart race.
“All fuckin' mine...yes...No one else gets to see ye like this. Not that bloody prick...not any other loser. No one. Just me...”
Remmick's muffled moans and whimpers mingled with the incessant sound of skin against skin, overriding every other sensation, and his head rested close to your ear, his hot, labored breathing a whisper of need and adoration that made you feel desired like never before.
“R-Rem....Remmick—”
Your voice broke as he tilted his hips just enough to grind his pelvis against your swollen clit.
“Aye, just like that, sweetheart. Say me name. Tell me what a good boy I am for fuckin' ye so well.”
“My precious boy...” You lowered your head into his neck, hugging him tightly as you tried to follow his movements with the new orgasm slowly approaching. “I'm close...So close...you're doing so good...”
His muscles tensed beneath you as your walls gripped him tightly, his hands digging firmly into your hips as his body trembled with an almost painful intensity.
“Come on, love. I'm right here. I got ye. Let me feel ye come 'round me cock, please. I'm beggin' ye...”
Your body responded with a deep shiver, a wave of heat emanating from your core, expanding and enveloping you, making you gasp for breath. Your nails dug into his back as a strangled cry escaped your lips, your mind clouded only by the sensation of being completely possessed and loved.
His moans, now deeper and more vibrant, mingled with yours in a symphony of pleasure and abandon. Remmick trembled, his body tensing as he reached his climax, and you felt his cum invade you, a fire that united you in an indelible bond.
You remained like that, clinging to each other, your hearts beating in unison, your breathing wheezy and your bodies filled with a primal sweetness, leaving only the two of you, wrapped in that fragile, fierce intimacy.
