y’all i just had the worst week of my life. like literally i am not even joking. my ex embarrassed me in front of people, i missed my biology exam because i was oversleeping, i just experienced bullying because of my ex (like wtf, whats wrong with him? like wasn’t it already enough to emotionally abuse AND CHEAT ON ME in our relationship?), one if my closest friends LEFT ME BECAUSE SHE WAS SUDDENLY CRUSHING ON MY EX???, my grades are getting worse AND on top of that i have so many bills to pay it’s not even funny anymore. atp who prayed for my downfall?
ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ᴅᴏᴍᴇꜱᴛɪᴄ!ᴘᴏꜱꜱᴇꜱꜱɪᴠᴇ!ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ x ᴍᴏᴅᴇʀɴ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ
ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴘᴏʀɴ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴘʟᴏᴛ, ꜱᴍᴜᴛ, ꜰʀᴇᴀᴋʏ-ɴᴇᴇᴅʏ-ᴏʙꜱᴇꜱꜱɪᴠᴇ-ᴘᴀᴛʜᴇᴛɪᴄ ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ, ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛ ꜱᴜʙ ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ, ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛ ᴅᴏᴍ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ꜰᴇᴍᴀʟᴇ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ʜᴜᴍᴀɴ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ᴍᴏᴅᴇʀɴ ᴇʀᴀ, ᴏʀᴀʟ (ꜰ ʀᴇᴄᴇɪᴠɪɴɢ), ᴘ ɪɴ ᴠ, ᴍᴏᴀɴɪɴɢ, ᴡʜɪɴɪɴɢ, ᴘʀᴀɪꜱɪɴɢ, ᴏʙꜱᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴ, ꜱᴛᴀʟᴋɪɴɢ(ᴋɪɴᴅᴀ?), ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ, ᴜɴᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛ ꜱᴇx, ꜱᴡᴇᴀʀɪɴɢ, ᴇxᴘʟɪᴄɪᴛ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ, ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛ ᴅɪʀᴛʏ ᴛᴀʟᴋ.
[Also, English is not my first language]
ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ: 6K
It's been a shitty day. There's no other way to say it.
You started with a flat tire, then the usual blackout at the store forced you to manually enter every receipt, with your boss breathing down your neck at every minor mistake. The boiler gave up the exact moment you walked home and now… now it’s raining.
But not the slow, lazy kind of rain that makes you want to curl up on the couch with a book and a cup of tea. No, it’s raining like the sky is serving a sentence.
The wind howls like a dying animal, crushed under the weight of the storm, shaking the hedges and trees with force—something you find strangely hypnotic. The rain lashes fiercely against the kitchen window as you stare through them.
At least the house is quiet. You made yourself canned soup—the dinner of the desperate—and swallowed it standing up, leaning against the counter, without even turning on the TV.
Your cat weaves between your ankles, rubbing itself, searching for food to satisfy its greed.
You bend over and scratch behind its ear while pouring the contents of the wet food into the small ceramic bowl on the floor.
You were about to stand up and grab some dry food when a dull thud breaks the roar of the rain. Then another thump follows. The metallic clang of trash bins tipping over.
You freeze. It’s not the first time this has happened—there are raccoons and stray animals around, although lately they've been rare.
Slowly you set the can down on the trash and walk into the hallway. The government-issued rifle hangs above the door, not out of paranoia. From protection. From them.
It wasn’t an explosion. Nor an invasion or a scientific breakthrough, like in the movies.
It was a slow accumulation of evidence. An escalation of “isolated incidents” too similar to ignore. Unexplained disappearances. Blood-drained bodies, animals reduced to carcasses in the suburbs. And then the videos: grainy, shaky, filmed with cell phones in the dead of night. Eyes that glowed too bright in the dark, shadows moving against the laws of nature, and smiles full of fangs.
At first, it seemed like a prank. A joke.
Then they started arming themselves.
The creatures of the night—vampires, werewolves, spirits, hybrids never classified—had always existed, only they had known how to hide for centuries. But the era of total surveillance shattered that fragile balance. Technology had discovered them and humans, predictably, responded with fear.
And with fear came solutions. Special patrols, UV ray weapons, sacred barriers, identification serums.
And above all, the Custodians: government and paramilitary groups licensed to hunt, contain, or eliminate every anomaly.
Officially, it was for collective safety.
Unofficially, it was a cold war.
Because humans had never truly accepted that they were no longer the only species at the top, and the creatures of the shadows… had never truly forgotten what the world was like before.
So the government equipped the population with weapons to counter these creatures if needed, and the number of paranormal events drastically dropped.
Your fingers tighten around the rifle’s handle, and you load it with a familiar motion. The metallic click rings loudly in the stillness of the house.
You open the front door, and the cold, wet air hits you full force. You pull your jacket tighter around you, looking down the alley beside the house. The bins are overturned, the open bags spilling their contents across the driveway. The streetlamp’s light flickers in the rain, making everything blurry and trembling.
The distant sound of sirens piques your curiosity.
You take a step forward, stepping down from the porch, then freeze again.
At first, you don’t see it.
You hear it.
Another thud to your left. You look toward the small tool shed in the garden and frown. The door was closed.
Too well closed.
You know that door. It’s old, it sticks, and you always leave it ajar so you don’t have to force it every time you need a trowel or a bucket.
And despite the strong wind, it stayed magically shut.
You feel a chill slide down your back.
You advance with the rifle gripped tightly in your hands, the barrel pointed ahead as you move in that direction. Your heart pounds hard but your hands stay steady. You’ve learned to keep panic at bay.
The grass beneath your shoes is soggy from all the water; every step makes a wet squelch. Your breath condenses in front of your mouth.
When you reach the door, you press your ear to the wood but hear nothing. Not even a breath.
With a sharp motion, you fling the door open. The wood creaks and hits the inside of the shed, and in the confusion, you see eyes shining in the dark and something reflexively bolts forward.
The first shot rings out in the night, echoing, and hits the back of a tin barrel. You’re about to reload when you see him emerge from the shadows. Kneeling.
Hands raised, palms open, eyes wide.
“No! Please! Don’t shoot!”
At first, you think it’s just a homeless person, maybe a drug addict or drunk who ended up in your garden, but then, in the dim glow of the outside lights, you notice more.
The hands are long, the nails too sharp. The skin pale as wax, blotched with blood. The neck stiff, the jaw clenched as if trying to contain unspeakable pain. And the eyes. When he realizes you won’t shoot, he raises them just slightly. They are glossy behind the wet hair falling over his forehead, but a type of red that could only belong to one of them. A creature of the night. A vampire.
“Stop right there!” you shout, clicking the magazine threateningly. Your voice is sharper than the rain pelting down on you.
You see him bend slightly over himself, knees scraping the grass as he inches forward, letting out a wet, deep sound, like he’s drowning.
“I-I didn’t mean to frighten ya. There was nowhere else! I'd have left… I just wanted to hide 'til—” he stammers, shoulders tensing as the police lights begin to color the horizon red and blue. They had probably heard the shot.
You don’t let anxiety take hold and don’t look away from the dangerous creature before you. He’s on your property now, and who knows how long he’d been hiding in the shed. They would ask questions, interrogate you for hours.
As common as those creatures were, so were the people who protected and hid them. And the system certainly didn’t treat them differently once they found out.
“Shit…” you whisper, your finger trembling on the trigger.
“I beg ya. Let me stay 'til they're gone. I won’t harm ya…” he continues in a whisper so low you have to strain to hear, as if he fears the Custodians might hear even through the wind and rain. “I swear on everythin'… on everythin' I've got left. Please, just for tonight. Don’t tell them I’m here.”
Each word is a cough. When he tries to move, you see one leg visibly tremble. His voice breaks on a sob that doesn’t even sound human.
You swallow hard. Instinct tells you to shoot him, to finish him before the Custodians find him.
But looking at him—so broken, so different from every story you’d heard or seen about vampires—you wonder what you’re really seeing.
Not a predator. Not a monster, at that moment.
Just a being close to his end.
“Move.” You say, rifle raised. “Inside. Before they see you.”
He looks at you as if he doesn’t understand.
“What?”
“You heard me. Inside. Now.” The sirens in the distance are getting closer. Time is running out.
The creature drags himself, almost crawling. Each step a groan, a test of endurance. His legs barely hold him; his face is contorted in pain. When he crosses the threshold of your house, he collapses in the hallway, his back against the wall, the rug slowly stained by the blood leaking from his leg. He stays there, without even the strength to turn toward you.
You slam the door shut.
The lock clicks. Two turns. Then silence, almost.
Now the rain is just a muffled sound against the windows.
You feel droplets drip down your hair and neck but don’t bother brushing them away.
Out of the corner of your eye, you see your cat peek out from the kitchen and instantly flare up when it fixes its yellow eyes on the man. It emits a low, threatening hiss, like a little dragon. Its fur bristles and tail puffs before it leaps and disappears toward the bedroom as if it had seen the Devil himself.
The vampire barely lifts his face, cracked lips curling into something that might have been a smile.
“Looks like I've got a bit of charm for 'em.” He murmurs, voice trembling.
You don’t laugh. You don’t move. You don’t lower the weapon.
You still keep it pointed straight at his face.
“Don’t move.” You order. “At the slightest, I’ll put a bullet in your head.”
He doesn’t protest. Just nods slowly. Then a jolt bends him in two. A moan escapes his lips and he wraps his hands around his leg exactly where his pants tear, muttering something you don’t understand—maybe a curse or a prayer.
After a few seconds, you notice the trembling. Fingers twitching near the gunshot wound.
You take a deep breath and curse your conscience.
You turn without a word and head to the bathroom cabinet, where you keep an old first aid kit. Nothing serious: iron tweezers, sterile gauze, a couple of bandages, and discount disinfectant.
You bring everything back to the hallway, rifle clutched in one hand, and toss the small box toward him. The kit lands half a meter away, slides on the floor, and opens sideways, spilling some of its contents.
“That’s all I’ve got.” You spit.
The vampire leans forward and slowly reaches for the tweezers.
You watch him tear more at his pants, the fabric soaked with blood and water clinging to his skin, revealing the bullet’s entry wound still lodged in the flesh.
You almost turn away when he inserts the tweezers into the wound, but you don’t. You can’t.
The sound is wet, disgusting. He growls, his head hitting the wall, sharp teeth clenched to keep from screaming.
A bloody, steaming piece of metal falls to the floor with a dull clack. It must have been silver.
The tweezers land beside the bullet, and you hear him let out a big sigh of relief.
“Thank you…” he whispers.
You stare at him.
“Don’t thank me.”
You lean against the wall opposite him for some stability on your tired legs, watching the wound start to close, the blood stop seeping.
“Name's Remmick.”
You frown at his introduction but don’t return the courtesy.
Time passes.
You stay there, unmoving. Eyes glued to the figure collapsed on your hallway floor. The vampire seems to have stabilized. His eyes closed, occasionally moaning—a low, painful sound that scratches your ears like sandpaper.
You wanted to say you’d stay awake. You wanted to believe it.
But your body had other plans. You’d had an exhausting day and the adrenaline rush was wearing off; it had kept you standing so far, but now it was pulling all the accumulated fatigue down onto your body.
You drag yourself to the couch without ever looking away from him. You keep him in your sights even as you sit down. But your eyelids grow heavy, your eyes burn, and your heartbeat slows, irregular.
Just five minutes, you tell yourself.
Just one breath.
Then the night closes over you.
You wake up with a jolt.
A gasp. Your heart pounding like a hammer against your sternum. Short of breath.
Morning light slams against the windows, filtering faintly through tightly drawn curtains.
A pale, milky white. The rain has stopped, and the world is quiet.
Too quiet.
You sit up suddenly, your stomach clenched in a knot as you look around. The hallway is empty.
The vampire’s body is no longer there.
“For God's sakes.”
The word comes out like a gunshot, sharp and dry. You immediately reach for your neck, searching for bite marks, teeth, anything. Your fingers move across your skin—nothing.
You check your arms. Then your legs, lifting the edge of your pants slightly—again, nothing.
No marks, no bites, no punctures.
But the anxiety doesn’t fade.
You scan the room, searching for any trace. The carpet is still stained, bandages are scattered, and the forceps are still crusted with dried blood—clear signs that the previous night hadn’t been a nightmare.
Then, in the gleam of the light, a glint catches your eye. The rifle.
It’s neatly placed on the low table next to the couch where you’d been lying.
You didn’t leave it there. You had it with you, gripped tight, until sleep took you.
You snatch it up and check the magazine. Still full, the two bullets nestled inside.
Your hand trembles slightly. You wonder how many chances he had—and how many he ignored.
But more than anything: why?
An unmistakable clatter of pots reaches your ears.
You grip the rifle tighter and take cautious steps down the hallway, shoulders tense and eyes scanning every corner. The window in the hall is closed—but you don’t remember shutting it.
Your steps falter when a warm, salty scent wafts into the air, sliding under your nose: bacon.
And something else.
You turn the corner, tension braced for an ambush. And instead…
“Mornin' to ya, sweetheart.”
The voice greets you before the image does. So light and full of cheer it nearly makes your temples throb.
The vampire, Remmick, is there. Standing at your kitchen stove.
He’s still wearing the stained white t-shirt he tried to clean, and one of your aprons is tied around his waist. His hair, still damp, is awkwardly slicked back but sticks out in odd angles.
You stop at the threshold, almost paralyzed, slowly lowering the rifle to let it rest at your side. You can’t speak. Can’t even think.
Remmick smiles as he moves a piece of sausage from the pan to a plate on the set table.
“Had a look in yer fridge, found a few bits.” he says, briefly adjusting the flame under the scrambled eggs. “Thought ya might fancy a hot breakfast, y'know -after pullin' some poor bastard outta the fire last night.”
Your eyes scan the room, taking in every detail.
The two windows: both closed, sealed carefully against daylight. Even the small gap above the sink is covered with a dish towel taped in place. Only the bluish glow of the overhead lights illuminates the scene, preserving his safety zone.
“Ya were up before I even got the coffee sorted,” he adds, nodding toward a gently steaming mug on the counter. “Only had the instant stuff, sadly. Spotted the moka, yeah, but…I reckon yer outta proper grounds.”
You stare at him. Still silent. Your mind unable to fit this scene into any definition of “threat.”
Remmick slides the finished plate along the counter, placing it on the opposite side from where he stands. He watches you intently as you approach—his red eyes now replaced with wide, gray, puppy-like ones.
You pick up the plate and bring it closer to the stool.
“Thanks… I guess?”
His eyes shine with such open gratitude it’s almost painful to bear—and you’re certain that if he had a tail, he’d be wagging it.
You rest the rifle against the kitchen island, not willing to be too far from it, and sit down on the stool.
“You said your name’s Remmick, right?”
He nods, wiping his hands on the towel before untying it from his waist.
“Is there a reason they were after you?” you ask firmly. You see him smirk, but before he can speak, you add, “Besides the obvious,” motioning at his entire being with your fork.
The smile fades from his lips. Not all at once, but slowly, like a candle dying out.
He leans on the back of the chair in front of him and lowers his gaze, as if debating whether to lie.
“They sold me off.” he murmurs finally.
You raise an eyebrow. “Sold?”
He grimaces, like the word tastes bad in his mouth.
“A volunteer… one o' them folks who, well, y'know how it goes…”
Of course, you’d heard about them. Volunteers—humans who offered themselves willingly to the creatures of the night. But even that had been outlawed and prosecuted.
“The fuckin' Custodians jumped me 'fore I'd even physically step away from the lad.”
He lowers his eyes for a second and you think, for a moment, he regrets his wording as you grimace visibly.
“Haven’t laid a fang on anyone without askin' in donkeys' years, swear it.”
The kitchen is silent for a few seconds after his justification.
Then, the alarm explodes in your chest like a gunshot.
A sharp, repeating buzz vibrating against your thigh from your pocket.
You grab it—7:48 - Work
The weight of time crashes down on you suddenly, like you’d forgotten the outside world still exists.
You have a job to show up for, a life that—until yesterday—was made of routine and reassuring silence.
You jump up, ignoring the full plate and now-cold coffee.
You swing open the closet by the front door, yank down your coat, and slip it on in swift movements.
The keys jingle as you grab them from the hook.
Luckily, you hadn’t changed clothes the night before—you’re still in your work uniform.
As for hygiene, you’d freshen up later after handling the store’s incoming inventory.
Meanwhile, Remmick watches you—just outside the kitchen doorway, peeking down the hallway.
You turn to him and force your voice flat, emotionless.
“By the time I get back,” you say, adjusting your bag on your shoulder, “I don’t want to find you here.”
You see his shoulders drop by a millimeter. When he opens his mouth to speak, you turn, open the door, and leave.
Morning and afternoon drag on, marked by the ticking clock above the register and the dull clatter of empty carts.
You sort the shipments quickly, serve customers with your usual professionalism, and close the till.
You watched the sun start to set behind the buildings of the industrial zone, casting dirty gold streaks across the windows and signs.
Sounds became muffled, and by 7 PM, you flipped the sign to CLOSED.
The walk home is always the same: four blocks, a downhill slope, two intersections.
The asphalt is still wet from last night’s rain, small puddles scattered here and there.
You slide the key into the lock and the door creaks as you push it with your shoulder.
Your hands are full—the bag, the keys, a crumpled sack from the corner store where you picked up coffee grounds and dinner.
You expect silence. Emptiness. Maybe a note on the table saying goodbye.
Instead…
The hallway, where last night there were footprints, blood, and mud, is spotless. The carpet is gone and the floor gleams, faintly scented with alcohol and soap.
You lower the grocery bag just inside the door and step into the living room.
You see him before you even cross the threshold.
There. Sitting on the floor by the cold fireplace.
He glances at you out of the corner of his eye but says nothing.
“I told you to leave.”
You’re tired. So very tired.
“Yeah, I know” Remmick lifts his chin slightly but stays seated. “You did.”
The silence that follows is thick, full of unsaid things. But he breaks it quickly.
With soft, cracked words, turning onto his knees.
“I cleaned up the whole place. Set things straight. Blankets folded, all that. Even had a gander at the sink trap—it leaks a bit, but nothin' serious.”
You squint at him. You don’t care about the sink. Not now.
“You’re still here,” you repeat. It’s an accusation, not an observation.
Remmick shifts slightly, his gaze dropping back to the floor.
“Please,” he says. “Just let me stay. Not askin' for much. I can… I can lend a hand. Clean, keep an eye on the place when you’re out. Whatever ya need.”
You take a few steps closer.
You didn’t bring the rifle—but you feel like you could summon it with a thought, if needed.
“You’re asking me to take you in like a stray dog?”
“Jeez, darlin', I'll be whatever ya want. A bloody pet. A shadow in the corner. A dusty armchair -don't matter. I’ve nowhere else. Nowhere safe.”
You look into his dark pupils, those irises just a little too deep to be human. There’s pleading in them, yes—but something worse, too.
Abandonment.
You know creatures like him—vampires, especially—have perfected persuasion as a weapon. They sell pity and weakness when it suits them, and their instincts never truly sleep.
They’re hungry, unstable.
Lies with legs.
Remmick looks at you. He doesn’t get up.
And silently, without another word—but sealing your decision—you head to the kitchen to put something in your stomach before hunger makes you faint.
Against all odds, the cohabitation went well. The days began to blur
together, like water slipping through your fingers. Every morning you woke up with a light pressure on your feet, and from that you knew Remmick was back.
He never talked about where he went at night. You had explicitly told him that if he killed someone you would not protect him again so you hoped he would respect this wish of yours.
He would leave quietly, shortly after you had fallen asleep, and return before the first light of day filtered through the tightly drawn curtains in the living room. You would find him curled up at your feet, immobile, as if he had never moved from there.
Your cat, who had his place of honor on the pillow next to yours, still seemed very wary of him and hissed every time he tried to stretch out on that side of the bed, making him take a step back and return to your feet. All this with some grumbling of displeasure from the vampire.
Instead, you got used to his presence as you get used to the constant noise of an old boiler: annoying at first, then strangely reassuring.
You began to ask his opinions, to organize movie nights on lighter days, to take long walks in the nearby park (reassured by his presence that would certainly ward off any other predators).
Every now and then, when you got close enough, you felt his icy fingers brush the inside of your wrist or any point he managed to reach and he would stare at you. Those eyes, which had something
bestial, but also desperate.
And as your attitude towards him changed, his gestures changed too. He became more… attentive. More present. More fixed.
One day you found him outside your shop, waiting for you under a streetlight after closing. He didn’t say anything, he ran to you and stood next to you as you closed the shutter, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And from that day on, it was like that every night, when the sun was low enough for him to come out.
He watched you finish your shift. In silence.
From that day on, you started to notice strange things. When you talked to some customer for too long outside the shop at closing time, Remmick seemed to… change. His eyes became dark,
shiny, like wet glass. If you laughed at someone’s comment, his hands twitched a little, closing into tight fists. But he didn’t say anything.
When the person disappeared, his true self returned. With that crooked smile and the stories of his day or what TV show he had found, scrolling a bit.
As a result, you never felt in danger. It was disturbing, sure. But you had gotten used to it. It had become part of your routine, like canned soup or cat biscuits.
That is, until the fateful day that changed everything came.
It wasn’t a date. Not officially.
He had been one of those regulars, the kind who always cracks the right joke and leaves you a few extra coins in the tip jar. When you explained that you were busy, he had smiled, almost amused, and suggested a drink after your shift. A drink, nothing more.
And so you had accepted. You hadn’t even had time to let Remmick know. The man had shown up at your shop door a few hours early and since your boss was already in there, you asked him if he could let you finish early that day. You had intended to have a quick drink and then go home, before the sun went down.
But that wasn’t to be.
When you come back, hours later, the sky is already dark and the air smells of wet earth. You open the door without making too much noise, but you see him right away. There. Standing in the hallway, as if he’s been staring at the door the whole time.
“Where were ya?” he asks softly. But his voice is too calm to be forced.
“At work.” You say, taking off your coat. “I left a little early. A customer offered me a drink and—”
Remmick approaches instantly. He’s a few steps away from you before you can finish speaking. His eyes swipe over you, your hands, your neck, your face. He touches your arm, then your shoulders, as if to make sure you’re okay.
“Are ya alright?” he murmurs. “Did someone…do ya harm?”
You look at him, confused. “No. I'm okay.”
But you see the exact moment he changes.
The smell. The smell of that man.
Remmick can smell it inches from your face. The cologne, strong, invasive. He tracks it with his nose, almost sniffing the air. Then he stops, his nostrils quivering.
His eyes flash red. And he stares at you.
“Who was it?” He whispers, his voice scratchy. “Who laid a hand on ya?”
“Remmick…”
“It’s on ya. Here-” he says, brushing your hair, “-and here…” His hand lingers just below your ear, the exact spot where your skin still feels warmest. “He put his mouth here, didn't he now?”
Your heart races. You take a half step back, but Remmick follows you. Not with anger. With hunger.
He kneels slowly in front of you, and his face comes close to your stomach, rubbing it against the material of your shirt making you swallow loudly. His hands move up your thighs and as he stands again he makes sure that his body rubs against yours until it reaches under your chin.
You feel his breath on you, against the column of your naked neck.
You don’t know what to do. Your brain is confused, you don’t recognize the creature in front of you.
“I've to… get it off ya.” He continues. “I can’t bear the stink of it. I don’t want it lingerin' on ya, not a trace.”
He gently brings you against the piece of furniture in the hallway and you, dazed by that mixture of desire and anxiety, let him do it. The edge pushes painfully against your back until his hands close on your hips again and lifts you up to sit on it as if you didn’t weigh a gram.
Remmick slides between your legs before you can close them, his body leaning on yours.
“I… I can go wash myself if it bothers you…” you add, pressing your palms on his shirt-covered chest to maintain distance and making him growl.
His hands leave your body only to rest on the sides of the furniture, blocking your way out as your breath catches in your throat when his face comes inches from yours.
“How fuckin' dare they lay a finger on ya…” He whispers, and when he speaks, his voice is broken by something more animalistic.
His face bends on your neck, slightly up, and there, right where he had felt the other’s mark, his lips open.
You slide a hand into his hair, ready to pull with all your strength before he bites you but instead of the stinging pain of his teeth, you only feel a slow, wet caress, which makes you gasp involuntarily.
Your grip on his head loosens and you hear him sigh, his breath hot against your wet skin. Even though his body temperature is still a few degrees cooler than normal, the way he touches you burns.
His hands move again, closing on the sides of your waist and gently pushing forward until his hips are flush with yours. There’s no urgency in the gestures, but no slowness either. He’s clearly driven by a certain need that goes beyond the body.
“I still feel it…It's still clingin' to ya, love.” His voice is plaintive and he brushes you behind the ear with another slow lick, as if he wants to erase every trace of the other’s passage with his tongue.
“You have no notion how much it hurts. It's like fire on my skin, knowin' someone even looked at ya… thought about ya… touched ya…”
He leans down again, his lips landing on your neck with sick adoration, while one hand slips under your sweater, resting against your belly, his forehead laze on yours, shaking.
“I don’t just want to have ya…” he whispers against the skin of your shoulder. “I want to belong to ya. Yours to toss aside, break if you must, use as you will. And when someone so much as looks at ya, I want them to know -I’m there. Always there. And you’re mine.”
The sound he makes when your fingers close slightly in his hair sends a jolt of pleasure to the center of your core and makes you inadvertently grind against him, earning another hiss of need from him.
You feel it. Hard, hot, against your pants-covered lower parts, and when you use that hardness to find a moment of relief, he bites your shoulder lightly but without breaking the skin.
His chest rests against yours, holding you still but not imprisoned.
You are free, you could push him away. But you don’t.
And he knows it.
“Tell me ya want it too…” he whines, pressing against you insistently and making you tense when he presses just right but not enough. “That's it's not just pity. That ya want to keep me. That ya want me here. Always.”
His eyes, red now, search for you, while you’re distracted taking from him, lit by a feverish light.
“Let me stay, baby. Let me be the one who keeps ya safe. The one who warms your bones. Let me be the shadow, trailin' after ya. The beast lyin' at your feet. The lover in your bed.”
Then, lower, with that desperate tone that makes your insides twist:“Let me be yours, for fuck's sake…please.”
And that’s the last straw.
You tilt his face at a comfortable angle and press your lips against his, forcefully. Your tongue invades his mouth but Remmick responds with the same ardor, intertwining his tongue with yours.
His hand, firm on your belly, begins to move up under your shirt, making its way with trembling fingers, as if he were touching something sacred. Every inch of your skin lights up under him. He moves like a man who is thirsty and the only source of water is you.
“Do ya even know what ya are to me now?” He asks you with a thick voice as his lips separate from yours and pass over your chest, still dressed. “The poison...and the cure, both.”
You almost laugh at his dramatic nature but swallow it when the sweater is the first piece to be discarded, leaving you under his heated and supernatural gaze. It’s all there: the adoration, the longing, but above all that silent madness that scared you the first time and now… tightens your stomach in a vice that you can’t untangle.
He bends over your breast, taking it between his lips and clenching his teeth on the small bud in the center, making you arch against him.
The hand that isn’t busy holding your breast ventures under your pants—which you hadn’t even noticed he’d opened—and his fingers slide between your soaked folds, pinching your clit between them.
You let out a meow that makes him growl. It’s a hoarse sound that slides slowly down with him, he grabs the waistband of your pants to slide them down your legs and leaves you naked under his hungry gaze.
“Look at yourself, darlin'. Is all this for me?” His tongue flattens against your wetness, gathering it as it passes and, as if the first taste had gone to his head, he dives headfirst between your legs, devouring you completely.
“Fuck…you’re an idiot…” you moan, pressing yourself as close as possible to his mouth that closes on your delicate mound.
You feel his fingers wet with your own pleasure, pressing against your entrance and pushing in effortlessly, pumping forcefully in and out to draw as many sounds as possible from your lips.
He licks you with unnatural slowness, rhythmically, as if it were an ancient ritual.
Just when you feel your orgasm reaching you, his fingers and mouth move away from you. His lips return up. He kisses your belly, your chest, your throat, until he returns to your face. His red eyes burn into yours.
“What are you-?”
“Let me do it.” He stops you, as he brings one of your hands to the fly of his pants. Your fingers, until then useless, close around his clothed erection, making him shudder and whine. “Let me fuck you, darlin'. Let that sweet pussy tighten 'round my cock.”
His face bends to yours, his nose running along your jaw, like a dog asking for a firmer caress. And you give it to him.
You undo his belt in one swift motion and unzip his zipper with a slowness that could have killed the most patient man.
When your fingers capture his erection you let his weight rest against your palm, smearing your palm with his precum and pump down once to test the length and width. Remmick moans against your cheek and pushes against your hand, the tip brushing your inner thigh.
You curve your lips into a smirk.
“Do you think you deserve to fuck this pussy, Remmick?”
Remmick pulls back to look at you, surprised by your tone but definitely delirious, his mouth slightly open, revealing traces of small fangs.
“…No.”
You frown as you twist your wrist, gripping it harder, but he continues.
“Shit…no, I don’t reckon I deserve this.”
His hips snap forward and you almost lose your grip when he comes so incredibly close to your entrance, leaving a trail of liquid.
“But I swear…I could spend me whole life tryin' to earn it. Every day. Every bleedin' night. With all that's in me.”
He brushes his lips against your forehead, submissive and feverish.
“Go ahead, then.” You slide the tip of his erection against your pussy lips, wetting them with your own arousal, his hands closing on your hips, and you tilt him toward your entrance. “Make me yours.”
You feel his breath hitch and then he does.
He takes you.
It’s not a human sound, much less an animal one, that he lets out when he enters you completely, without giving you a second to get used to the stretch. You accept it with a hiss of pain, tightening your legs around his pelvis.
You’re not surprised when he pulls back slowly, your walls closing in on him as if to keep him in place, and then he sinks in deeply again, establishing a punishing rhythm. The piece of furniture you’re leaning against bangs against the wall and for a moment you pray that he doesn’t create a hole.
Every thrust is an oath. Every whine, a broken soul that offers itself to you without asking for anything in return but yourself.
“Ah… fuck… you’re…” and he never finishes the sentence. The words blur with his breathing and need so he kisses you violently and sweetly at the same time, his tongue moving in your mouth with the same rhythm with which his body sinks into yours. He clings to you as if you could save him, and destroy him at the same time.
As his hips begin to wobble, you feel two fingers press against your clit, curling your toes and digging your heels into Remmick’s back.
You move your face away from his to get more air in your lungs as your orgasm hits you hard, making you see stars.
Your tight channel grips his erection and you hear him moan in your ear as he comes inside you, murmuring your name like a plea, his hands still gripping your hips, almost afraid you might vanish beneath him.
And as he tucks his head between your shoulder and neck, nuzzling his nose against the column of your throat with a contented sigh, you realize it’s not just possession.
summary: You take a job as a live-in nurse for the town’s most infamous recluse—Remmick, the strange, soft-spoken man hidden away in a rotting Victorian farmhouse no one dares approach. Locals warn you not to touch him. Not to linger after dark. But when you meet him, he’s all big eyes and broken manners, trembling hands and gold chain glinting at his throat. Touch-starved, tender, and ruinously ancient. He flinches when you reach for him—and sobs when you don’t. You drop to your knees, and he forgets the taste of blood. He’s already yours before you ever put your mouth on him.
wc: 8.5k
a/n: holy 2k followers batman!! I wanna thank everyone for the outpouring of love and support my work has gotten over the last month, truly insane, still processing, gonna release something soon as a massive thank you <333 based off this post, I'm sure I'm not the first but I haven't come across any fic of reader going down on Remmick yet and I have a great need to suck that man's dick until his stomach caves in like a Capri-sun (someone revoke my internet access) so here we are. Thank you to @ddlydevotion for finding my photo refs. Dedicated to Sam @matrixfangs for not only beta reading this but also requesting I incorporate Jack's cross tattoo into one of my fics!! title from the song too sweet by hozier.
warnings: vampirism, oral sex (m!receiving), d/s dynamic, begging, spit kink, hair pulling, praise kink, humiliation kink (soft), drool, overstimulation, ruined man behavior, touch starvation, religious imagery, cross kink?, control kink, sub!remmick, somniloquy, emotional degradation (tender), slight dacryphilia, mildly unhinged reader, dark romance, southern gothic atmosphere, implied violence, implied murder (offscreen)
I am doing away with my tag list because it's getting a little long so I recommend turning on notifications if you don't wanna miss when I post c:
likes, comments, and reblogs always appreciated, enjoy!!
The bus wheezed like it was exhaling its last breath, sputtering to a stop in the middle of nowhere. Dust kicked up around its wheels as the brakes hissed and the door creaked open with a reluctant sigh.
You stepped off into the heat—that heavy, wet Southern heat that sticks to your skin like tacky glue, curling into your clothes and dragging its teeth across the back of your neck.
The sun hung fat and merciless in a sky bleached bone-white, cicadas crying loud enough to shake the treetops. Sweat bloomed across your collarbone before your boots even hit the dirt.
It wasn’t real pavement, not out here. Just cracked-red earth, dry and crumbling, veined with weeds and the roots of things too stubborn to die. The main road—if you could call it that—was lined with rusted fence posts, bowed under the weight of creeping kudzu and wire that hadn’t held anything in years.
The town itself looked like it had been forgotten in a drawer: sun-wilted storefronts with paint peeling off in strips, glass windows clouded with grime, and a gas station that hadn’t changed its prices since Prohibition.
A man with no teeth watched you from a bench outside a bait shop. A girl gnawed a peach in the shade of a feed store awning, juice dripping down her wrist as she stared without blinking.
No one smiled. No one welcomed you. Just silence and the shrill, electric whine of summer bugs, loud as a curse.
You adjusted your grip on the suitcase handle—leather, secondhand, the clasp a little loose—and stepped forward, your boots crunching on gravel as the bus hissed again and pulled away behind you. The sudden stillness in its absence made your ears ring. Somewhere down the road, a dog barked once, then went quiet.
The driver who’d agreed to take you the last few miles was late. Or not coming. You checked the watch on your wrist—scratched crystal, the hour hand a little jittery—and waited. The skin on your shoulders prickled. Not from the heat. From the eyes.
They were still staring.
A woman in a gingham dress crossed herself. Didn’t stop walking. Didn’t look at you twice.
Then a voice—cracked with age and smoke, coming from just over your shoulder—broke the thick, humid quiet: “That house got ghosts in it.”
You turned. It was the man from the bench, leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, eyes milky with cataracts. He spat to the side, aimed like he’d done it a thousand times before.
“He don’t come to town. Don’t let him touch you, honey.”
Before you could ask what the hell that meant, the groan of old suspension and rattling chains cut through the air.
A pickup truck, wheezing like the bus, pulled up in a cloud of red dust. Faded forest green with rust eating away the sides and a crooked license plate hanging on by one bolt. The man driving it looked as old as the truck—tan leather skin, yellowed shirt, a straw hat pulled low.
He didn’t say your name. Just nodded once. Like he already knew.
You climbed in beside him, the vinyl seat burning hot through your skirt. Neither of you spoke. The ride out of town was long and winding, lined with cypress trees and fields that had gone to seed. Every now and then, the man would spit out the window. You watched the land unravel into nothing—just swaying grass, rusted scarecrows, and buzzards perched on telephone wires.
Then, after what felt like forever, the truck crested a hill.
And there it was.
The house.
Aging Victorian farmhouse, two stories tall, white paint weathered to the color of bone. Porch bowed in the middle like a snapped spine. Shutters hanging off their hinges. The front door was so dark it looked like a hole punched through the front of the house. Vines crept up the sides like veins, crawling toward the chimneys and windows like they wanted to choke it. Or hold it down.
The iron gates at the front were rusted and tall, still latched shut. You could make out glass-paned windows that looked hollow, staring out at the road like eyes that hadn’t blinked in years.
The man parked, killed the engine, and didn’t move. You stepped out. Shut the door behind you. He didn’t offer to help with the suitcase. Just lit a cigarette, slow and deliberate.
“He sleeps durin’ the day. House is yours ‘til sundown. Don’t linger on the porch.”
You waited for more.
He didn’t offer it.
He put the truck in gear and reversed down the dirt road without another word, vanishing behind the veil of oak and kudzu until there was nothing but eerie birdsong and your own breath.
The wind kicked up. Dry. Hot. Mean. The house creaked—just once. Like it had been holding its breath too.
And then…the front door groaned open.
The open door breathed out a draft of air—cool and heavy, smelling of cedarwood, old paper, and something vaguely sweet, like dried flowers pressed between book pages. It curled around your ankles like mist.
You stepped forward. The porch groaned beneath your feet, boards soft with age, and for one heart-pounding moment you thought the whole thing might give. But it held. Just barely. The screen door had been ripped clean off its hinges long ago. The wooden door itself was open wide now, dark as pitch inside.
You crossed the threshold. The world behind you dropped away like a curtain falling shut.
The house swallowed sound. Swallowed light. It was dim and old in the way caves are old—cooler than it had any right to be, shadows pooling like ink in the corners. Lace curtains yellowed with age hung limp at the windows. The wallpaper had peeled back in strips, revealing ribs of rotting wood beneath. A hallway stretched long ahead of you, lined with crooked picture frames and closed doors.
Your hand skimmed the wall, trying to find your balance. The place felt like it was holding its breath.
Then you saw him.
He stepped out of the parlor like he wasn’t used to being seen, like he expected to vanish the moment your eyes landed on him.
Remmick.
And he was…nothing like you expected.
Not some grizzled recluse with wild hair and yellow teeth, not a hissing, skeletal shut-in like the townsfolk seemed to imagine. No. He was—
Broad.
His shoulders were built like a man who used to work with his hands, chest thick under the open collar of a blue-and-white pinstriped button-up, the sleeves messily rolled to his elbows. Beneath it, a threadbare white wife-beater clung to his torso like second skin. His jeans were dark, faded, worn at the knees, and he was barefoot—toes pale, dust smudged across the tops of his feet, like he hadn’t stepped outside in years.
His hair was short and messy, soft-looking, brown with uneven bangs that fell just above his brows in a way that felt almost boyish, almost accidental. Not styled. Just…unbothered. Untamed. Like he’d dragged his fingers through it and given up halfway.
And then his eyes.
Blue. Too blue. Not sky-blue. Not ocean-blue. The blue of cracked porcelain. The kind of blue that shouldn’t exist in nature. They looked almost glassy, as if someone had painted them on too carefully.
You didn’t know that they were artificial, not yet, like a predator blending in with its surroundings to fool the naive prey. That the real eyes were red as flame and waiting underneath.
But even so, you felt it.
Something inhuman. Something primordial.
You didn’t know what you were seeing. But you knew it wasn’t just a man and yet—you weren’t scared.
He froze when he saw you. Like he’d walked into a memory.
His mouth parted slightly. His hands hung at his sides, rough-knuckled, long-fingered. One of them twitched, just once, like he meant to lift it—and then stopped. Like the very thought of touching was…too much.
His voice came slow, thick. Raspy from disuse. “Evenin’.”
You blinked. “Hi.”
That same hand moved to scratch the back of his neck—awkward, almost boyish. He ducked his head slightly, eyes flitting away from yours. His lips pressed together like he wasn’t sure whether or not to smile, and then decided against it.
“I, uh…I didn’t expect you so soon.”
There was a tremble in his voice, barely there beneath the deep drawl. But it was there. Not nervous. Not quite. Just…unused. He sounded like someone who didn’t speak unless he had to. Someone who had been silent for too long.
You stepped forward, instinctive. He flinched.
It was subtle—just a twitch of his shoulder, the stiffening of his posture, a faint shift backward—but your body caught it. Your eyes caught it. His eyes never left you.
“I’m your nurse,” you said softly, giving your name, your voice feather-light.
He nodded. Still didn’t move closer.
There was a thin gold chain around his neck, peeking out from beneath his collar. It caught the faint light from the window and glinted, just for a second, brushing against the pale hollow of his throat when he leaned forward slightly. Like it had weight. Like it mattered.
You took a breath, trying to read him. He was watching you the way a starving man watches a feast. Not greedy. Not desperate.
Haunted.
Like he was talking to someone who no longer walked this mortal coil.
“Where should I…?” you asked, fingers curling slightly around the strap of your bag.
He startled. “Oh. Right. Room’s upstairs. I, uh—” he hesitated, scratched at his forearm where the button-up had slipped back just far enough to reveal the edge of a vein that looked darker than it should—“I ain’t had company in a while.”
“How long?” you asked.
He blinked at you. Like the question hadn’t occurred to him before.
Then, just as softly, with a note of old sorrow so quiet you nearly missed it, he answered:
“Too long.”
He turned, shoulders shifting beneath the thin cotton of his shirt, and motioned for you to follow. He didn’t offer to carry your bag. Not out of rudeness—it was something else. A hesitation that clung to him like sweat in the air.
The hallway creaked under your steps, your boots heavy against the worn floorboards. His bare feet moved near-silent, just the soft pad of skin on old wood. Dust stirred where he passed, curling like smoke in his wake. You watched the muscles move beneath his shirt—the way the thin material clung to his back, the curve of his shoulders, the faint outline of his spine shifting when he turned a corner. You could almost imagine him once being a laborer, maybe a carpenter, with those thick forearms and that sunken posture—like he hadn’t stood tall in years.
He didn’t look back at you until he reached the stairs.
“They’re steep,” he warned, voice low, accent thickening just a touch like the words were sticking to his tongue. “House wasn’t built for comfort. Not anymore.”
You followed him anyway.
The staircase was narrow and curved, wood darkened by age and use. The banister wobbled when you touched it. His hand hovered near the wall as he climbed, but he didn’t steady himself on anything—as if he was afraid to touch the house too long.
The landing opened into a hallway lit only by a single cracked window. Dust motes danced in the beam of sunlight, and Remmick avoided it completely, skirting the edge like a shadow. You didn’t think much of it. Just heat, maybe. Or habit.
He stopped in front of a door at the far end. It was plain—faded green paint, iron handle gone dull with rust. He opened it for you but didn’t step inside.
“Room’s clean,” he said, still not meeting your eyes. “Did it myself this mornin’.”
You peered in.
Small, but tidy. The bed was old but made, white sheets tucked tight. There was a vanity with a tarnished mirror, a small closet door that hung slightly crooked, and a bedside table with a worn oil lamp and what looked like a book left behind years ago. A hand towel had been folded and left on the pillow.
“You didn’t have to do that,” you murmured.
“I did,” he said simply. Then, quieter: “Didn’t want you thinkin’ I’d leave it…unfit.”
He stood there, barefoot and awkward, hands half-curled at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. His bangs had fallen deeper over his eyes, hiding them. But you saw the shape of them behind the strands—wide, almost deer-like.
He looked like he didn’t know whether to apologize for being alive or thank you for showing up.
You stepped inside. Set your bag down. When you turned to speak again, he was already halfway down the hall.
He hadn’t made a sound.
Later, after you’d unpacked and washed your face in the cracked porcelain basin, you made your way down to the kitchen, following the faint clatter of dishware. You paused at the doorway.
He stood at the sink, back to you, sleeves rolled higher now—his forearms dusted in pale hair, thick with muscle, the veins just barely raised under the skin. The gold chain shifted at his throat as he rinsed out an old tin mug. He didn’t seem to notice you.
The light from the window cut across the floor, a bright bar of late-afternoon sun. It stopped just inches from where he stood, and he didn’t cross it. His toes curled against the edge like it was a line he couldn’t breach.
You finally spoke. “Do you want any help?”
He jumped.
Not violently—just a twitch. His shoulders drew in, spine straightening, as if your voice had reached into him and plucked something loose.
Then he slowly turned. His eyes—still too blue—met yours, and for a second you thought he looked guilty. Like he’d been caught doing something shameful.
“No,” he said, swallowing. “But…thank you.”
You stepped forward anyway.
He froze. Again.
“I’m just getting a glass,” you said, brushing past him, your fingers grazing the inside of his forearm by accident—just a whisper of skin against skin.
He flinched. Actually flinched. Not hard. Not violently. But enough to feel like a blow. You pulled back, brows furrowing.
“I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine,” he said quickly, voice hushed and low and cracking like dry wood underfoot. “You ain’t done nothin’ wrong.”
You turned your head, studied him.
“Do you not like to be touched?”
A pause.
He looked down at the floor. His hands opened and closed once.
“I just…ain’t used to it, is all.”
Not used to it. Not anymore. Not in a long, long time.
You felt something tighten in your chest then, strange and aching. A tether drawing taut. You didn’t know what had happened to him. Why the town feared him. Why the sunlight seemed to singe the air around him. Why his voice trembled when you spoke too softly.
But you did know this:
He was alone.
And he had been alone for a very, very long time.
The glass was cloudy. Not dirty—just old, like everything else in this house. When you turned the tap, the pipes groaned in protest before surrendering a stream of lukewarm water. You sipped, then leaned against the counter, your eyes sliding back to him.
Remmick hadn’t moved.
Still by the sink, shoulder just shy of that stripe of sunlight, arms stiff at his sides like he didn’t know how to stand. The water dripped from the mug he held. A single droplet clung to the edge of his knuckle and then slid down, curling over his wrist.
He stared at the floor. At your boots. At anything except you.
“You live here alone?” you asked.
His head tilted slightly, as though the question had startled him. He nodded.
“For how long?”
A beat.
“…Long.”
He didn’t elaborate. Just that one syllable, spoken like a stone dropped into a well. No echo. No follow-up.
You took another sip. “Locals said you don’t like company.”
His lip twitched—almost a smile, but not quite. It was more like…a ghost of a smirk, something he might’ve worn naturally once, long ago, before it fell out of practice.
“I reckon they said worse’n that.”
“They said not to let you touch me.”
That made him flinch for real.
A sharp intake of breath, his spine straightening, knuckles whitening around the tin cup. He didn’t look at you. Didn’t speak. But the shame bled off him like heat, pouring into the space between you until the air turned too thick to breathe.
You waited.
And when he still didn’t say anything, you set your glass down with a quiet clink and asked gently:
“Why would they say that?”
He looked at you then.
Really looked.
Eyes wide. Blue. Too blue. Glassy in the way that porcelain is glassy—shiny and fragile and false. A color that didn’t feel real, not on a living thing. His brow was furrowed like the question pained him.
“…They scared,” he said softly. “Always been. But fear makes folks say things that ain’t...whole.”
“Is it not true?”
His throat bobbed. That thin gold chain moved with the motion, catching what little light the room offered. His jaw tensed, a tick pulsing just beneath the skin. When he finally spoke, it was so quiet you almost missed it.
“I don’t hurt people who don’t deserve it.”
He said it like it was a rule, not a defense. Something sacred. Something self-imposed and unshakable.
“I didn’t think you did,” you murmured.
That made him pause. Head tilted again. Studying you like you were a puzzle with too many pieces.
“Then why’d you come?”
You gave a small shrug. “They said you needed help.”
“And you believed ‘em?”
“I believe you now.”
That silenced him.
He set the tin mug down gently, almost reverently. The sound was soft. Barely there. Like he’d learned to be careful with his strength. Or maybe he was just scared of breaking things.
“I ain’t had a nurse before,” he said. “Didn’t think I needed one.”
“Well,” you said, tone light, “I’m here now.”
Another pause.
He nodded, still not smiling. Just…accepting. Resigned. Like he’d already decided you were temporary.
A flicker of something passed behind his eyes then. Regret. Fear. Hunger. You couldn’t tell. But it made you step closer. And again—he moved back. Just a step. Not far. Not fast. But enough.
Like your nearness singed. You didn’t take it personally. You were starting to understand: it wasn’t you he didn’t trust. It was himself.
“Can I ask your name?” you said, after a beat.
He blinked. Then, slowly, he answered:
“…Remmick.”
You repeated it once, soft. Let it settle. His breath hitched. And just for a second—less than a breath, less than a blink—his eyes flashed red.
Bright. Brief. Burning.
Gone just as fast.
You didn’t say anything. You weren’t even sure you’d seen it. But he turned away like he had something to hide.
“I’ll, uh…be out on the porch. If you need me.” His voice cracked again. “Dinner’s in the oven.”
“Remmick.”
He stilled.
“Thank you.”
His hand touched the doorframe. Just the tips of his fingers. Then he left without looking back, the gold chain glinting once over the curve of his collarbone as he slipped into the shadows again.
You didn’t know what you’d just seen. But you knew you weren’t afraid. Not of him. And not of whatever was buried beneath those woeful eyes.
The dining room was crooked.
The long table—mahogany once, now dulled and water-stained—sat slightly uneven, legs warped from heat and time. One chair at the end had been worn smooth with use. The others were still draped in white sheets, untouched, forgotten. The chandelier above was dust-choked, only one bulb flickering faintly. Shadows wavered across the ceiling like they were alive.
Remmick was already seated when you stepped in, spine stiff, hands folded neatly in his lap. Not touching the silverware. Not even looking at the plate in front of him. A modest meal—roasted potatoes, black-eyed peas, cornbread—steamed in a careful arrangement across two plates, though yours was a little fuller.
He’d set it out like it was a ritual. Like it mattered. His eyes jumped to yours the moment you crossed the threshold. That same stare—wide, dark in the low light, too big for his face—gave him the look of something puppyish, soft in a way that didn’t match the rest of him.
“I hope it’s alright,” he said quickly, words too fast, too eager. “I cooked it this mornin’. Tried to keep it warm without dryin’ it out.”
You slid into the chair across from him. “It smells good.”
His shoulders relaxed a fraction, like a wire had gone slack. “Ain’t had much reason to cook for two.”
You took a bite, slowly. It was simple—salt, butter, heat. No herbs. No flair. But it was made with care. You could taste that.
Across from you, Remmick didn’t eat. He watched you instead.
You didn’t comment on it at first, but when you finally glanced up, fork paused midair, he looked away too quickly. A flicker of red threatened behind his lashes—gone before you could be sure.
“You’re not hungry?” you asked gently.
He hesitated. “Not for that.”
You blinked.
He flinched. “I mean—nothin’ wrong with it. I just—I don’t eat much. Not lately.”
You let it go. For now.
The silence that followed wasn’t hostile, but it wasn’t easy either. It strained under its own weight. Not tension between you, but the kind that comes when someone’s forgotten how to be in a room with another person. He kept shifting in his seat—shoulders tight, hands flexing slightly in his lap, like he had to remind himself to stay still.
You tried again.
“So…you’ve lived here a long time?”
He nodded. “Since before the war.”
“Which one?”
His lips twitched. “Exactly.”
You huffed a soft laugh. “Do you ever leave?”
Another long pause. He looked down at the table, fingers tracing the edge of a scratch in the wood.
“I used to,” he said. “Town was smaller then. Or maybe it just felt that way.”
“You don’t go anymore?”
“I scare folks.” He said it plainly. No self-pity. Just fact. “And I don’t…do well in the sun.”
You watched the way he said it—carefully. Intentionally vague. Like he was testing how much he could say without scaring you off.
“I noticed,” you murmured.
His eyes lifted again. In the dim lighting, they looked almost black, shadows swallowing all the unnatural blue. The wide shape of them gave him a look so innocent it was disarming—a big-eyed, vulnerable softness, like a boy too shy to ask for what he needed.
“I’m not scared of you,” you added.
He swallowed hard. The gold chain at his collarbone shifted.
“You should be,” he said softly. “But I’m glad you’re not.”
The food sat cooling between you.
You noticed he kept glancing at your hands—how they moved, how they curled around your fork, how they pressed briefly to your chest when you swallowed water. He didn’t leer. Didn’t ogle. But he watched with the intensity of someone who’d gone without touch so long, he’d forgotten what warmth looked like.
“Do you miss it?” you asked.
He looked up sharply. “Miss what?”
“Conversation. Company.”
He blinked like you’d hit him.
“Yes,” he said. Just that. No hesitation. Voice cracking around the edge.
Then, quieter:
“I try not to. But yes.”
You sat with that for a beat.
“I could talk more,” you offered, a faint smile tugging at your mouth. “Or less. If you’d rather quiet.”
He shook his head, too fast. “No—no, I like it. I…I like your voice.”
You blinked. Your cheeks went warm.
He blinked too, startled at himself. “Shit—I mean—not like that. Just. It’s nice. I ain’t heard anything like it in…”
He trailed off. His ears had gone pink.
You laughed gently. “You’re a little out of practice, huh?”
“I’m fuckin’ terrible,” he muttered, half to himself. Then, with a glance at you: “Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” you said. “It’s nice. You’re…nice.”
He stared at you like he didn’t know what to do with that word. And then, without warning, a loud creak echoed from somewhere deeper in the house. The pipes moaned. The lights flickered.
You jumped.
Remmick didn’t move. But the red flashed again in his eyes—just for a blink, just enough to raise the hairs on your arms.
“Old house,” he murmured.
“Right.”
But he was staring down the hallway now, like he heard something you couldn’t. His jaw clenched. One hand curled tight against his knee, as if fighting the urge to stand.
“Is it safe?” you asked, your voice dipping instinctively into something wary.
His eyes cut to yours.
And something about the way he looked at you then—those big, dark, wide eyes still soft as a dog’s, still scared to ask too much—made your breath catch.
“With me?” he said.
A beat.
Then, softer:
“Always.”
The house changed at night.
It didn’t creak. It breathed—slow and hollow, like the walls had lungs of their own. The old wood carried footsteps in strange directions. Voices turned inward. Time unspooled.
You lay in bed, still dressed, still wired, the heat slick on the back of your neck. The lamp on your bedside table cast a low, amber glow across the ceiling. Somewhere outside, a whippoorwill called once and went quiet.
The room smelled like lavender soap and old cotton. The fan in the corner ticked every fifth rotation. You hadn’t seen Remmick since dinner.
He hadn’t said goodnight. Not that you blamed him.
He’d looked like he wanted to linger. Like his legs didn’t quite want to carry him away. But something in him—something knotted deep—had yanked him back into the dark, like a leash.
Still, you thought of him as you lay there. The way his eyes kept dropping to your hands. The way his voice cracked when he spoke too kindly. The way he watched you like he hadn’t watched another soul in decades—and didn’t know if he was allowed to.
You didn’t mean to doze. But the silence folded over you like a sheet.
And then—
You heard it.
Low. Fragile. Muffled.
A sound curling up through the floorboards.
You blinked awake, heart ticking faster, every hair on your arms rising before your mind even caught up. You sat up slowly. The fan ticked again.
And again, that sound.
A moan.
Male. Soft. Throaty.
Followed by something rougher. Shaped by a tongue and a mouth. Words.
You slid from the bed, bare feet ghosting over the cool floor. Pressed your palm to the wall. Leaned close.
The voice—Remmick’s voice—was speaking. But not English. Something old. It came in broken fragments. Whispered. Half-strangled. And aching.
“A chuisle…mo chuisle, mo chroí…”
(My pulse…my pulse, my heart…)
The wood under your fingers thrummed.
“Táid mo lámha ag crith…Dia, tá brón orm…”
(My hands are shaking…God, I’m sorry…)
A sound followed—wet. Guttural. Like he’d tried to breathe through a sob and swallowed it.
You stepped back, heart rabbiting, heat pooling low in your belly—not from fear, but from something else.
The need in that voice. The loneliness. The way the words clung to his throat like they hurt coming out.
And then—
A moan. Sharp. Broken open.
“Lig dom é a mhothú… lig dom tú a mhothú…”
(Let me feel it…let me feel you…)
You were rooted to the floor, bare toes curling against the wood as something bloomed low in your abdomen—hot and needy and shameful in its intensity. Your thighs pressed together before you even realized you’d done it.
He sounded desperate. Not sexual—not entirely. But starved. Ragged.
Destroyed.
Like he was begging for something he didn’t think he deserved to have, not even in sleep.
“Tá tú anseo…tá tú fíor…ná fág mé…”
(You’re here…you’re real…don’t leave me…)
The words were choked now. Slurred. Drenched in a broken kind of longing. You didn’t mean to press your palm flat against the wall. Didn’t mean to close your eyes.
Didn’t mean to whisper: “I’m here.”
But you did.
And somehow, the sounds stopped. Not abruptly. Just…slowed. Faded.
As if he'd heard you.
As if, wherever he was in that dream, the presence of you at the wall soothed something raw and ancient inside him.
The air stilled. No more moaning. No more whispers. Only quiet. You stood there for a moment longer, breath shallow, chest tight. Then turned back to the bed.
And as you crawled beneath the covers, something inside you whispered—
He wasn’t dreaming of just anyone. He was dreaming of you.
You didn’t sleep long.
When you woke again, the air was different. Thicker.
Your body was heavy with it, sunk into the mattress, heart drumming in your ears like you were already in motion. The fan had stopped ticking. The lamp had gone out. A soft glow slanted in through the hallway—a light left on downstairs, maybe. Or—
No.
Someone had turned it on.
You sat up slowly. The floorboards creaked outside your door. Once. Twice. A pause. Then a knock. Soft. Barely there.
Your stomach flipped.
“Yeah?” you called, voice still sleep-rough, soft enough that he could ignore it if he needed to.
But he didn’t. The door opened a crack. And there he was.
Remmick.
Still barefoot.
Still dressed the same—pinstriped button-up wrinkled from sleep, sleeves rolled to the elbows, suspenders hanging loose at his sides. His hair was mussed now, falling harder into his face, and his chest rose and fell beneath the thin white wife-beater like he’d climbed stairs too fast. Or hadn’t been breathing right since sundown.
He didn’t cross the threshold. Not at first.
He stood there like a man unsure of his place in the world—a broad shadow outlined in gold from the hallway light, wide-eyed and fidgeting, arms at his sides like he didn’t trust himself to lift them.
“Sorry,” he said, voice raw. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t.”
He hesitated.
Then: “Can I…?”
He didn’t finish the sentence. But his eyes flicked toward the inside of the room—dark and private and unthreatening—and you understood.
You nodded once. “Yeah.”
He stepped in.
Carefully. Like the floor might bite him.
The door shut behind him with a click that echoed louder than it should have. He stood near the dresser, eyes darting—not in panic, but like he was looking for something to anchor himself to. His fingers worried the hem of his sleeve. His shoulders were hunched, defensive, vulnerable despite the width of them.
His eyes—dark in this light, wide and glassy—looked almost wet. Puppyish. Devastating.
“I heard you,” you said quietly. “Last night.”
He stiffened.
“I didn’t mean to,” you added. “I just…couldn’t sleep.”
His jaw flexed. His throat bobbed. He didn’t look at you.
“You were speaking in another language.”
“Gaelic,” he muttered, almost like he was ashamed of it. “From…before.”
“Before what?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped closer. His hand twitched at his side.
“I didn’t know I was talkin’,” he said. “I don’t—usually.”
“You sounded upset.”
“I was.”
You waited.
Then, just above a whisper:
“I was dreamin’ of you.”
The room tilted. Your breath caught.
He raised his eyes then—still that soft, drowning dark, still wide like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to say your name, let alone admit this.
“I know it ain’t right,” he murmured, voice hoarse, almost breaking. “But I’ve been here so long. Been quiet so long. And then you—” His breath hitched. “You come in here like you’re made of light. Like you belong. And I don’t know what to do with that.”
You stood slowly.
He didn’t move. He watched you with that same broken hunger, like he’d already decided you were too good for him, but couldn’t stop himself from needing you anyway.
“You’re shaking,” you said.
He glanced down. His hands were trembling. You stepped closer. He didn’t flinch this time.
But he didn’t touch you either. Just stood there—shoulders tight, breath shallow, like if he touched you, you’d vanish.
“I ain’t touched anyone in so long,” he whispered. “And I keep thinkin’ about what they said. About me. About my hands. That I ruin things.”
You reached up, slowly, brushing your fingertips just above his collarbone—where the thin gold chain clung to his skin.
He gasped like it burned. You didn’t pull away.
“You didn’t ruin this.”
His eyes fluttered shut. His lip trembled. A sound caught in his throat—half a sob, half a moan—as he leaned forward, forehead just barely grazing yours.
“Tell me not to,” he whispered. “Tell me to leave, and I will. But if you don’t—if you don’t say it—I swear to God, I’m gonna fall to my knees.”
The air between you crackled.
And his voice dropped, Irish blooming up from the roots of him like something ancient and helpless:
“Cuir do lámha orm…ná tabhair uaim thú…”
(Put your hands on me…don’t take yourself away from me…)
You didn’t speak at first. Didn’t move either.
Just breathed—slow and even, like you were the calm center of a storm, and he was every desperate gust of wind trying to press against your skin.
Remmick stood there, trembling. Not from fear. From need. It curled off him like steam, thick and desperate, clinging to the air between you. His pupils were wide, swallowing the color of his irises until they looked nearly black, and his lips parted like he wanted to say more, to beg, to confess—but didn’t know how to start.
You reached for him.
He gasped—actually gasped—when your fingers slid up the open placket of his button-up, brushing the edge of his white ribbed wife-beater. You felt the tremor through him, all the way down. His chest was warm and solid, rising and falling like he was trying not to pant.
Your hands smoothed over his shoulders, palms splaying against the thick muscle hidden beneath soft cotton. And then, softly—gently, like it was a kindness—you pushed him.
He let you.
Without resistance, without question, he backed up until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed, and then he sank down like he didn’t know how to carry his own weight anymore. He sat there, breath shallow, eyes wide and wet and locked on you like you were the moon and he hadn’t seen the sky in a hundred years.
You stood between his knees. Tilted his chin up with just two fingers under his jaw.
“Hands to yourself,” you ordered, soft yet firm.
His breath hitched. His fingers dug into the comforter on either side of him, white-knuckled and obedient.
You watched the way he fought his own instinct—fought it like it pained him. He wanted to touch you. God, did he want to. It rolled off him in waves. His thighs were tense, knees spread wide, shirt wrinkled where your hands had touched him. He looked wrecked already.
“Y-you sure?” he asked, voice cracking like shaky glass under the burgeoning weight of desperation.
“I didn’t ask for your hands,” you said. “Not yet.”
His throat bobbed. The gold chain swayed at the base of his throat as he nodded—once, sharp, frantic.
“Okay,” he breathed. “Okay, I—yeah, I can do that. I’ll be good.”
You smiled, slow and soft and wicked.
“I know you will.”
He whimpered. Actually whimpered. A soft, strangled sound pulled from the depths of him, one he didn’t seem prepared for.
His hair had fallen over his brow again, mussed and curling faintly with sweat at his temples. You brushed it back, deliberately slow. He didn’t lean into the touch—he melted under it. His lashes fluttered. His lips parted.
“You’ve really gone this long?” you murmured, thumb stroking the sharp line of his trembling cheekbone.
His voice was barely audible.
“Thirteen hundred years.”
You blinked. He looked away, ashamed.
“I feed when I have to,” he said, “but touch? Mouths? Skin? That kinda closeness?” He shook his head, jaw tight. “Not since—fuck. Before the plague hit London.”
You stared at him, stunned.
“You’re starved.”
He looked back at you with those wide, dark, pleading eyes, red bleeding into his pupils like a fresh laceration, like a man who's learned to lick his wounds clean in silence finally cracking open wide and letting you see the most vulnerable parts of him.
“I’m starvin’.”
You nodded, slow and understanding, letting your hand fall away from his face.
“Then sit still, Remmick,” you murmured, hushed, like you were afraid to shatter the silence. “And let me feed you.”
His breath shuddered out of him like you’d punched it from his lungs. His hands curled tighter in the sheets. His voice was hoarse, shaking, with the faintest Irish crack as he whispered:
“A ghrá…táim i do lámha…”
(My love…I’m in your hands…)
You stayed standing between his knees, just looking at him, because even if you didn't know what those words meant, you could feel them carve into your soul like a brand.
And Remmick—God help him—let you. Didn’t dare breathe too deep, didn’t dare move a single muscle. He was shaking with it. With restraint. With want. With that terrible, ancient hunger not just for blood, but for closeness, for skin-on-skin, for the obscene luxury of being touched.
Your fingers reached for him. He twitched.
Not in fear. In anticipation. His lips parted, a fine strand of spit hanging off one corner, catching in the gold glow of the hallway light behind you. It glistened, trailing down toward his chin before pooling at the dip beneath his lower lip—thick, warm, a little foamy, and wholly instinctual. His breath came in short, shallow bursts now, as if his body was preparing for something it didn’t fully understand.
You slid his suspenders off the broad slope of his shoulders first, snapping one against his pec, feeling arousal pool into your cunt like molten hot lava when he whimpers at the pleasant sting of it, letting the thin scraps of fabric fall down beside his hips.
Then you undid the first button of his shirt. Then the next. And the next. Slow. Deliberate. Never breaking eye contact.
Remmick’s eyes were huge in the dark—dark and shiny, wide like a dog waiting to be called forward, like he’d sink his teeth into the floor just for a word from you. Sweat pearled at his temples. His thighs spread slightly wider beneath you as the shirt parted open.
His chest was beautiful. Scarred, but beautiful—pale muscle threaded with faint blue veins, the sort that spoke of long nights and longer hunger. His skin was cool beneath your fingertips, though you could feel the heat roiling beneath it, just under the surface.
But what drew your eye—what made you pause—was the tattoo.
On his left ribcage, inked into him like a brand, was a budded cross—old, faded, the lines a little blurred from age but unmistakable. A Christian cross, yes—but older, rougher, like it had been carved into him by a trembling hand in candlelight.
You stared.
He followed your gaze, and his throat worked, the motion making his chain jump slightly against his collarbones.
“I got that when I still thought it’d save me,” he whispered, voice tight.
You dropped to your knees. He whimpered.
No contact yet—just the sound of your body lowering between his thighs, the shift in the room, the weight of your presence pressing into the cradle of his hips. He tipped his head back against the edge of the bed, more thick drool sliding from the corner of his mouth, breath now shallow, frantic, like he was trying not to choke on his own spit.
You leaned forward. Pressed your mouth to the edge of the cross.
He hissed.
You kissed it. Then licked—tongue flattening over the cool ink, tracing it reverently, slowly. He trembled beneath you like a man being sanctified and defiled all at once.
The irony rolled off your tongue with every stroke.
A man like this—older than gunpowder, older than the books that tried to define him—wearing a cross close to his heart like it still meant salvation.
You dragged your lips lower.
Down his ribs. Over the ridges of muscle. To the soft trail of hair starting just below his navel—a dark, fine line that disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans.
You licked that too. Just once. Teasing.
Following the path slowly, like you were on your knees at an altar, taking your time with worship. His happy trail twitched under your tongue.
Above you, Remmick made a noise that wasn’t a moan or a sob but something shattered between the two.
More drool slipped from his lips now—foamy, thick, sliding down his chin, catching on the curve of his neck and the edge of that trembling gold chain. He didn’t wipe it. Couldn’t. You’d told him not to touch.
His voice broke apart.
“I c-can’t take it,” he choked. “I swear to God, I’m gonna come just from you lookin’ at me like that—just from that tongue—fuck, darlin’, please.”
You looked up at him.
Still on your knees. Still reverent. And said, with quiet finality, “Good.”
You reached for his belt.
His breath caught—sharply, like the sound a deer makes when it hears the snap of a twig too close behind it. But he didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just stared down at you with those wide, wet eyes, black in the low light, pupils blown to the edge. His chest rose and fell like he was sprinting through mud.
The leather was worn, soft from age and use, the buckle cool in your fingers.
You took your time.
Slowly, purposefully, you undid the clasp, the soft clink of metal loud in the hush of the room. He whimpered, his thighs tensing beneath you, and more drool spilled from the corner of his mouth—thick, glistening, sliding down his chin
“Stay still,” you reminded him, voice silk-wrapped steel.
He nodded, a jerky, miserable little movement, and you swore his lower lip quivered. You dragged the zipper down, each tooth catching slightly, the sound sharp and intimate.
And then—finally—you pulled him free.
Your breath hitched.
He was hard. Painfully so. Flushed deep red at the tip, already leaking, the slit glossy and wet. He twitched in your hand, a thick vein pulsing along the underside, and his thighs quivered like he could barely keep himself grounded.
“Jesus,” you whispered.
Remmick gave a breathless, broken laugh, chin tilted back as he struggled not to move. His hands were fists in the sheets now, white-knuckled, his gold chain trembling across his throat with every shallow breath.
“I—fuck, I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I can’t stop—fuck, it’s so much—”
You looked up at him as you gave him the first stroke.
Just one.
Slow.
Base to tip, twisting your palm, watching his mouth fall open wider—thick drool spilling freely now, down his neck, dampening the edge of his shirt. He looked utterly destroyed already.
“Does it feel good?” you asked, your voice soft, cruel with how gently you said it.
He nodded frantically.
“Use your words.”
His head lolled forward. His voice was wrecked. “Feels like heaven,” he groaned. “Oh God, sugar, I cain’t—I cain’t believe—”
You didn’t let him finish.
You leaned forward, licking up the length of him, tongue flat, slow, letting his taste settle warm and heavy on your tongue—salt and skin and something a little coppery, something distinctly him, something old. He sobbed. Actually sobbed, chest hiccuping, thighs jerking just slightly before he caught himself and moaned through clenched teeth.
Your mouth wrapped around the head. He cried out.
No words now. Just a strangled sound ripped from his throat, and more drool frothed at the corners of his lips. He looked dazed—eyes rolling back, lashes fluttering. His hips bucked once—a reflex—and immediately stilled like he was terrified to move again without permission.
You pulled back just enough to speak, saliva stringing between your lips and his flushed cock.
“I told you,” you whispered. “Hands to yourself.”
His voice came out wrecked, breathless.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Then your mouth was back on him.
You took him deeper this time—slow, tight suction, twisting your wrist around what you couldn’t take yet—and the way he howled, you’d have thought he’d been starved in every way a man could be. Which, of course, he had. Thirteen hundred years of this. Denied. Suppressed. Begged away.
His thighs trembled. His belly tensed. And still he didn’t move. Didn’t touch. Didn’t dare.
You sucked harder.
He broke.
“Fuck—fuck, I’m gonna—darlin’, I—I can’t—oh, please, please, I’m so sorry—”
He was crying.
Not just drool now—actual tears, shining in his lashes, streaking down his flushed face as you sucked him through it, as he jerked and shook and whimpered out your name like it was a hymn.
He came with a sob, hips barely stuttering forward as his whole body went taut, his cock pulsing against your tongue, spilling hot down your throat in waves, thick and heavy and so much you almost gagged on it.
He was loud.
Pathetic.
Perfect.
When you finally pulled off, he was slumped forward—a wrecked, shivering mess, his lips bitten red and his chain soaked through with spit and sweat. His chest heaved. His thighs twitched.
You sat back on your heels, wiped your mouth slowly.
“Still with me?” you asked.
He nodded, weakly. “I ain’t ever lettin’ you leave.”
He collapsed.
Not fell—melted. Like every bone in him had turned to syrup and grief, his body slumping forward, catching on the edge of the bed before slipping down to the floor.
Boneless.
His cheek pressed to the old wood, hair clinging to his forehead, the buttons of his half-undone shirt twisted beneath him. He was drenched—sweat slicked across his chest and ribs, his pale skin kissed pink from effort, a shine of drool still slicking his chin, clinging to the corners of his mouth like foam. His gold chain was crooked now, stuck against the sweat-damp hollow of his throat.
You rose slowly to your knees, then leaned forward—not to comfort him, not yet—but to press your lips to that chain.
Right at the dip of his collarbones. He gasped. Like it burned. Like your mouth was fire and he’d been craving the flame.
His eyes fluttered open—glass-wet, dazed, the whites shot red, his lips trembling from overstimulation. He looked wrecked. Used. Holy.
And still. Still, he tried.
One shaking hand rose, dragging along the edge of your thigh—hesitant, aching, reverent. His fingers brushed your hip like he was praying through it.
“Lemme touch you,” he breathed. “Please. Let me—wanna make you feel good—want your taste on my tongue, sugar, please—”
You caught his wrist mid-rise. Firm. Final. His breath hitched. His mouth parted. But he didn’t resist. Didn’t fight. You leaned in close, until your mouth was at his ear, and whispered—
“You don’t get to yet.”
His eyes fluttered. His breath caught.
“You’re gonna learn to wait.”
A tremble rolled through him, from head to toe. His hand fell away, limp at his side. And then he nodded.
Small. Shaky. Utterly obedient.
“Yes, ma’am,” he breathed. “I’ll wait. I’ll wait, I swear.”
You ran your fingers through his hair, gently now, and he whimpered at the touch.
“Look at you,” you murmured.
He did. Glassy-eyed. Pathetic. So fucking into it.
His tongue darted out across his lower lip, catching more of the drool clinging there, and he looked at you like he’d fall on his knees all over again if you so much as told him to.
“Did I do good?” he asked, voice so small, so needy it nearly broke something open in your chest.
You smiled.
And whispered, “You were perfect.”
He didn’t get up. Didn’t even try.
Just curled in beside your legs like a dog, bare chest heaving, forehead pressed to your knee, as if your body alone could tether him to the earth. His arms folded in at his chest, drawn tight like he didn’t trust them not to reach for you again.
You stayed still. Let him have it. Let him exist in the aftermath—his breath still catching, his sweat-soaked hair plastered to his brow, drool drying tacky at the corners of his mouth, his jeans half undone around his hips, completely forgotten. He looked small down there, despite the size of him. Small and wrecked.
He murmured against your thigh—words so soft you almost missed them, lips brushing the fabric of your skirt like a confession:
“Didn’t know it could feel like that…”
You glanced down.
His eyes were closed, lashes wet. His lips parted as he pressed the side of his face closer to your leg, as if nearness was the only thing keeping him from coming apart again.
“Didn’t know I could feel like that.”
You stroked his hair gently. He shivered.
“I ain’t been held like this since…” He swallowed. “Since before.”
You waited. Then, with a sigh that hitched in his throat, he said:
“Before I stopped bein’ a man and started bein’ a thing.”
Your fingers paused at his temple.
But he nuzzled into your knee like he hadn’t said something awful. Like he hadn’t peeled that truth out of himself and bled it onto your lap.
“I remember what it was like,” he whispered. “Before I turned. Before the hunger. Before all that silence got in me and stayed.”
Another pause.
“I used to think about what it’d be like, y’know? Fallin’ apart for someone. Just crackin’ open. Bein’ touched like I was human.”
He sighed again.
“Didn’t think it’d ever happen.”
Your hand returned to his hair, soft strokes over the messy bangs sticking to his forehead.
He let out a low, contented whine.
“Felt you on my tongue before I ever tasted you,” he breathed, voice thick and syrup-slow. “In my dreams. In my fuckin’ bones.”
His fingers brushed the floor. Not reaching. Just hovering.
“Tell me you won’t go,” he whispered.
You didn’t say anything. But you didn’t move. And that was enough.
He breathed deep then, nose brushing your thigh, the gold chain glinting dully in the light. His body slackened further, weight pooling against you like he meant to stay right there forever—a crumpled thing collared in sweat, salt, and shame, held together only by the sound of your breath and the soft drag of your fingers through his hair.
“I’m ruined now,” he said sleepily. “You know that, don’t you?”
You smiled faintly.
“Good.”
He whimpered again. A sound so low and lovely it curled down your spine and planted itself deep in your stomach.
And then he sighed—the sound of someone finally coming home—and nuzzled in deeper at your thigh.
Summary: Based on this concept that I posted awhile ago that really took off. I don't know when I developed the intense need to destroy this man, but here we are. I needed to exorcise this from my brain, so...enjoy.
Warnings: Smut!! Should also add that I have never written smut before lol so sorry if it sucks. Vampirsm, blood sucking, oral sex (f!receiving), sub!Remmick, pathetic!Remmic, begging kink, control kink, praise kink, p in v sex, intense power dynamics, pet names, mentions of religion, obsessive behavior, hair pulling, dom!Reader (sort of), torture, burning skin, cutting, knife play, spit play, drool, monsterfucking, treating Remmick like a dog, I really just want to inflict as much pain on him as is humanly possible.
Reblogs, comments, and likes always appreciated! Please reblog if you like what you read; it helps keep writers engaged in fandom spaces and creating cool shit for you!
Special thank you to @spikedfearn for not only being one of the best writers in the Freaks for Remmick community, but also for beta reading this and encouraging me to write it! Please check her stuff out, she's a fantastic writer!
You sat on your porch in the late evening sunlight, sipping your sweet tea and listening to the soft song of the crickets all around you as they settled in for the night. It wouldn’t be long now. He was fairly consistent; true, if he needed to feed, he’d be a little longer. Crawling up to your door, well into the night, covered in drying blood, claws still showing, fangs barely hidden. Other nights, he’d stroll up right after the sun dipped below the horizon, looking like a true gentleman– clean, composed, in control. You couldn’t tell which version of him you would get on any given night. And that was part of what made it so exciting.
It had gone on this way for months. The sun starts to set. He comes to your door. The two of you fool around– sometimes. Other nights, you didn’t fool around so much as…play games. Oh, you knew what he was. No question about that. There was just something so delicious in denying him. Keeping him on your porch like a hungry dog, begging and crawling and clawing to get in. Knowing that, no matter how desperately he whined or how violently he dug his nails into the floorboards, he could not enter without your permission. He hung on your every word, waiting to hear those two little words that beckoned him in, inviting him to worship at your altar. It was deliciously fun, riling him up, tearing through his humanity, before letting him in. But sometimes…sometimes you just let him sit there. All night. Whimpering. Starving. Deranged. Just for fun.
The sun was just starting to kiss the edge of the horizon. You glanced from the setting sun back towards the parting of trees that opened from your long driveway into the clearing around your house. He would be here soon. You could feel it.
The soft sound of creaking wood catches your attention.
You glance at the clock above your kitchen cabinets. 9:47pm. He’s later than you anticipated.
You freeze. Listen. You can hear him shifting his weight from one foot to the other, the boards of your porch sighing underneath him. You hear his breath, soft and sweet, before–
“Sweetheart. Ya there?”
You don’t say anything. He knows you’re inside. Hell, he could smell a human being from miles away. It gives you an idea.
You quietly walk over to your old recliner and silently lower yourself into the chair. On the ground just next to the chair is where you keep your sewing kit. While you were no expert, life in the Delta necessitated a few basic sewing skills. Thorns snagging at your dress, threadbare patches blooming in pieces of clothing passed down through the generations. But tonight, you don’t reach for any thread– just a needle. You can still hear Remmick breathing just outside your front door, confusedly listening to you move around inside. You take the sewing needle and quickly, painlessly, jab it into your left index finger. Outside, you hear his breath catch in his throat, a sound like he was being strangled.
Wordlessly, you creep towards the door. You wrap your hand around the doorknob, twist, and pull. He’s standing there, as if he had just had his forehead pressed to the door. Eyes wild, fangs barely peeking out from behind his lips. Those lips twist into a stupid, happy grin.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“Just, uh, come ‘round to see ya.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Sorry, didn’t hear ya. I seem to have made a little bit of a mess.”
You hold your finger up in the tiny space there is between you. It’s beaded with blood, the tiniest bit starting to drip down the side of your finger.
“Oh, uh,” he stutters, eyes now transfixed on your wound. “I could…help ya, y’know…clean that up.”
He’s staring at the blood inching its way down your finger. You’re staring at his eyes, pupils blown huge, black and gaping. You’ve got him.
“Oh, no, that’s okay. I wouldn’t want to make ya clean up after me.”
Slowly, deliberately, you lift your finger to your mouth. You lick up the stripe of blood running down the length of your finger before taking your fingertip in your mouth, sucking lightly. His face twists with pain, like he’s just been kicked in the stomach. You gently release your finger, examining the tiny injury, no longer dripping red.
“All better,” you smile wickedly. Your heart is already thumping hard in your chest. You’re certain he can hear it– it’s the one secret you wish you could keep from him. Telling him how badly you want him, even as you torture him, sweet and slow.
“Let me in, sugar.” And so it begins. Your favorite game. “Let me in, please?”
“I don’t know…townsfolk always whisperin’ about somethin’ out there in the dark. Somethin’ evil.”
“Oh yeah? Why don’t you let me in, I’ll show you how evil I can be.”
The grin returns to his face, but you can tell it takes effort this time. His hair is damp, sticking to his temples with sweat. He’s clean of blood, so you know he hasn’t fed tonight. But he’s covered in sweat and dirt, the gentle kiss of the Mississippi heat.
“I don’t know…” you tease. Blood starts to swell from the prick in your finger again. You gently rest your hand on the doorframe, noting the way his cocky grin fades as his eyes follow your hand.
“C’mon, baby, let me in. Let me be good to you,” he murmurs, his composure hanging on by a thread.
Wordlessly, you take a step back into your house and grab hold of the door. You go to shut it before–
“Wait.”
Slowly, he sinks to his knees, your porch groaning underneath his weight.
“Please, I don’t want to play like this tonight, baby. Please.”
His eyes stare up at you, still huge, still black. Not a trace of his usual blue left. But no hint of that reflective red yet, either. Hm.
You slowly lower yourself to your knees, eye level with him, never breaking eye contact. His breathing comes in quick, ragged breaths. You lean back, slowly sitting on the floor, right in front of the threshold. The invisible line keeping him away from you, like an electric fence, sizzles under the weight of his want. You raise your left foot to the doorframe, sending your nightgown down towards your hips. Your right knee is crossed in front of you, the last obstacle between the two of you. His hands fly to the outside of the doorframe, connecting with such force that you feel the shock wave travel through your foot and up the length of your leg.
“Play? Who’s playin’?” you drawl, with a sweetness that you know only intoxicates him more. You notice a bead of drool at the corner of his mouth.
“C’mon, sugar, lemme– let me in now, please.” He stumbles over his words. Fucking pathetic.
“You want to come in?”
He’s almost shaking. He nods his head slowly, eyes never leaving your center, as if he could make you move your leg just by focusing hard enough. A wicked idea flashes through your brain. As if sensing it, his inquisitive, almost fearful, eyes dart up to meet yours. You smile slowly, baring your teeth to him as you sink back onto your elbows. You drop your head back, exposing your neck to the incoming cool of the night air. He’s breathing through his mouth, raw and ragged, as if he can’t get enough oxygen into his lungs.
“Pl-please…please…” The word almost sounds like a prayer on his tongue, something uttered over and over, falling on deaf ears.
You let yourself sink so you’re lying completely on the floor. You move your right knee, torturously slow, until you’re entirely exposed to him. You hear a sound, a strangled choking sound, like an animal caught in a trap. Slowly, you bring your hand down between your legs.
“No, no, please, baby, please, let me in, I’ll be so good to you, please, don’t do this, don’t–” his begging is cut off by the gentle sigh that escapes you, and the tortured cry that rises from him in turn. You drag your fingers between your folds while he writhes on the ground, just inches from you. His hands snap from the doorframe to the ground with a loud crack. His forehead kisses the ground as if he’s a sinner begging for forgiveness. You just smile.
You delicately toy with yourself, just out of his grasp. Your eyes roll back in your head as your fingers rub your clit. And the whole time, he’s crying for you.
“PLEASE, baby, I can’t take it no more. Please let me in,” he begs, face still connected to the floor. He sounds wounded, as if you shot him. The raw need in his voice just fuels your fire. You quicken your movements, working towards your release. Your moans, quick and breathy, sting in his ears.
“You want to come in here?” you coo quietly. Affectionate. As if you’re considering it.
He lifts his head to look at you. There’s a string of drool connecting his lips to a small puddle on the porch. He looks like a wreck. Sweat, dirt, heat, drool, desire. Sickening. Delicious.
His eyes gleam red in the darkness.
“Yes,” he rasps. “Yes, please.”
He sounds like a man who’s crawled on hands and knees through the desert, only to be met with a mirage. You grin. His fangs are protruding, like they’re too big in his mouth. His claws are out, and you can see the scratches he’s made on the porch, like a dog locked in a room trying to dig its way under the door. Seeing him like this, undone. A monster, a killer, completely at your mercy.
You drop your head back again as you finish. Your ecstasy washes over you in waves. A choked moan escapes him– half desire, half agony. When you finally come back down, you sit up slowly in the doorway. He doesn’t have any more words. He just sits, stares, pants. You bring your fingers, still wet with your slick, to rest gently on the inside of the doorframe. He presses his cheek against the outside, that invisible line keeping him back by barely a centimeter. His tongue gently grazes over his fangs, his eyes locked on your fingers.
“Please, darlin’, let me clean ya up. Please, I’ll, I’ll be gentle. No teeth. I’ll be good. I promise.”
“You’re pathetic, Remmick.”
Finally hearing your name from his lips, he groans, eyes screwed shut, in that limbo between torture and pleasure.
“I know,” he sighs. “Fuck, I know. Just…please, I gotta taste ya. Please. Just this, just your fingers, just one taste. You’re killin’ me sweetheart, please.”
You almost pity him. You would pity him, you think, if it wasn’t so divine seeing him beg.
You push yourself up to your knees, eye level with him once more, your noses almost touching. The invisible line. The electric fence.
“Goodnight, Remmick.” Your breath blows gentle and sweet and cruel across his face. His features contort in torment as you bring yourself to your feet.
“No, no, please, sugar, please don’t lea–”
Click. You cut him off as you close the door. You cross the floor towards your bedroom, tired and still a little wound up. You swear you can hear him gently sobbing as you tangle in the cotton sheets.
Beautiful sunset.
The oranges, yellows, reds and pinks, all mixing together as if on a painter’s palette. It’s one of your favorite things about living outside of town: this view. Nothing for miles. Just the woods, the creek, the sun, hell, you didn’t even mind the critters. Raccoons, possums, foxes, deer…but your favorite one walks on two legs and whispers your name like it could save him.
You take another sip of your sweet tea when you hear a twig snap off in the growing darkness between the trees. You grin to yourself. He had a tendency to do that. If he showed up late and you decided to torture him, he would be at your door the next day the second the sun disappeared from the sky. Like he was atoning. Like you’d forgive him for making you wait. Putting on a show now, you lift the cool glass up to your temple. The cold condensation dissolves across your skin, bringing at least a little relief in the Mississippi heat. You move the glass down to your neck, letting the ice cold water drip down your neck to the space between your breasts. The woods fall silent. Unnaturally silent, like every living thing has vanished from the dense forest that surrounds your house.
You glance back towards the setting sun. You stand and cross back into the house, letting the screen door slam behind you.
There’s a gentle knock at the door. 8:24pm. That’s more like it.
You don’t move. Don’t even breathe. The knock comes again. You hear him under his breath:
“Shit.”
You can’t help the grin that creeps across your face.
“Baby. It’s me. Let me in?”
He shifts from one foot to the other, the porch creaking under him. He sighs, antsy and frustrated.
“Please, darlin’. Don’t make me keep doin’ this.”
The pain in his voice makes your insides melt. You slink over to the door and gently pull it open.
“Make you do what?”
He’s neat, composed. Light blue button up tucked neatly into his trousers. Suspenders taught over his shoulders. Gold chain barely visible at his throat. No trace of the inhuman mess he was last night. At least, not in his clothes. Not in his body. But the suffering in his eyes tells you everything.
His voice is barely above a whisper.
“Please don’t make me beg.”
“Fine,” you sigh playfully. “I won’t make you.” He’s eyeing the grin on your face.
“But you will anyway,” you whisper, your cruelty crackling through the space between you. “You’ll beg and cry and drool like the filthy animal you are.”
Instantly, he falls to his knees, groaning. He looks up at you through those long eyelashes. You can already see the outline of his cock pressing against his trousers.
“Please, darlin’, I’ll do anything you ask–”
“You will?” you cut him off sharply.
He nods his head with such ferocity you’re almost worried he’ll pull something in his neck. Suddenly, you find a new way to play the game.
“Yes ma’am, anything you ask, just say the word and–”
“Take your suspenders down.”
He reaches up to his right shoulder and gently, slowly, pulls the strap off his shoulder, letting it fall to the floor at his side. He does the same with the left.
“Good. Unbutton your shirt.” Your commanding surprises even you. You’ve never played with him like this before, but something about it lights you aflame. Seeing him do everything you instruct, with the reverence of a dog obeying its master. He fumbles with the top button, despite his claws still being sheathed for now. Just the shape of his hands, his once-human-hands, shaking at the buttons, shaking from need.
His shirt unbuttoned, you stare at him, looking him up and down, while his eyes bore into your skull. When your eyes fall back to his, you can see the question in them. He’s asking you, silently: please?
“Tell me what you want.”
He leans forward, bracing himself on all fours.
“Please, baby, let me in. Just wanna come inside, be with ya, feel ya, anything you want, please.” He presses his forehead to the floorboards, reverent.
“No. Tell me what you want to do.”
“Wanna…” he’s struggling to catch his breath. “Wanna lick that pussy so good you’ll lose your voice. Drink every drop of ya. Wanna feel that pussy, so tight, so warm, on my cock, over and over again, all night, give you so many orgasms you lose count, forget your name…please, sugar. Wanna make you mine. Wanna be yours.”
He slowly raises his head to look up at you. He looks like a fucking mess, eyes almost entirely black, sweat and dirt caking his face. There’s thick ropes of drool dripping down his chin, collecting in a dark puddle on your porch.
“What’s that?” you ask harshly.
“Oh, I–”
“Lick it up.”
He stares up at you for a second, uncertain. Finally, he lowers his head to the porch in front of him. He holds your gaze as he sticks his tongue out and slowly laps up his drool.
“Good boy.”
He presses his eyes closed involuntarily, humming in pleasure at the praise.
You smile.
“Come…”
His eyes snap open, all attention on you. His breath hitches in his throat. The sound almost makes you laugh.
“...here.”
His eyes flutter closed and the breath falls out of him, his hope immediately extinguished. Still, he crawls, on his knees, as close as he can to the threshold. You dart your hand out as quickly as you can, giving him no time to react. You snatch his gold chain under one finger and pull it towards you, as close as the laws of…what? Physics? God? The Devil? Whatever force kept that electric fence up. You pull him as close as he could possibly be without being shocked. Your finger and the chain on one side of the fence, the tight skin of his throat on the other.
He gasps, a divine cocktail of shock and desperation.
“You want to come inside?” you tease. He nods again. “Words,” you spit sharply.
“YES. Yes, ma’am, please.” He's starting to sweat, little beads of moisture dotting his forehead. “Just wanna please you. Please. Let me taste you, darlin’, I promise, I can make it so good for you, just let me–”
You give his chain a sharp tug to shut him up. He cries out.
“I don’t let animals into my house, Remmick.”
He drops his head. You feel something wet drip onto your finger. A teardrop falls from his eye to your hand.
“Please.” He shivers, voice almost completely inaudible. The volume reserved for sinners talking directly to their god. “I’ll be good.”
“My, my, my…sweat, drool, and now tears? You’d make a mess all over my floors.” You drop his chain and slowly start to wrap your hand around his throat. His head shoots back and his eyes roll into the back of his head with a moan so vile and animalistic you silently thank whatever God there might be that your closest neighbors live miles away.
You smile. As your fingers close around his throat, he hisses and pulls away. He stares up at you, hurt. The burn on his neck sizzles softly in the damp night air. His gaze darts to your hand.
“Oh, you are evil, ain’tcha? Sweet little girl like you, thought ya had e’rybody fooled.”
“What? You don’t like ‘em?” You coyly show him your hand, fingers adorned with silver rings.
“Fuck, sweetie.” He’s rubbing at his neck, now almost entirely healed. The tiny amount of silver in your rings isn’t enough to do much damage, you know– just enough to get his attention. “You tryna kill me?”
“Maybe,” you coo softly, the sweetness evaporating any lingering trace of his shock.
“Please, baby, let me in. Let me fuck ya proper. Like you deserve. Please. Wanna see those thighs around my head, over my shoulders, fuck, wanna see–wanna see you…” His eyes flutter closed again, like even the image he was conjuring in his head would be enough to make him cum right there.
“Tell me.” Your tone is even. Not mean, not kind. Part of you wants to hear him out.
He leans back on his haunches, his face is wet with sweat and tears.
“I’d take you right here on the floor. Bury my face between your legs. Make you cum more times ‘n you can count and thank you for each one, fuck, whatever you want, I’d do it all night. Then I’d come crawlin’ back tomorrow night, beggin’ you to let me do it all over again. Please, sugar, just say it. Just let me in. Can’t stand these fuckin’ games no more.”
“You know,” you say, crouching down in front of him, still behind the door frame, “when I first moved in here, e’rybody told me about the big bad monster lurkin’ in the woods.”
His eyes meet yours then, huge, sad, pathetic. You can still see a hint of the iris, just barely, the tiniest ring of blue surrounding the endless black of his pupils.
“They said it only came out at night, and the only way to protect yourself was to stay inside. Garlic. Silver. Sunlight. A stake–” you press your palm flat against his chest, feeling his heart thunder beneath his ribs “--right to the heart.”
His eyes roll back and he moans, obscene and filthy and desperate. Before he can think to snatch your wrist and yank you out onto the porch with him, you pull your hand back behind the threshold. You rise to your feet, standing over him.
“And now here he is, the Big Bad Wolf, on his knees, slobbering at my door like a dog. Ain’t that somethin’?”
He stares up at you, almost like he knows what comes next.
“Please,” he whispers, pitiful. You smile wide.
“Goodnight, Remmick.”
Click.
The next night, he doesn’t even bother knocking. Doesn’t bother announcing himself. He just sits, cross-legged, on your porch, staring up at your door as if he could will it open with his mind. What he doesn’t know is that you’re sitting just on the other side of the door, a mirror image of his desperation. You don’t know how long you sit like that. Silent, just listening to the soft sound of the cricket song and his gentle, even breathing behind the door. Finally, you give in. You reach up and twist the knob, torturously slow. The door creaks open.
“Hey sugar.”
He looks rough. Not to the untrained eye, of course; his shirt is clean, tucked in, his hair fairly neat, even his boots look pretty clean. But you see deeper than that. The slightly sunken look around his eyes that tells you he hasn’t fed in days. The subtle hollowness that carves out his cheekbones, collarbone, even settles around his knuckles, when he’s gone too long without blood. The hungry glint in his eyes that he can’t help, like an animal looking for its next kill.
“You look like shit.”
“Aw hell, come on now, cut a fella some slack. I tried my best for ya, sweetheart.” His voice sounds the way his clothes look–a façade, a too-perfect, lighthearted sound, disguising something darker underneath.
“When was the last time ya fed?”
His eyes drop to the floorboards below him.
“Remmick. Look at me.”
His eyes shoot up to meet yours, that hungry look winning out above the pretenses. His voice drops, too, into something dark and sickly sweet.
“Five days ago.”
“Then what the hell ya doin’ here?” Your voice, barbed and venomous, cuts straight to his heart. “Go find ya some poor bastard to drain ‘stead of wastin’ my time.”
“I can’t, baby. Can’t do nothin’ else. I walk in circles all night, and I keep endin’ up down this road, endin’ up here. Please, sugar, all I’m askin’ for is–”
You let your head roll to one side, pulling the skin of your neck tight over your veins. His sentence stops in his throat as he watches you, swallowing thickly. His eyes have the dull, hypnotized look of hyperfixation as he stares at your neck.
“All you’re askin’ for is…what?”
“Please. Let me in.” His voice is low, but not quiet.
“Why should I?” You drawl, knowing he’s hanging onto your every word.
“I’ll be anything ya want me to be, please. I’ll be so good to you. I’ll be wicked. I’ll–”
His words catch in his throat again as you, on all fours, crawl closer towards the door.
“Y’know, I went to church this mornin’,” you tease. “Preacher said somethin’ interesting. He said…you dance with the devil…one day, he’ll follow ya home.”
Remmick’s breath, coming in short, ragged gasps, inches from your face, was the only sound flooding your senses.
“That what you are, pretty boy? You the devil?”
His eyes dart down to your mouth and back up to your eyes, his pupils blown huge and black.
“Yes, ma’am.” His voice is half whisper, half confession. “Yes. I am the Devil.”
“That’s what I thought.” You stand slowly, gripping the door frame for support. You leave the door open, but cross the floor into your kitchen, always aware of his eyes on you.
You reach for the smallest paring knife that lives in the knife block sitting atop your counter. His eyes don’t leave you for a second, but now, from the darkness, you see his shiny red pupils reflected back at you. You smile. The Devil at your door, begging to do unholy things to you. At your mercy.
You cross back to the door and stand over him, knife in hand. His hair, sweaty, sticking to his temples, looks almost black in the darkness.
The quiet in the air lingers between the two of you. You want him so badly it aches. You want to torment him, to make him cry again, to stand above him while he worships the ground beneath your feet. Your heart hammers in your chest, and you can feel it thundering in your neck. He notices.
Slowly, you begin to undo the buttons at the lacy neckline of your nightgown. Drool begins to drip down his chin as he stares at you.
“Don’t make a mess all over my porch, now.”
He mindlessly wipes at his chin with the back of his hand, wetting the cuff of his sleeve. Done with the buttons, you drop your nightgown around your ankles. A choked sound gets stuck in his throat. You take a step out of the nightgown, kicking the garment to the side.
“Please, baby. Please, I’m dyin’ out here. I can be anything you want. I’ll follow you around on a leash, goddamn it, just don’t make me sit out here no longer.” His begging hits your ears like a symphony. You bring the knife up to your chest and gently press the tip of it between your breasts.
He whines like a dying thing. A strangled, agonized sound,that, again, makes you grateful for the secluded location of your house.
You drag the blade down, slicing one clean line between your cleavage, just deep enough to break the skin and draw blood, just enough to sting.
“Preacher said the best way to ward off the devil was to wear a cross,” you say innocently.
You bring the blade back up. You carve one shorter, perpendicular line through the first. A cross. A mark. A brand. Beading with drops of blood, collecting and trickling down your chest, across your stomach, towards your heat.
You don’t know when it happened, but his claws are out now. Long, caked in dirt, and scratching at the boards of your porch like a bad dog. The sound of the wood shredding under his claws makes you grin, sweet and sadistic. He pulls his head up, like just the effort of that simple movement is enough to drain all the life out of him. He braces himself with his hands on the doorframe. His eyes glow red, tears pricking at the corners. His fangs poke out of his mouth, sharp and wet with saliva. Drool slicks his chin and foams at the corner of his mouth. This is the monster. This is what you wanted.
Then, quietly, so quietly you almost think your mind might be inventing it, he whispers:
“Please, mo chuisle. Let me in.”
You sink slowly to your knees in front of him. He’s not looking into your eyes anymore. He’s staring at your blood, red, hot, and wet, dripping freely just inches from his mouth.
“Tell me what you want.”
“Want you to let me in, please–”
“No. That’s what you want to happen. What do you want?”
“You. I want you.” His voice is ragged. Broken. Like he’s been screaming at the top of his lungs for his whole life. “Please, please, I don’t know any other way to ask, to beg, to scream, to cry for you sugar, please–”
You cut him off when you press your hands to the door frame, just on the other side of where his are. You’re palm to palm, almost, in this half-formed way, dancing along the electric fence. You bring your forehead to the invisible line, so you’re face to face with him, taking in the sight of him unravelled before you.
“You want me?” you whisper cruelly.
“Yes,” he says through shaking breaths.
“Come get me, then.”
It’s all he needs. His hands fly to your waist as he topples you over. He presses his tongue to the blood that’s dripped down to your stomach, working his way up to your chest. When he reaches the incision, he sucks and laps at the cut. At the spot where the two cuts meet, the center of the cross, he presses a kiss, soft and gentle to your sternum. It makes you gasp.
“Gonna treat you so good, darlin’. Gonna make you forget your own fuckin’ name,” he rasps against your chest. You rake your nails across his back, careful not to let yourself touch him too much–not yet.
When he’s done sucking the blood from your chest, he begins to leave a trail of kisses back down your stomach. Sitting back on his knees, he grabs your thighs and traces his claws across the flesh, making you shiver. He hoists your legs just enough to nestle himself in between them, pressing a gentle kiss to the inside of your left knee.
“Dreamed of this every night, every fuckin’ night, you slammin’ that door in my face. Kept dreaming of this. Of you.” He works his way up the inside of your thigh, kissing and licking your skin. “Taste so fuckin’ good.”
“If you think that’s good, I got somethin’ I think you’re really gonna enjoy,” you drawl, deliberately grinding your hips upwards in a small circle, catching his attention.
He growls. Like a fucking animal standing over its kill. It almost makes you sob. The pure, electric feeling of his desire.
He licks one slow stripe up your center, making you cry out.
“Sweet girl. You think you were the only one playin’? I could smell you every night, every night you shut that door in my face. Could smell this sweet little pussy cryin’ for me.”
His grip on your legs tightens as he picks up the pace. Lapping and kissing at your core, he devours you like you’re water in the desert. What was that saying? Something about well-fed sinners and famished saints?
He presses one thumb to your clit and your head begins to spin. The only sounds in the heavy air are the crickets, your gasps, and the obscene noises coming from where the two of you are connected. He slowly rubs circles on your clit, not even coming up for breath as he does. Your fingers tangle in his dark curls. He hits a particularly sensitive spot and you jerk him back by his hair.
“Ah, ah, easy, sugar. Not gonna hurt ya. Not unless ya ask real nice.” The smile he gives you is enough to nearly send you over the edge. Your drying blood at the corner of his lips. His fangs covered in your slick. His chin wet with– well, it was impossible now to tell where his drool ended and your juices began. You shove his head back down with a huff and he just chuckles, attaching himself to your cunt once more. When he opens his mouth, you can feel the tips of his fangs ghost over your clit, over and over, as he devours you.
Electricity lights up your entire body, starting in your core and sizzling through your limbs. You grip his hair as if it’s the only thing tethering you to Earth. Your legs twitch around his head, and Remmick? He just continues lapping you up, desperate, as if you might kick him back out onto the porch the second your orgasm passes.
When your breathing finally returns to normal, he’s over you, his hands on either side of your head, his chain dangling in your face.
“How was that? Was it good?”
You stare up into his face, so desperate to please you. His eyes are wild, his chin still wet.
“So good. Such a good boy for me,” you coo, melting him instantly. He hums in pleasure. You bring your hands back to his hair, and he leans into your touch, letting you play with his sweaty locks. You scratch behind his ear and his head drops in ecstasy. You trace a finger over the top button of his shirt.
“Ain’t you hot? All these clothes on…?”
He growls again, animalistic and raw. He sits up and rips his suspenders from his shoulders, letting them hang down around his sides in that way he knows you like. He goes to unbutton his shirt, but his claws make the dexterous movement impossible. You sit up, still under him. Gently, you place your fingers over his. You trace the length of one of his claws with your fingertip gingerly. He rests his forehead against yours, sweat mixing on your skin, your breath hot and mingling between you two as you delicately undo the buttons on his shirt.
“The Devil ever had anyone be gentle with him?” you whisper, almost afraid to break the silence.
“No,” he whispers.
You tug the shirt from his shoulders. He finishes the job and tosses it aside. He grabs at his tank top, torn and already soaked with sweat, and adds it to the pile of clothes that will, hopefully, go neglected until morning. His chest heaves with every labored breath, the gold chain glinting and reflecting in the moonlight. You rake your nails down his chest, making him drop his head back again. He groans again, loud, lewd, and lustful.
A grin creeps across your face. When your fingers reach his waistband, you flatten your palms against his stomach and drag them back up towards his chest, pressing firmly against the taut skin, slick with sweat.
“FUCK, baby, shit!”
He curses and snaps his head forward. When he does, you grab his jaw between your fingertips and hold him still, forcing him to look at you. The skin on his chest sizzles quietly.
“You’re a little fuckin’ sadist, ain’tcha?” he spits, somewhere between furious and turned on. You press the silver ring on your finger to his jaw in response. He hisses and bares his fangs before you shove his face to the side.
“Fuck. Fuck, sugar, I–” he breathes, still recovering. You stare down at the burns that are streaked down his chest, your hunger growing. You want to run your tongue over the burned skin.
“Let me…let me feel you darlin’. Please,” he gasps. It makes you smile. He’s still begging.
“Didn’t realize you needed permission to enter down there, too,” you tease. He doesn’t waste any more time. His hands fly to his trousers, undoing the button and zip as you lie back. You see him then, long and hard and already weeping for you. The feeling of him lining himself up makes your breath catch in your throat.
He pushes in gently, like he’s still asking permission for every inch of closeness. When he’s finally inside, his eyes, red and gleaming, roll back into his head.
“Ah–ahh, feel so fuckin’ good sugar. Feel like you were made for me.”
“Ya gonna gab all night or ya gonna fuck me like you promised?”
He laughs, the vibrations sinking in all the way to your bones, as he begins to move.
“Gonna make you cum so many times you lose count. Gonna fuck you so good you’ll be stumbling for days.”
And fuck, you think he might be right. He’s stretching you, hitting deeper than he ever has before, hitting a spot that’s making your cheeks flush and your head spin. Pleasure builds in your center as you reach up for him.
“Ah, ah. Keep those hands to yourself, pretty girl,” he scolds. You chuckle.
“Afraid of a little silver?” you coax.
He stills inside of you. You whimper, frustrated.
“That’s what I thought. Keep those hands to yourself and that pretty little mouth in line, and I’ll fuck ya like the good girl you are,” he promises. You groan under him, but whether it’s from pleasure or defeat, even you don’t know.
He resumes his pace, relentlessly ramming into you. You turn your head to the side. You see his right hand, bracing against the floor next to your head. You stick your tongue out and lick one clean stripe from his wrist up his forearm, as far as you can reach. He moans above you.
“Fuck, ‘s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout sugar,” he croons. “So good to me.”
He leans down over you until his forehead is pressed against your collarbone.
“Let me taste you, darlin’, please. Haven’t fed in days, let me be full, let me have you, please…” He pulls back just enough so you can feel his hot breath on your neck, desperate. “I’ll be gentle, I promise, won’t bite too hard. Please.”
Before you can speak, he leans into your neck.
“Remmick–”
He recoils from you as quickly as if he was bit by a snake.
“FUCK!”
You can see the burn searing on his chin in the shape of a cross. He looks down at your neck to see the only thing you’re wearing– a silver cross on a silver chain. You smile up at him wickedly.
“I guess there’s somethin’ to be said about askin’ permission, huh?” you whisper. His glare looks like he’s contemplating ripping your throat out with his teeth.
“You really want me dead, huh?” he asks hotly.
“Maybe just a little bit,” you retort through a devilish grin.
Then, his gaze softens. He looks down at the necklace and back at you.
“Will you take it off?” he asks weakly. “Please. Wanna taste you…please?”
You reach up and grab the cross, playing with it daintily between your fingers. His eyes follow your every move. You could toy with him like this forever. Finally, you firmly grip the cross and tug. The chain snaps behind your head, and you toss the silver aside. You smile up at him.
He sighs, a sound of pure bliss, and falls back down to your chest, resuming his rhythm one more time. His breath is hot in the crook of your neck. You feel his fangs ghosting over your throat, his lips brushing against your pulse point. Then, something wet and dripping. He’s drooling all over you, thin, warm, wet ropes of his spit dribbling onto your neck. You tangle your fingers in his hair and yank him back so you can see his face.
The creature looking back at you barely looks human. His eyes, wide and red, darkness lurking behind them. His fangs, spilling out of his mouth as if they’re too big for his jaw. Drool all over his chin.
“What?” he growls, frustrated from being interrupted.
“Just wanna see you like this,” you whisper.
“Like what?”
“Like the goddamn animal you are. Like the desperate, whiny, pathetic creature that keeps comin’ to my door. Like the Devil that’s lovin’ me so good it’s sendin’ me to Hell.”
It sends him over the edge. He snarls and bites down on your neck, hard. He thrusts up into you with similar ferocity. The pain, the pleasure, all building in you, sending heat through your body. He reaches down with one hand and drags the tip of one claw across your clit. You’re seeing stars.
“Oh God–” you moan, your orgasm rocking through you.
“No God here, darlin’, ‘member?” he teases, darkness in his voice. “Just the Devil, fillin’ you up this good.”
You have no idea how much blood he drains from you. Enough to make you lightheaded, even as you come down from your high. He follows you soon after, detaching from your neck and rutting into you, chasing his own release. You feel it a second later, hot spurts of warmth shooting inside of you. You claw at his back, anchoring your nails into his flesh, certain that he’ll have marks there for at least a few days, accelerated healing be damned. You can feel him go soft inside of you, but he doesn’t pull out. He stays there, above you, panting, eyes still wild, chin dripping with your blood. A drop falls from his fangs to your chest. He leans down, still holding eye contact, and slowly, obscenely, presses his tongue to your skin, licking it up, making you shudder.
“Thank you,” he whispers, face buried in your chest. “Taste so good when you’re cummin’, heart fuckin’ beatin’ for me, pussy hangin’ onto me, fuck, baby, thank you, thank you…”
You hum in response. He picks his head up, looking at you desperately.
“Was that good? Was I good?” he asks, still craving your approval. You laugh, your hands flying up to cover your face. He stares down at the silver rings still decorating your fingers. You reach for his face and he instinctively pulls back.
“Oh,” you say gently. As much as you love torturing him, all you want right now is to touch him, sweet and soft. “You want me to take these off?”
He nods wordlessly, eyes huge, looking like a wounded thing.
“Why don’t you take them off?” you coo. “Those teeth oughta be good for more’n just this.” Your fingers graze over the bite on your neck. It’s oddly smaller than you expected.
You raise one finger. Slowly, he opens his jaw and takes your finger in his mouth, careful not to graze the metal. He bites down, his fangs gripping your ring, and pulls your hand back by the wrist, gently working the ring off your finger. When it’s completely free, he turns and spits, sending the silver clattering across the floor. He does this a second time, and a third, until you can feel him start to get hard inside of you again. You smile up at him.
“Good boy,” you praise as he works on the fourth ring. His eyes gently flutter shut.
When he’s successfully removed all the silver from your body, you grab his face between your hands. Your foreheads pressed together, breath leaving his mouth and entering yours. You press a kiss to his mouth, wet and sloppy, tasting yourself all over him– the sweet, coppery taste of slick and blood. His hands ghost all over you, as if he’s trying to memorize your body so he can reconstruct it the next time you shut him out.
He starts to move again, gripping your hips and pressing into you. He takes your hand and places it over your lower stomach, pressing gently.
“Feel me? Right here? Fuckin’ tight, fuckin’ sweet, fuck sweetheart, you have no idea what you do to me.” His voice is dripping with lust and something else, something like gratitude.
You feel him hitting you slow and steady and deep, and the sinful sound of him fucking his own cum deeper into your pussy makes you feel faint.
“Please don’t make me go. I’ll stay here, I’ll be your dog, your animal, walk me around on a leash, leave my water in a bowl on the floor, please, I’ll do whatever you want. Just don’t make me leave, sugar. Can’t stand it, please.” He sounds close to tears. Your eyes glance up to his face, contorted somewhere between pleasure and agony.
“Remmick,” you say, forcing his eyes open, making him look at you. “You gonna keep grovelling, or ya gonna fuck me like ya mean it?”
A wicked grin illuminates his face. He picks up his rhythm. You have a feeling your back is going to be giving you hell for a little while.
You wake in the morning, and there he is. You don’t remember how late it was when you both finally tumbled into the bed. He looks peaceful. You’re struck with something– not sympathy, not pity, something else. A feeling, deep in your chest, seeing him lying there. Looking…human.
You roll over and check the alarm clock on your nightstand. 1:37pm. Damn. Well, you suppose, to be expected after a long night. The curtains are drawn in your bedroom. On instinct, you swing your feet down to the floor, pull your robe around you, and cross to the window to open them. You grab the two pieces of fabric and pause.
The only thing between him and sudden death. You. The only thing keeping him from frying alive. You. The only thing taking enough pity on him to let him keep sleeping. You.
You cross out of the room and shut the door quietly, sealing in the darkness. In the kitchen, you pour yourself a glass of water and gulp it down. You prepare your coffee, filling the old iron pot with water and setting it on the stove. You turn the heat on as you wander across the room, opening the curtains at each window, letting daylight stream into the room. It’s like something from a postcard, you think, the warm afternoon sun, the gentle underscore of birdsong, the familiar and comforting smell of fresh coffee. The pot whistles on the stove and you take it off the heat, pouring yourself a cup. You hear a stirring from the bedroom. A delicious idea takes root in your mind.
You quietly pad across the floor to the bedroom door. Gingerly, you turn the knob, and throw the door open. Sunlight bathes across the first few feet of the floor, but doesn’t reach the bed.
He screams. Screams with true terror in his voice.
“Mornin’ darlin’!” you crow. “I made coffee, if you want any.”
His eyes, terror-stricken but slowly adjusting to the sudden light, peek up at you from the sheets. It’s odd, seeing him during the day. It’s like two separate pieces of yourself colliding at once. You turn from the door, leaving it open, and jaunt back into the sunlight of the kitchen.
“You gonna stay in bed all day?” you call. When you stick your head back into the bedroom, he’s out of the bed, on all fours, on the floor. He’s as close to the patch of light on the floor as he possibly can be without catching any of it. You chuckle darkly and turn to sit on the couch, in full view of the bedroom door.
You lean back on the couch, coffee steaming from your mug on the coffee table. Your robe falls open just a bit at your chest. You see his eyes, not yet red, but gleaming in the darkness. You let your hand fall between your legs and let your head fall back against the couch, soaking in the afternoon sunlight.
“Please, sugar. No more games.”
Thanks for reading! Check out part two here and part three here. As always, likes, comments, and reblogs highly appreciated!
atp fanfic writers, especially on tumblr ao3 n shit, deserve way more appreciation and a fucking Oscar for every one of them!!! thank you for writing those masterpieces🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼 love you guys fr😭
keep going, you guys are great!!!
@cinnxmxngxrl @spikedfearn @ebodebo @tropes-and-tales @talaok @yanderslutt @cinnxmxngxrlupdates @chichi-the-treetea @sai-int @zorya-reads @b33zlebubz @jinjoohaaa and so many more!!!!!!!!!!
“He’s a problematic character” it’s ok he’s hot. “He’s bad representation” it’s ok he’s hot. “He murdered two hundred people and manipulated his husband” God forbid a slutty little guy does anything
I trust that the people reading this are mature adults with critical thinking skills who can differentiate fanfiction and a fantasy from reality, and understand not to romanticize these behaviors in real life. Please, if you’re in a relationship where these kinds of behaviors are normal, seek help, it’s not healthy or okay.
You didn’t even hear the front door open, only the sharp slam as it closed.
“Where the hell were you?” Joel’s voice was gravelly, loud enough to carry through the house. Oh, and he was pissed, you could teel by the heavy hit of his boots against the floor.
You dropped your keys on the counter, refusing to look at him at first. “At dinner. With friends. Like I told you.”
“Friends?” He scoffed, stepping closer to you. “That what we’re callin’ it now? Thought it looked more like you laughin’ your head off with that guy from work. You think I wouldn’t see it?”
You snapped your head toward him, narrowing your eyes. “Were you… following me?” You laughed. “Of course you were fucking following me.” Typical Joel.
Joel didn’t answer right away. His jaw ticked, and he crossed his arms over his chest as he towered in the doorway of the kitchen, looking more like a wall than a man. The silence told you everything before he finally muttered: “I had to make sure you were safe.”
“Safe?” You barked out a bitter laugh. “You mean suffocated. You soffocate me, Joel. I swear, being with you sometimes feels like drowning.”
That got him moving, stepping slowly, closing the space between you, until his presence practically pressed against you. “Don’t talk to me like that. You know damn well what men look at when they see you. What they think about. He couldn’t take his eyes off you tonight.”
“That’s not my fault!” you snapped, feeling the heat rising in your chest. “You can’t stalk me every time I go out just because you’re insecure.”
He slammed his hand against the counter beside you, making you jump. The sound echoed, his face was close enough now that you could see the storm in his eyes, could feel his breath against your skin when he spoke.
“I ain’t insecure. I just know what’s mine. That ain’t insecurity”
Your chest tightened. “Breaking news, I’m not an object, Joel.”
He gave a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Could’ve fooled me tonight, the way you let him touch your arm.”
“It was nothing! A joke, a friendly touch!”
But Joel wasn’t hearing it. He dragged his hand down the counter until it caught your hip, holding you in place even as you tried to step back. His grip was firm, bordering on painful, and his voice broke into a rough growl. “You think I don’t notice? You think I don’t see the way men try to get close? And you just… let ‘em.”
For a second, you felt the sting of guilt, not because you’d done anything wrong, but because Joel’s words carried that brutal weight only he could manage, the kind that twisted logic until you questioned yourself.
You shoved his chest, hard enough that he finally stepped back. “You don’t own me, Joel. Get it in that thick skull of yours.”
The hurt that flashed across his face was fast, but it was there. It was gone as quickly as it came, swallowed up by something darker. “You’re right,” he said finally. “But you’re mine. And I’m yours. Ain’t no man gettin’ in between that.”
The room went quiet again, except for the sound of your breathing. You hated that even when Joel’s jealousy burned hot enough to choke you, some part of you still wanted him closer.
“You’re mine,” he said again, slower this time, like he wanted to carve it into your bones.
Your lips parted, and your voice came out sharper than you intended. “I’m not yours, Joel. I’m with you because I want to be. That’s different.”
“Different?” His laugh was bitter and humorless. He raked a hand through his hair, pacing once before whipping back toward you with fire in his eyes. “Lemme tell ya somethin’. All I saw tonight was you smilin’, leanin’ in close to some other man while I sat in my truck watchin’ you like a damn idiot. That’s not different, that’s disrespect.”
“Disrespect?” you shot back, incredulous. “Because I laughed at a joke? Because I touched someone’s arm in passing? Do you even hear yourself right now?”
His voice rose with yours, rough and booming. “You think I don’t know men? You think I don’t know what they’re after? I’ve been one my whole life, darlin’, I know exactly what was goin’ through his head when he looked at you.”
“And that gives you the right to stalk me? To show up and watch me like some creep?”
Joel flinched like you’d slapped him, tightening his mouth into a hard line. “Don’t you dare call me that. I was protectin’ you. I was makin’ sure you weren’t bein’ taken advantage of.”
“You were stalking me!” you spat as you curled your fists at your sides. “You don’t trust me, Joel. You never have. And I can’t keep doing this with you... walking on eggshells, afraid to smile at anyone because you’ll lose your mind.”
For a moment, the only sound was the heavy thud of his breathing. He was flexing his hands open and closed like he wanted to grab something, break something. “You’re right,” he said through gritted teeth. “I don’t trust you.”
The words landed like a punch to the gut, making your mouth go dry. “…What?”
His voice cracked with fury. “How the hell am I supposed to, when you look at other men like that? When you make me feel like I’m just another option on your damn list?”
Your throat burned. “I swear, talking to you is like arguing with a wall. You’re not an option, Joel—”
“No.” He cut you off, slamming his hand against the counter again. The sound rattled the dishes in the sink, making you jump. “Don’t feed me that. Don’t tell me I’m the only one when I saw with my own damn eyes how easy it is for you to light up for someone else.”
Tears stung your eyes with frustration. “You’re twisting everything! You saw what you wanted to see because it fits your jealousy!”
Joel’s face hardened. “Maybe I am. But I’d rather walk away now than sit around waitin’ to be proven right.”
Your heart lurched, your stomach plummeting. “Joel…”
He shook his head, stepping back, his eyes never leaving yours. There was something final in the way he moved. “You want your freedom so damn bad?” His words were sharp enough to cut. “Fine. You got it. Don’t bother callin’ me when you realize those ‘friends’ of yours don’t give a damn about you the way I do.”
Your breath caught in your throat. “You’re breaking up with me?”
Joel’s silence was louder than any answer. He reached for his jacket, yanking it off the back of the chair. You stood frozen, watching as he shoved his arms through the sleeves, as he pulled his cap down low like he was shielding himself from you, from this.
At the door, he paused. His back was to you, but his voice was dripping with bitterness. “I loved you harder than any man ever will. Don’t forget that when you’re cryin’ in some other guy’s bed.”
And then he was gone.
But not for long.
The night he walked out you’d told yourself you wouldn’t pick up the phone. Not when he called an hour later, not when he texted you at two in the morning with “you awake?” Not when the messages started piling up, the voicemails, his voice wrecked saying your name like a prayer and a curse all at once.
You blocked him. Every number you knew. Every account. But Joel Miller was nothing if not persistent.
The first time, your phone lit up with an unknown number. You hesitated before answering, only to be met with silence, with nothing but static and the faint sound of breathing. You knew that sound.. it was Joel, and so you hung up.
It happened again the next day, but from a different number. Still the same silence, the same breathing. Sometimes he’d whisper your name before you slammed the call down. Sometimes it was just him… listening.
When you stopped answering altogether, he started showing up. You felt it before you saw him... that itch at the back of your neck when you walked home from work, the way the shadows seemed to stretch too long behind you. And if that wasn’t enough, you saw his truck parked two streets down from your house, the windows dark but the outline of him in the driver’s seat.
One night you caught him across the street, leaning against a lamppost like he had every right to be there. He was crossing his arms, tilting his head, locking his eyes on your window. As soon as you pulled the curtains shut, your phone buzzed with another blocked number. You didn’t answer, but the voicemail came through anyway: “Ain’t safe, you walkin’ around alone at night. Don’t know why you’re tryin’ to shut me out when all I ever did was protect you. You can hate me all you want, baby, but you’re mine. Always gonna be mine.”
You told yourself you should call the police, maybe tell a friend. Do something... but the truth was uglier, you weren’t sure you wanted him to stop. As twisted as it was, part of you craved that pull, that proof that he still burned for you enough to haunt your every step.
And Joel knew it, that’s why he kept calling, night after night. Sometimes you answered, just to scream at him, to tell him he was a creep, that he should leave you alone, just to hear the way his breath hitched when you said his name. Sometimes you let it ring until the voicemail picked up, then listened in the dark as his voice filled your room: “Can’t sleep without knowin’ you’re safe. Can’t breathe knowin’ you’re out there actin’ like I don’t exist. You can block every number I get, darlin’, but you can’t block me. I’ll always find you.”
And he did, everywhere you turned, he was there. Soon the voicemails started to pile up.
“Saw you walkin’ home today. Pretty little dress you had on. Don’t know why you’re tryin’ to hide from me when you looked so damn beautiful.”
“Ain’t tryin’ to scare you, baby. Just… can’t help myself. You belong to me. Even if you don’t wanna admit it right now.”
“Miss the way you smell. Drove me crazy when you passed by me today and didn’t even look.”
Whenever you blocked another number, two hours later, your phone would ring again with a call from a different one. Then came the notes, slipped under your door and folded neatly. It was Joel’s scrawled uneven handwriting : Saw you at the store. Couldn’t stop lookin’ at you. Or Your hair looked so damn soft today. Wanted to touch it so bad. Sometimes they were just single sentences: You’re mine.
It should’ve scared you. Anyone else, and you’d have called the cops. But Joel wasn’t anyone else, you knew him, knew he wasn’t dangerous, not to you. He was just lonely and desperate, twisted up inside because he didn’t know how to let you go. That’s why, when you started noticing little things around the house, shoes not where you left them, your sweater folded on the back of the chair instead of crumpled on the floor, you didn’t panic. You just… stared, because you knew... Joel had been here.
Sometimes you’d come home and swear the air still smelled like his cologne. Once, you found a half-empty mug in the sink that you didn’t remember leaving. Another time, the blanket on your couch was draped carefully over the back instead of the messy heap you’d tossed it in. And still, you weren’t afraid. Not really. You sat on the edge of your bed at night, staring at your phone, listening to his voice spill through another voicemail:
“You looked tired today. Should’ve let me drive you home instead of takin’ the bus. I woulda carried you inside if you asked me.”
“Don’t understand why you keep pushin’ me away when you know damn well I’d do anything for you. Don’t matter if you don’t answer, I’ll always be close. Always watchin’.”
You should’ve hated it. Instead, your chest ached. You lay down, the room too quiet, the blanket smelling faintly like him, and wondered how long he’d been here, sitting in this very spot, just watching you sleep.
Weeks went by and it was all still the same, Joel watching, sitting on his truck down the street with the headlights off. You knew he was out there, you knew he was listening to every call you ignored, reading every note you crumpled up. So one night, you let another man walk you home. You laughed a little louder, let him stand closer, let Joel see. You did it to spite him. To prove he didn’t own you.
The next morning, there was a folded note on your doorstep in Joel’s handwriting: You think you’re real funny, huh? Paradin’ around with that son of a bitch like I ain’t seein’ it. Like I don’t know. Saw you with him. You think he’s better than me? You think he’s gonna keep you safe? I’ll put him in the ground before I ever let him touch what’s mine.
You froze in the doorway, reading it three times before tucking it into your pocket. Your phone buzzed before you even had your shoes off, another voicemail.
“Darlin’, don’t play games with me. Don’t make me come knockin’ on his door. You know I will. You looked so pretty smilin’ at him, but that smile’s mine. It’s always been mine. He puts a hand on you and I swear I’ll break it clean off.”
By the end of the week, the messages piled up. Another note under your windshield wiper at work: He don’t even know how to look at you. Clueless little boy. I know every inch of you, every sound you make. Don’t test me.
Another voicemail at 2:17 AM: “Do you think about me when he’s kissin’ you? You think about the way I had you beggin’? Bet he don’t even know how to touch you right. If I see him near you again, he’s done. Don’t make me prove it.”
“No man is gonna take what’s mine. You hear me? No man. Don’t test me, darlin’. Don’t make me do somethin’ I’ll regret.”
A text from yet another unknown number: You looked so damn beautiful tonight. But I hated seein’ him beside you. Don’t make me hate you too.
And still you kept seeing the other guy. Dinner, drinks, even just walking downtown with him. You’d catch sight of Joel across the street, shadowed under the brim of his cap, his fists shoved into his jacket pockets like it was the only thing keeping him from crossing traffic and tearing the kid apart right there.
The threats got darker, more desperate.
“You’re pushin’ me, baby. You’re pushin’ me to do somethin’ I don’t wanna do. I can’t stand the thought of his hands on you. I’ll kill him if I have to.”
“I can’t sleep knowin’ you’re out with him. I can’t eat, I can’t think. You’re killin’ me, baby. Don’t let him near you again. Don’t make me kill him. Don’t make me lose you.”
“You don’t get it, do you? You think I’m bluffin’? If he kisses you, if he even tries, I’ll put him in the ground. I’ll do it with my bare hands if I have to. Don’t think I won’t. Don’t think I’m bluffin’. You’re mine. Always were, always will be.”
And yet… beneath every threat was the same broken edge, the same loneliness bleeding through: “Don’t do this to me. Don’t make me watch you give what’s mine to someone else. You don’t even love him, I know you don’t. You love me.”
Another voicemail left at midnight: “If he touches you again, if I see his hand on you, swear to God, I’ll break it. I’ll snap it clean in half and make him wish he’d never laid eyes on you.”
A note slid under your door the next morning after going to the movies with the guy. You’re pushin’ me, baby. Pushin’ me too far. Don’t make me kill him. Don’t make me do that. Don’t make me show you how serious I am.
You found another on your windshield after dinner out: Saw you laughin’ with him. Made my blood boil. Don’t you understand? You’re mine. You been mine from the first damn day. Nobody else gets to have you. Nobody.
Some nights he would bombard you with texts one after another, from numbers you didn’t recognize but always the same words:
Don’t make me do it.
Don’t make me hurt him.
Don’t make me lose you.
One night you came home to find your sweater folded on the couch, though you knew you hadn’t left it that way. A note pinned beneath it: Don’t you see? I take care of you. I know you. Better than he ever will. He don’t deserve you. He don’t deserve breathin’ the same air as you. Don’t make me prove it. And when your phone buzzed again, another voicemail waiting, you pressed play with shaking hands. “I love you more than any man ever could. More than that boy ever will. But if he touches you again, I’ll kill him. I swear it. Don’t make me do it, darlin’. Don’t make me regret the things I’ll have to do to keep you mine.”
He was insane. And yet, you knew he’d never hurt you, not really. But the lengths he would go to, the obsession, the jealousy... it was exhausting, suffocating, infuriating. And still… somehow, impossibly, it kept pulling at you.
Your new boyfriend, if you could call him that, sat across from you, his hands fidgeting with the beer bottle on your kitchen table. He couldn’t even meet your eyes. “Listen,” he muttered, ashamed. “I—I can’t keep seein’ you. Your ex… he came by my place.”
You didn’t even flinch.
“He told me if I touched you again, he’d kill me.” His throat bobbed, finally lifting his eyes, desperate for you to believe him. “Said it so calm, too. Like he wasn’t bluffin’. I’m not about to test a man like that.”
You leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms under your chest. “So that’s it?” you asked flatly. “You’re just gonna let him scare you off?”
Your boyfriend grimaced, the guilt clouding his face. “It ain’t worth dyin’ over. You’re great, but.. he’s not right in the head when it comes to you. I can tell.”
You almost laughed. Not right in the head, that was one way of putting it. You sighed, pushed away from the table, and stood. “Fine,” you said, shrugging like it didn’t matter. “Go, then.”
The guy looked relieved, almost grateful, as he grabbed his jacket. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Really. I just can’t.”
You didn’t walk him to the door, didn’t even watch him leave. Instead, you went to the window. Drew the curtain just enough to peek outside, and sure enough, there he was. Joel standing across the street his eyes fixed on your house. He didn’t move when your boyfriend stepped out, didn’t move when he climbed into his car and drove off. Joel just stood there.
It was the middle of the night. You were deep asleep when the soft metallic click reached through your dream. At first you thought it was nothing, the old house settling, maybe the pipes shifting. But then the slow grind of your lock turning slid into your awareness, and you snapped your eyes open in the dark. The door opened, the hinges whining faintly, and then silence. The heavy bootsteps came next, muted against the floorboards, a shadow crossing your living room, pausing like he was taking in the space, making sure nothing had changed since the last time he’d been there. Then closer. Closer.
Joel.
Your stomach clenched, you’d gotten so used to pretending you didn’t notice his little intrusions. The way a shirt would go missing from your laundry. The way your mail ended up stacked neatly when you hadn’t touched it. But this time... this time you were awake.
You kept still as the steps approached your bedroom door. It creaked open slow, like he thought he could slip in unnoticed. The smell hit first: that masculine sweat you could pick out anywhere.
You felt him standing there, watching you. And that was it, you sat up fast, sheets falling from your body. “What the fuck, Joel?”
He froze. You saw the glint of his eyes in the dark. “You’re awake.”
“No shit I’m awake!” You shoved the blanket off and stood, your chest rising and falling. “You broke into my apartment again?”
Joel flexed his jaw, he didn’t look guilty, not even close. He just stood there, like he belonged. “Didn’t break in,” he muttered. “Got a key.”
“Yeah, my spare key, one you were never supposed to keep!” Your voice shook, equal parts fury and disbelief. “You sneak in here when I’m asleep, Joel? Do you know how fucked up that is?”
He stepped closer, slow. “You act like I’m some stranger. Like I’d ever hurt you. I’m your boyfriend.”
“Correction: You WERE my boyfriend,” you snapped. “You’re a creep. You don’t get to just come into my home whenever you feel like it. Do you even hear yourself?”
Joel’s face hardened, but his voice stayed low, dangerous in its calm. “Don’t call me that.”
“It’s what you are!” you shot back. “You’re insane, Joel. Completely insane!”
He laughed once, bitterly. Then he closed the distance between you in two strides, towering over you. His eyes burned, locked on yours. “Yeah? Maybe I am. But you made me that way.”
Your breath caught in your throat.
“I wasn’t like this before you,” Joel went on. “Before you looked at me like I was somethin’ worth havin’. Before you put your hands on me, made me think I could have somethin’ good again.” His chest heaved, his words tumbling like they’d been waiting to spill. “You left, and now I’m half a man walkin’ around in pieces. You think I can just—just sit quiet and let you go? I ain’t built that way.”
You shook your head, forcing yourself not to step back even though he was all but caging you in. “That’s not love, Joel. That’s obsession. You don’t get to ruin my life just because you can’t handle me moving on.”
His hand twitched at his side, curling into a fist, like he was fighting himself. “You don’t understand,” he rasped. “’m insane bout you. I’ll kill f’you. I’ll die f’you. There ain’t nothin’ I won’t do to get’cha back.”
Your stomach dropped at the raw conviction in his tone, he wasn’t bluffing, he meant every goddamn word.
“You threatened him.” you said suddenly, voice shaking. “The guy I’ve been seeing. You scared him off.”
“He wasn’t good enough. He’d never take care of you like I do. You think I’m gonna let some punk touch what’s mine?”
“I’m not yours!” The shout ripped from you, echoing against the walls.
Joel’s face twisted, hurt flashing violently across it. He stepped closer still, almost brushing his chest against yours. “Don’t say that. Don’t you dare say that. You can lie all you want, but I know you still feel it. You wouldn’t look at me the way you do if you didn’t.”
“I look at you like you’re crazy,” you spat.
His breathing was ragged now, hot against your face. “Call it crazy if you want. But you’re in my blood. In my head. You’re every fuckin’ breath I take. I ain’t lettin’ go, baby. Not now. Not ever.”
Silence stretched, heavy and suffocating, your heart slamming in your chest as you stared at him. Joel Miller. In your apartment. With your key. With his madness. And all you could think was... he wasn’t lying. He really would kill for you, and he really would die for you.
“Get out,” you hissed. “Get the fuck out, Joel.”
He didn’t budge. Not an inch. His body was solid as stone. “You let him touch you?” His voice was low like it was dragged out of his throat.
Your stomach tightened, but you lifted your chin anyway. “What if I did?”
Joel’s nostrils flared, he looked like he was seconds away from breaking in half. “Don’t you lie to me. I’ll know if you’re lyin’. Did he put his hands on you?”
You gave him the smallest, cruelest smile. “Maybe.”
The sound he made was half a growl, half a broken laugh. His hand shot out, curling his fingers hard around your arm, pulling you closer. “Don’t play games with me, girl. I swear to God, I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” you cut in. “Kill him? Kill me? Break into my apartment every night until I’m too scared to leave?”
Joel’s breathing turned harsh. “Don’t you put words in my mouth.” He flicked his eyes to the nightstand where your phone rested. “Give me that.”
“What?”
“Your phone. Give it.”
You laughed bitterly. “So you can snoop through my texts? Check who I’m calling, who I’m seeing?”
“Damn right,” he snapped. “If you ain’t got nothin’ to hide, you won’t mind showin’ me.”
“Fuck you,” you spat, shoving at his chest again. “You’re pathetic. Creeping around, checking up on me like some sad old man who can’t take a hint.”
Joel’s grip tightened. “Don’t talk to me like that. You think I don’t know what you’re doin’? You think I don’t see it? You parade that boy around just to spit in my face.”
“Maybe I do,” you said. “Maybe I wanted you to see it. Maybe I wanted to remind you that I can have whoever the hell I want. That I don’t need you.”
Something dangerous flickered in his eyes, and his hand lashed out before you could move, snatching your phone off the table.
“Joel, don’t—”
He slammed it hard against the dresser, the crack of glass shattering loud in the room. Pieces of your phone flew as the screen split down the middle.
“Joel!” Your scream tore out of you as you grabbed his arm, shoving him back. Rage boiled over, and your palm flew before you could stop yourself.
The slap echoed in the room. His head snapped to the side, your handprint blooming red across his cheek. For a moment, the world held still, his chest rose and fell as he squeezed his eyes shut.
And then he looked back at you, you could notice that something shifted in him... something that pulled you toward him instead of pushing you away.
“Goddamn it,” he muttered. “Even when you hate me, you make me wanna fuckin’ lose myself.”
You opened your mouth to snarl something back, but his hands were already on you, gripping your face, dragging you into him. He crashed his mouth onto yours, bruising and desperate, all teeth and tongue and his obsession burning through the kiss. You shoved against his chest, but it wasn’t to stop him, it was to pull him closer, to feel the weight of him crash against you, to taste the anger and the longing together on his tongue.
The kiss was a fight, your teeth clashing, him scraping your skin with his beard, you digging with your nails into the muscle of his arms. You hated him. You wanted him. You wanted to scream and you wanted to melt.
He pushed you back against the wall, pressing you into it with his body, tearing his lips away only long enough to rasp against your mouth, “Mine. Always fuckin’ mine.”
Your breath hitched. “You’re insane,” you panted.
Joel kissed you harder, like he could swallow the words. He roamed your body greedily with his rough hands, like he had to touch every inch just to make sure you were still there.
You yanked at his hair, pulling his head back, locking your eyes on his. “You ruin everything,” you whispered, trembling. “Everything, Joel.”
He pressed his forehead to yours, you saw how swollen his lips were. “I don’t care. Long as I ruin it with you.”
And then his mouth was on yours again, and you let yourself drown in it. You clutched at his shirt, fists knotted in the fabric, pulling him harder against you until his weight was crushing you against the wall. He groaned into your mouth, and he surged his hips forward, grinding into you, making you gasp at the hardness pressing against your stomach.
“You’re a creep,” you hissed against his mouth, biting at his lower lip. “Breaking into my apartment, snooping through my shit. You’re sick, Joel.”
“Yeah?” His voice was like gravel, and his breath was hot as he thrust against you again. “Then why’re you lettin’ me touch you?”
Your laugh was sharp and breathless. “Because I love it. I love how fucked up you are. I love that you threatened that boy... made him run like a scared little bitch just ‘cause you told him you’d kill him.”
Joel’s eyes blazed. “Oh, you little—”
But you cut him off with another kiss, devouring him, your words spilling into his mouth. “I love it, Joel. I love how obsessed you are with me. How you can’t stop thinkin’ about me. How you’d kill for me.”
He broke away, panting. His body was trembling with restraint and want, grinding against you harder now, each drag of his hips pulling a gasp from your throat. “You’re twisted,” he rasped. “You’re so fuckin’ twisted, baby.”
“Maybe I am,” you shot back, digging your nails into his shoulders until you drew blood. “But you love it. You love that I’m just as sick as you are.”
Joel’s mouth crashed back onto yours, rougher this time, like he was trying to prove you wrong and failing. You moaned into the kiss, arching into him. He slid his hands down to grip your thighs, lifting you with a grunt, pinning you against the wall as you wrapped your legs tight around his waist.
“You say I’m fucked up,” Joel growled between kisses, grinding you against the bulge straining his jeans, “but you—you’re worse. You want me like this. You want me crazy. You want me dangerous.”
“Yes,” you gasped, clutching his hair, yanking his head back so you could look into his wild eyes. “God, yes. It makes me so wet, Joel. The way you can’t let go, the way you’d kill for me—fuck, it makes me insane too.”
He groaned deep in his chest, jerking his hips against you uncontrollably. “You’re mine,” he ground out. “You’ve always been mine.”
“Yours,” you echoed, biting at his jaw and leaving the mark of your teeth there. “I love it, I love how far you’ll go. You’re fucked up, Joel. And so am I.”
He crushed his lips against yours again, sloppy and brutal, pushing his tongue deep as if he could drink every word you’d just confessed. His body moved against you, grinding until you were both panting, gasping.
“Bed,” you panted, shoving at him, not to push him away but to drive him where you wanted.
Joel’s eyes burned into yours, for a second he looked like he’d argue, but then he moved, carrying you to your own bed like he owned the place. He threw you on the matress, his strong hands on your shoulders, and before you could speak he flipped you over, pressing you flat on your stomach.
“On your fuckin’ belly,” he growled.
Your pulse spiked, and you felt the heat flooding you as you arched your back for him. Joel grabbed at your hips, dragging you up onto your knees, burying your face in the sheets, ass high.
And then he was behind you, breathing hard, yanking your panties down in one motion. His beard scraped your thigh as he spread you open with greedy fingers.
“Joel—”
He didn’t wait. He crashed his mouth against you, his tongue forcing its way between your folds. He groaned like he’d been starving for this, like the taste of you was the only thing that could keep him alive.
“Fuck!” you gasped, clutching the sheets, feeling your knees trembling. His tongue was relentless, sliding deep, curling, licking you open from behind. His nose pressed into you, his big hands clamped on your thighs to hold you in place as you writhed.
“God, Joel—” You shoved your face into the mattress, moaning into the pillow as the wet sounds of his mouth working you over filled the room.
“Fuck, baby, take a look at this pussy,” Joel mumbled against your soaked slit, brushing your swollen flesh with his lips. “You see it? So fuckin’ pretty, all spread out for me. You understand why I am the way I am now? Hm? Because this pussy drove me goddamn mental, baby. Fuckin’ turned me insane.”
He spit on your hole, the warm saliva dripping down, mixing with your wetness, running over the tight little ring of muscle that clenches at nothing, begging for him. He dragged the mess lower as his tongue follows, lapping it up, smearing it across your folds with a possessive lick.
“Best pussy out there,” he groaned. “Nobody compares. Nobody ever will. That’s why I can’t let any bastard near it. That’s why I gotta protect it. This is mine. You hear me? Not theirs. Not anybody’s. Just. Fuckin’. Mine.”
And then it spilled out, words you couldn’t hold back. “I never touched him.”
Joel’s tongue slowed, then pressed deeper, like he was listening.
You pushed back against his face. “I never let that boy inside me. Never. I’d never let a cock that isn’t yours touch me.”
He growled against you, and the vibration shoot through your whole body. His tongue worked faster, rougher, like he was trying to crawl inside you with it.
You sobbed into the sheets, clutching them tight. “Fuck, Joel, I’m yours. I’ve always been yours. No one else... never anyone else.”
Joel pulled back just long enough to snarl, “Say it again.”
You pressed your ass back against his mouth, desperate for more. “Yours. Only yours. Always yours.”
He dove back in, sucking, licking, fucking you with his tongue until your body shook. His breath was ragged, his groans guttural, like he was jerking himself off behind you. And the thought snapped in your brain.
You twisted your head just enough to gasp over your shoulder. “Did you? Uh.. Did you touch yourself while I slept? Ahhh... All those times you—you broke in here, Joel—did you jerk off watching me?”
His tongue froze, his grip on your thighs tightened until it almost hurt. You smiled into the sheets. “I know you did. I know you came all over yourself watching me sleep. You couldn’t help it, could you?”
Joel groaned, muffled, sounding like an animal, and shoved his tongue deeper, his beard slick with you now. He was losing control, devouring you like your words set him on fire.
Your body arched, trembling, every nerve alight. “You’re sick, Joel,” you moaned. “You’re fucked up. And I love it. I love how twisted you are for me.”
He slapped your ass hard, then dove back in, licking you raw, his moans vibrating through your cunt. “Goddamn right I did,” he finally rasped when he tore his mouth away. “Watched you all pretty and spread out in your bed, couldn’t fuckin’ stop myself. You drive me outta my mind.”
You whimpered, pushing back against his face. “And you’re gonna keep doing it. You’ll always be watching me. Always wanting me.”
Joel’s voice was guttural before he buried himself in you again. “Always.”
And then you couldn’t speak anymore, you could only moan, loud and broken, as he ate you from behind like it was his last meal. The pressure coiled in your stomach, hotter with every drag of his tongue. “Oh my god—I’m gonna—”
And then it hit. Your whole body spasmed, a broken cry ripping from your throat as you came so hard it nearly hurt. The world went white-hot, your knees buckling, your cunt clenching around nothing as Joel moaned into you like he was drinking every drop of it.
You collapsed forward, trembling, but he didn’t let up. His tongue kept working you, unrelenting, licking you through every wave until you were sobbing into the sheets.
“Joel, please—” you gasped, twitching with oversensitivity.
He finally pulled back, panting, his beard slick with you, his lips shining in the dim light. His voice was wrecked when he rasped, “Sweetest fuckin’ thing I ever tasted.”
Your body still shook, but then you heard the metal scraping, the sound of his belt buckle coming undone. You turned your head just enough to glimpse him behind you, shoving his jeans down, his cock straining, thick and hard. He spit into his palm, groaning as he stroked himself once, twice, slicking himself with the same desperation that had been pouring out of him all night.
“You ready for me, baby?” Joel growled, lining himself up with you, spreading you open again. “You’re drippin’ for me, fuckin’ beggin’ for it.”
You moaned, pushing back against him, greedy for it. “Always ready for you.”
That was all he needed. He pushed forward, and his cock split you open, sliding in slow but unyielding. Your cry broke into the mattress as he filled you, stretching you deep until he was buried to the hilt.
“Jesus Christ,” Joel groaned, gripping your hips with both hands like vices. “So tight... so goddamn perfect. Nothin’ else’ll ever feel like this.”
You whined, pushing back against him, wanting and needed more. “Never wanted anyone else,” you gasped. “Only you, Joel.”
He drew back and slammed into you, hard enough to jolt you forward on the bed. “Say it again,” he growled, thrusting deep.
“Only you!” you cried, your voice shaking with every thrust. “Only you, Joel!”
His pace was brutal, relentless, slamming his hips against your ass, the sound of skin on skin filling the room. He fucked you like he was trying to drive the words into your body, like he could brand them into your bones.
“You hear that?” he snarled, leaning over you, pressing his chest against your back as he fucked you harder. “You’re mine. Always been mine.”
“Yours!” you screamed, clawing at the sheets, arching your body as he pounded into you.
Joel’s breath was hot in your ear, his voice broken. “Don’t need anyone else. Don’t want anyone else. I’ll kill every fuckin’ man who even thinks about touchin’ you.”
Your cunt clenched around him at his words, making him groan deep in his chest. You were spiraling again, your body tightening, another orgasm building fast from the sheer intensity of his thrusts and his words.
“Fuck, Joel—don’t stop—”
“I ain’t stoppin’,” he rasped, his thrusts ragged but unrelenting. “Gonna fuck you ‘til you can’t think, ‘til all you know is me.”
Your moans broke into cries as he drove you harder and deeper, each thrust pushing you closer to the edge until you shattered, cumming again around his cock, your body clenching tight, milking him.
You cried out so loud your throat ached. “Joel—fuck!”
His hand came down sharp across your ass, the slap cracking loud. Heat bloomed across your skin, your body jerking forward from the force of it.
“We ain’t done yet,” he growled, tangling his hand in your hair, yanking your head back so you had no choice but to arch for him. “I’m gonna take my time. You hear me?”
You moaned, half in pain, half in bliss, your scalp burning under his grip. “Yes—fuck—yes, Joel!”
He thrust harder, deeper, his cock slamming into you over and over, his hips bruising against your ass. “Missed this. Missed you. Thought about nothin’ else since the day you left.”
Your cunt squeezed him tight, your body giving him away. He groaned, yanking your hair harder, forcing your head to the side so his mouth could claim your jaw, biting down rough.
“You think some boy could give you this?” he demanded, thrusts punishing. “Think he could fuck you like this? Think he could make you scream the way I do?”
“No!” you gasped, your voice breaking as the bed shook under his rhythm. “Only you—only you, Joel!”
“That’s fuckin’ right,” he snarled, slapping your ass again, the sting making your eyes roll back. “We’re meant to be, you and me. Nothin’—nobody—can come between us.”
You sobbed, clawing at the mattress, his words searing hot into your chest. “I know—I know we are!”
Joel’s grip on your hair loosened just long enough for his arm to snake around your waist, dragging you up against his chest. You were sitting back on him now, his cock spearing into you from below as he sank his teeth into your shoulder. He smacked your ass again with his other hand, then kneaded it, holding you in place as he drove up into you, relentless.
“I fuckin’ need you,” he groaned, rutting into you like a man possessed. “Every night, I lay awake thinkin’ bout this pussy. Thinkin’ bout how it’s mine. About how you’re mine.”
You writhed in his arms, letting your head fall back against his shoulder. His cock hit deeper from this angle, punching sharp cries out of your throat.
“Say it again,” Joel demanded, biting at your ear. “Say you’re mine.”
“I’m yours!” you screamed, your body convulsing around him, your pussy clenching so hard he grunted with every thrust. “I’m yours, Joel!”
He let out a sound that was half a growl, half a groan, rutting into you harder, faster, his sweat dripping down your back.
“You fuckin’ feel that?” he rasped, pounding you so hard your vision blurred. “That’s me remindin’ you where you belong.” Joel yanked your hair again, tilting your head back. “You leave me, you break me. Ya hear me? You tear me apart. But I’ll always come back. Always.”
His cock was battering you so deep you thought you might split in half. You couldn’t catch your breath, every sound you made breaking apart into whimpers and moans.
“Look at you,” Joel rasped against your ear, his voice guttural, half a growl, half a prayer. “Takin’ me so deep… always knew this pussy was made for me.”
Your walls fluttered around him, clenching so tight he groaned, rutting harder, forcing himself in until his cock bottomed out. The pressure was unbearable and overwhelming.
“Joel—fuck, I—” you cried out.
He slammed his hips forward again, his teeth biting into the soft curve of your shoulder, marking you. “Cum f’me again. Go on, darlin’—lemme feel it. Lemme feel you lose yourself on me.”
The orgasm ripped through you like fire. Your cunt clamped down around his cock so hard he choked on a groan, your cries filling the room as you shuddered violently, every nerve lit up. You sobbed into the mattress, tears blurring your vision, your body thrashing under the weight of it, but Joel held you steady, forcing you to take every inch of him as you came undone.
“That’s it,” he snarled, his thrusts ragged as your pussy milked him. “Fuck—you’re squeezin’ me so tight—gonna make me—fuck—”
He slammed his hips forward one last time, burying himself to the hilt, his cock pulsing deep inside you. Joel dropped his head against your back as he spilled into you, flooding your cunt with his hot and thick cum. You could feel every spurt, every twitch, his release filling you until it was too much, until there was a mess between your legs. His hands crushed your hips against his, not letting you move, not letting a drop escape.
“Mine,” he gasped, panting hard, pressed his lips to your damp skin. “You’re mine. Always.”
Your body trembled under him, your pussy still fluttering weakly around his cock, milking the last of him. The room reeked of sex, of sweat and salt.
Joel stayed inside you. “You feel that?” he murmured as he slid his hands down your belly, pressing his palm firmly against your womb, keeping his cum deep inside you. “That’s me inside you. Where I belong.”
You let out a shaky breath, your body still weak, wrecked, but you couldn’t deny the way your heart hammered at his words, the way your cunt still clenched around him, greedy.
Joel’s mouth ghosted over your ear. “Ain’t nobody else ever gonna touch you like this. Nobody else ever gonna fill you like I do. You hear me?”
And though you should’ve pushed him off, should’ve screamed at him for breaking into your house, for ruining your phone, for scaring off the man you’d been seeing... all you could do was whimper and nod, your body betraying you, your cunt still holding onto him like it never wanted to let go.
I’m not doing taglists anymore, you can follow me on my Updates account
A/N: Writing this toxic Joel was so much fun. Honestly, if you ever see a man with this many red flags in real life, run the other way and don’t look back!!! But… it’s Joel Miller, so we can excuse him, lol. Sorry, but he’s just too hot when he’s this obsessed and possessive.
Thank you so much for sending me this idea, I hope you enjoyed the result🩷🩷
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