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abhi | any pronouns | lesbian horror writer this blog is 18+ MDNI rockstar remmick icon by the-lilted-tune

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ALL FICS ARE 18+ MDNI (AGE ON BLOG REQUIRED TO FOLLOW)

abhi | 26 | irish & american lesbian horror author

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JACK O'CONNELL

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ROCKSTAR!REMMICK AU (AO3) DEALER!JIMMY AU (AO3) HORROR TROPES FICTOBER (AO3)

REMMICK (SINNERS)

PATRICK SUMNER (THE NORTH WATER)

PADDY MAYNE (SAS: ROGUE HEROES)

SIR JIMMY CRYSTAL (28 YEARS LATER)

LION KAMINSKI (JUNGLELAND)

ROY GOODE (GODLESS)

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BE MY BABY!

bodyguard!jack solomon x singer!reader | masterlist

It's 1962, you're the queen of the radio, on the cover of every magazine, and in a new city every night. Men want you and women want to be you, but all you want is your bodyguard, Jack Solomon.

SIDE A TRACK 1 (FOREVER - THE MARVELETTES)

TRACK 2 (SOLDIER BOY - THE SHIRELLES)

TRACK 3 (BIG GIRLS DON'T CRY - THE FOUR SEASONS)

TRACK 4 (YOU BELONG TO ME - THE DUPREES)

TRACK 5 (MERRY TWISTMAS - THE MARCELS)

TRACK 6 (YOU BEAT ME TO THE PUNCH - MARY WELLS) feat. @roomiesoreo

TRACK 7 (THAT'S AMORE - CONNIE FRANCIS)

TRACK 8 (BABY DON'T GO - THE SUPREMES) feat. @roomiesoreo

SIDE B

TRACK 9 - (I ONLY WANT TO BE WITH YOU - DUSTY SPRINGFIELD) feat. @roomiesoreo

[roomiesoreo]

Track Nine: I Only Want To Be With You - Dusty Springfield

hi tumblrinas! it's been a minute. i've been busy with life...and with writing this! and for once, i can tell you to expect another installment posthaste because this was actually too long to post as one chapter hahaha. endless thanks to abhi @scannainscanrula for creating such fun barbie dolls and for letting me bring my own into the sandbox. grma mo phéist.

part of the BE MY BABY! au bodyguard!jack solomon x reader wc: 9.1k warnings: bdsm dynamics, piv sex, breeding kink, fingering, creampie, talk of polyamory, substance use (weed)

the british invasion shakes up your world....and gives jack an idea.

They’re so cute in their matching suits.

You watch the young men on stage from one of the audience seats that will soon be occupied by fans. They’re running their soundcheck before you, letting the camera operators determine their angles and the lighting guys adjust theirs. You’re both appearing on a variety performance this evening that will be broadcast live in front of a live studio audience. This type of gig is always a little nerve-wracking for you; trying to play to the live audience and the camera is hard, and you often feel overwhelmed trying to give a good show to everyone, including the millions of people you can’t see, watching you on television screens around the country.

But they make it look so easy. And sure, the cameras aren’t live, and there’s no one in the seats except for you. But you can’t stop watching them as they bounce and bop around the stage, their haircuts just slightly too long to be the boy-next-door type. 

Eric, the lead guitarist and vocalist, sings with such passion and electricity, even in the empty studio. Teddy, the drummer, also stands out; usually bass and drums have a tendency to fade into the background of a group, overshadowed by guitarists and singers and their egos. But you love the way Teddy drives the song, firmly setting the rhythm of the song, guiding the others through it and showing off his technical prowess with perfectly timed moments of flourish. Wes, the rhythm guitarist, dances around Eric with a flamboyant pomp. Donovan, the bassist, seems the most reserved of the group, but still stamps and tosses his head around in time with the music.

When the boys are done with their soundcheck, they set down their instruments so the crew can turn over the stage for yours. During the show, they’ll be interviewed as the stage is reset, then you’ll perform and join them on the couch with the host for your own interview.

You watch as they head backstage, nudging each other, chatting. You stand up out of the cushioned seat and glance at the stage. The roadies are still packing up. You decide to follow them backstage. A quick hello couldn’t hurt; you didn’t like the idea of meeting them for the first time on that interview couch, and you figure you have a few more minutes before you’re due for your soundcheck.

You turn down the narrow backstage hallways, quickly trying to find their dressing room. You turn down a hallway away from your own dressing room and find the boys, their backs to you as they continue their jaunt. 

“Hey!” you call out. 

They stop and turn to face you. They’re all so much more handsome up close. You can feel yourself blush a little under their gaze. Eric smiles.

They all look fairly similar– four British boys in matching black suits with shaggy haircuts. A few noticeable differences set them apart. Donovan is the tallest. Teddy’s hair is a sandy brunette, lighter than the rest of the boys’ dark color. Wes’s hair is the shortest, more of an overgrown crew cut than a true moptop. And Eric has the faintest dusting of freckles on the tops of his cheeks.

“Oh, hey,” he says casually. His British accent nearly makes your knees buckle. “You’re on next, yeah?”

“Y-yeah, I just wanted to say–”

You’re cut off by Jack coming up behind you.

“There you are, they’re–”

And he’s cut off when he turns the corner and sees the way Eric is looking at you. He clears his throat.

“They’re looking for you,” he says in a low voice. It’s his bodyguard voice, the one he uses when he can’t trust himself to be impersonal about you. The one he uses when he can feel the line of protective bodyguard and protective fiancé becoming incredibly thin.

“Okay,” you reply quietly, quickly glancing at him. You take a deep breath, then shift your attention back to Eric and the others. “I just wanted to say, you guys sounded really good out there,” you finish with a smile. 

“Thanks, love,” Eric replies with a grin.

You don’t let them see your reaction to the pet name as you quickly turn and walk with Jack towards the stage. Jack studies your face, your flushed cheeks and the ghost of a smile across your lips, as you wind down the hallways. When you land back in the studio, you take the stage and Jack takes his place against the wall, between the stage and where the audience will be. It was his usual post for your television appearances, giving him the best view of the room without the risk of being noticed too much.

The soundcheck goes fine. You feel fine. You think again about the cute British boys backstage. You can do this. 

It’ll be fine.

“Eric and The Strangers, everybody!” the host croons, motioning to his left. The camera quickly cuts to the boys on stage, who jump immediately into their first song. You watch them on the small television in your dressing room as Jack absentmindedly flips through the newspaper on the couch next to you. You can tell he’s itching for a cigarette, and will probably step out at some point to sneak a quick smoke break. As much as you hated his cigarettes, there was something irresistible about the way Jack would come back smelling faintly of smoke when you had finished changing after a show.

You watch as the camera catches every vibrant movement of the boys on stage. They’re less stationary than a traditional boy group. They don’t stand still at their microphones– they stomp and swing and feel the music in their bodies. And Eric? Eric commands the stage, even more alive than when you’d seen him before. His voice rasps just the right amount, hitting high notes with the slightest bit of an edgy, scratchy tone. Teddy’s grin lights up his face as his sticks dance along the cymbals. Donovan, the bassist, sways in rhythm with the deep bassline he plucks and the rhythm guitarist, Wes, falls into a playful game of cat-and-mouse on stage with Eric that only makes you more hyperfocused on their energy.

When they finish, the crowd erupts into cheers. The boys play another song to more thunderous applause. 

“Somethin’s wrong with my head, feels so dizzy,” Eric sings into his mic. Teddy leans up to the microphone positioned over his drum kit to support him on the backing vocals. “Got girls all around, but just too busy.”

You watch as Wes joins Eric at his mic, leaning in to share it. 

“I just need a darlin’ to call my own,” they harmonize. “Little sugar waitin’ for me at home…”

The crowd 

As they wind down, Jack folds up the paper and finally looks at you.

“Ready?” he asks.

“Yeah…” you trail off. 

“You’ll be fine,” he assures you, resting one hand on your knee. He draws his thumb in circles on your knee. “You’ll be great, baby.”

You look up at him and smile. He stands and holds out his hand to help you off the couch. You take his hand and he gently pulls you up. You watch his brows draw together subtly as he looks at your hand.

“What?” you ask him, suddenly worried. 

“Your ring, baby…” he says softly. “You didn’t leave it at home?”

You lift your hand out of his and hold it up. Your engagement ring glitters on your finger. You must’ve forgotten to leave it in your jewelry box before you went out for the day. Suddenly, you’re extremely grateful that the only people who saw your soundcheck were Jack, the technicians, and one of the show’s producers who seemed more occupied with whatever papers he had in his briefcase than he was with your performance. 

“Oh,” you breathe. “I forgot.”

It drives a tiny splinter through your heart as you wiggle it off your finger in front of Jack. He holds out his hand.

“Want me to keep it safe for you?” he offers gently.

“Are you sure it won’t get lost?” you ask fretfully.

Jack holds open the left breast of his jacket, showing you the tiny pocket in the lining.

“I’ll keep it right by my heart,” he says with a sweet smile. “It’ll never get lost.”

You smile and drop the ring into his hand. He quickly tucks it into his pocket and you hear a soft clink. Jack leans in and plants a swift kiss on your cheek, then whispers in your ear:

“It’s where I keep mine.”

You could pass out from the idea of your ring in his pocket, above his beating heart, next to the gold band you had insisted on buying for him. The heat of your secret burning just underneath the fabric of Jack’s suit jacket.

He takes your hand and leads you to the door of your dressing room. When you step out into the hallway, your fiancé is gone, and Jack, your bodyguard, leads you to your place for the top of your performance.

“Break a leg,” he says in a professional tone. But what he means is I love you. You can hear it in between his words. You can see it in his eyes. 

He takes his place in the studio, quickly scanning the audience. Eric and the rest of the band move from the small interview couch on the adjacent studio stage so they can watch you perform, clustering behind one of the cameras. 

You take the stage.

You know you need to give a good show to follow Eric and the boys; you can feel the energy they injected into the crowd. You want to deliver, and something about your usual act feels…underwhelming now. Sure, you could deliver your usual cutesy, catchy performance. But you know it would only be met with polite applause, anemic cheers in contrast with the raucous uproar left in the wake of your inadvertent openers.

You toss your hair with a flourish as your band starts to play. You and your background singers bop and sway in time with the music, but you add a little more swish to the swing of your hips, flaring your skirt up a little more than normal. Jack notices.

The crowd does, too. 

“That boy, he’s my baby, my everything,” you sing. “Swear one day he’s gonna give me his ring!”

You shoot a sultry look at the camera. Eric grins from behind the camera as you glance his way, dancing and singing, your hair bouncing with every pop of your hips.

“I want everything, anything he’s got,” you continue with newfound confidence. “Lying in the sun, he makes me so hot!”

Suddenly, your songs about true love feel like they could be about more. Jack grinds his teeth together.

After your second song, you take your bow to the uproarious audience. Eric and the boys bound back up on the interview stage, taking their places again on the couch, leaving the spot closest to the host open for you. They’re applauding and smiling, sharing knowing glances between one another. Jack looks on with a stoic face as you wave to the audience, brush your hair out of your face, and step down from the performance stage,crossing the studio floor to the steps of the interview stage. You meet the host at the bottom of the tiny two steps, and he holds out his arm to guide you up. You wave at the audience again as you take your seat. You have to walk in front of Eric and the others, in the narrow space between where their legs are hanging off the edge of the couch and the small coffee table in front of you. A glass of water is waiting for you on the table; the producers always offered guests a drink of their choosing, and all you ever wanted after a performance was to rehydrate. You step around Wes, Donovan, Teddy, and Eric, and Jack catches the way Eric can’t keep his eyes off you as you pass. 

Even when you finally sit down, the applause continues. The host takes his seat in the armchair across from you and finally has to motion for the crowd to quiet down.

“Alright, alright, I know you’re all excited, but the network will only let us keep her for her contracted time,” he quips. You laugh politely and take a quick sip of your water. Eric is sitting on your left, and he sets down a pint glass of still-foamy beer at the same moment you return your own glass to the table. You share a quick glance and he offers you a small smile before you return your attention to the host.

“Well, I must admit,” he begins, flipping through a stack of white notecards in his hands, “I did have plenty of questions for you, but right now, the biggest one on my mind is: how does America’s Sweetheart put on a show like that?” 

The audience laughs, and you laugh with them.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” you tease back.

“Come on, you looked like a million bucks up there!” the host protests.

“Well, when you’re following such a great act, you’ve really got to bring it,” you smile, turning over your shoulder to give a look to Eric and the others. Eric catches your eye and nods gratefully.

“You were fantastic, really,” he says solemnly. You feel your cheeks heat as you turn back to the host. He asks you a few more questions about your upcoming series of shows along the west coast, starting in San Diego in just a few weeks, and snaking along the ocean through Los Angeles and San Francisco, then up to Portland and ending in Seattle. Finally, after a commercial break, he moves on to the final segment of the interview, where he interviews both parties together. It’s meant to feel more like a casual conversation between artists, and thanks to the eclectic nature of the show’s musical acts, had historically resulted in some pretty compelling television: young pop stars in the throes of stardom in conversation with old jazz icons whose careers had survived the shifting genres of the decades, Motown artists on the rise connecting with rock stars over their shared influence from the same blues music in their youth.

You turn towards the boys on the couch next to you as the host opens up the conversation. 

“Now, boys…don’t lie to me,” he teases with a grin. “I watched all of you dash off this stage to go watch her with your mouths hanging open.”

The boys laugh, and you notice Teddy give Eric’s shoulder a light shove, but they don’t deny it.

“What was going through your heads, watching her? Have you seen her perform before?”

Eric clears his throat.

“No, I’m afraid we’ve not ‘ad the pleasure,” he says politely, in that charming accent. “She’s got a great sound, though.”

“Yeah, what’d’you say earlier, Eric?” Teddy teases him. “Voice like an angel, some’fin’ like that?”

Eric's cheeks burn bright red as he punches Teddy in the shoulder. Teddy throws his head back laughing as the audience joins him. You blush, too. Jack’s cheeks heat for entirely different reasons from where he stands in the shadows, watching the whole thing.

The interview continues, and you compliment the boys on their performance.

“You guys are so…alive out there,” you gush. “I love the way you perform.”

“Thank you,” Eric says, taking the lead. “That means a lot, comin’ from you, truly.”

“The name, I have to ask,” the host interjects. “Eric and The Strangers? Where did that come from?”

“Well, we started out as ‘The Glass Houses,’ if y’can believe it,” Donovan quips.

“What happened?” the host presses.

Eric takes another sip of his beer before replying. “This reviewer in the paper, he came to one of our shows, right, and he’s talking to one of our fans. This was maybe, two ‘n a half years ago now? When did we change it?”

“Be three years in August,” Teddy pipes up.

“Right,” Eric replies. “So this review fellow, right, he’s talking to one of our fans–”

“I think it was that first gig we did in London,” Wes adds. 

“So he’s talkin’ to this girl, and she compares us to some other group–” Eric continues. He’s cut off again by Teddy. 

“The Rooftops!” he barks. “Can y’believe that?”

They way they all talk on top of each other is so cute. On the outside, it looks like chaotic jabbering, but there’s a charm in the practiced way they do it. You can tell this is just who they are– comfortable with each other, ribbing back and forth, each of them sharing one fourth of the same thought at all times.

“But then the repor’er,” Wes pipes up, laughing, “he says, we’re a lit’le diff’rent from those other boy bands. We’re a lit’le stranger.”

The audience laughs.

“But Eric, what, you’re the normal one, we can still use your name?” the host quips back. The audience chuckles again.

“Ah, I try not t’make it a habit to be a stranger to anybody,” he says through a smirk, tossing you a quick wink. You turn away from him, blushing again. You angle your knees in the other direction, pressing them close together to keep yourself decent in front of the cameras. The rest of the interview flies by in a haze, with a few more gentle jokes and comments all around. When the studio band starts to play out the end of the show, Eric stands and holds out a hand to guide you up off the couch.

Jack watches as you take Eric’s hand and smile at him as he helps you stand. Eric brings a hand to your waist and leans in to your ear.

“You’re a fucking star,” he whispers to you, cutting through the noise of the cheering crowd and the band. He leans back and offers you another quick wink and a smile before turning to join his band in waving and walking off stage. You stand there dazed for a second before the host offers you his arm again and prompts you to take your final moment. You wave to the crowd and let him lead you down the stairs to where Jack is waiting for you. 

Jack quickly takes his place between you and the crowd, guiding you towards the backstage hallways. He walks with you back to your dressing room, trying to convince himself that your little show for the cameras was just that: a show. When you reach the dressing room, Jack watches as you take your seat at the makeup chair as usual, wetting a cotton pad to begin your usual routine. He sighs.

You meet his eyes in the mirror. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask him. You tone is sincere; he looks worn out, unusual for him this early in the evening.

“Nothing,” he lies. “I’m gonna go check on the car, okay?” he asks in a tired voice. Check on the car meant have a cigarette. You knew that much. You nod.

“I’ll get ready,” you reply. You can’t wait to go home and be alone with Jack. He steps out of the room, leaving the door cracked open in his haste. He needs some air and he needs a smoke– the paradoxical manifestation of his frustration amplified by the way those boys were flirting with you. When Jack finally gets to the small loading dock outside of the studio that overlooks the alley, he digs his cigarettes and lighter out of his pants pocket. He puts one of the orange filters between his teeth and returns his silver cigarette case to his pocket, then flicks open his Zippo and lights up, inhaling deeply. He goes to put the lighter into the inside breast pocket of his jacket for easier access, then hears it clink softly against something.

Shit. Jack thinks. He forgot to give you back your ring. 

He pulls the cigarette from his lips and shakily exhales a stream of smoke.

He makes a mental note to do it as soon as he gets back inside.

Back in your dressing room, you gently scrub at your eyes with a cotton pad until you’ve removed your mascara, then swipe to remove the rest of your eye makeup. You usually leave venues in oversized sunglasses anyway, hiding your sensitive eyes from the camera flashes sure to blind you on your way out.

You’re just about finished taking off your makeup when you notice a blur quickly pass by your open door.

“Eric!” you call, turning in your chair. The blur returns to your doorway.

“Sorry,” Teddy says with a smile. “Hate t’disappoint.”

“No, no…I just wanted to say it was nice to meet you,” you tell him, rising from your vanity and holding out your hand.

“Teddy, what th’fuck is–oh,” Eric chastises him, barging into your room. “Sorry,” he adds sheepishly.

“Did you find–” Wes is similarly cut off as he realizes he and Donovan are also stepping into your dressing room unannounced. You’ve not even started to undress, but the intimacy of the space and seeing you with your makeup off and your hair down stuns the boys into silence.

“I um, I was just telling Teddy that it was nice to meet you all,” you say quietly. “I don’t really get to do a lot of gigs with other artists. And you guys sounded really great.”

“Thank you,” Teddy smirks. He nudges Eric, who is still silently staring at you. His hair hangs down just barely covering his eyes. You recall the way his hair looked slicked to his temples with sweat after their performance. 

“Thank you,” Eric echoes. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes, offering you one.

“Oh, no thanks,” you politely decline. But you don’t object when he brings the carton up to his mouth, taking one with his teeth and lighting up. Teddy swats at Eric’s shoulder with the back of his hand and Eric passes him the pack without taking his eyes off you. He looks you up and down as Teddy lights his own cigarette. 

“You were amazin’,” he says finally. 

“Thanks,” you blush again.

“For real, you…y’really got somethin’,” he continues. 

“Like what?” you tease, feeling bold. Something about the way all four of them are staring at you, like you’re commanding the whole room, goes straight to your head.

“Like…” Eric exhales smoke, sending a thick cloud through your dressing room. “Like you’re right on the edge. Know wha’ I mean?”

“Alright, honey, you ready–what the fuck?” Jack halts in his tracks when he steps into your room to see the band. Jack’s eyes dart between you and Eric. Teddy chuckles, enjoying the show a little too much. 

“Sorry, mate,” Donovan says, landing a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Didn’t mean t’intrude.” He looks around at his bandmates with a silent look that says let’s go. The energy in the room shifts in a way that feels charged. Wes steps out first, for once quiet and compliant, past Jack and into the hallway. Teddy turns towards the door, grabbing Eric by the arm as he does. Donovan steps out, followed by Teddy, until Eric is left facing Jack, his smoldering cigarette between his teeth. He plucks it from his mouth and exhales another stream of smoke, leaning away from Jack as he does. His eyes land on you once more. 

“Sorry, again,” he says to Jack. “See y’la’er…honey,” he smirks at you before turning to leave your room at last. Jack watches him strut down the hallway, then swiftly closes the door behind him.

“What was that about?” Jack asks defensively.

“Nothing, I just wanted to say bye to them,” you reply. “Are you ready?”

Your nonchalance catches Jack by surprise.

“You’re not even changed,” he protests. You begin unbuttoning your skirt. 

“Well, I’ll be quick,” you grin, letting it drop around your ankles. You step, still in your chunky heels, out of the skirt and towards Jack, now only wearing the top that hugs your cleavage just right and your panties. You lean up and press a quick kiss to his lips before turning and actually beginning to change.

He notices that you don’t ask for your ring back. He has to remind you once you get in the car.

A few weeks go by before you bump into Eric and The Strangers again. This time, you’re at a house in the hills, at a label party hosted by some producer. This label has been eyeing you for some time, and this producer specifically has been reaching out to try and meet up for “just one drink.” You knew he had ambitions of convincing you to sign with him, and you didn’t think it would ever happen, but you didn’t want to miss an opportunity to mingle with fellow musicians. It was the thing you missed most after going solo: the sense of community.

You’re standing on the concrete pool deck in the backyard, holding your empty champagne glass. You wanted a minute away from the chaos of the party, and the quiet of the backyard was perfect. You can’t see any stars with all of the city lights, but you like to look up and imagine them there.

“Hiya, honey,” purrs a British accent behind you. You whirl around, grin plastered across your face.

“Eric!” you light up.

“Oy, izzat our favorite girl?” Wes laughs, bounding up to you. 

“You look like y’could use another drink,” Eric offers, nodding to your empty glass. He extends a hand to you and you take it, letting him tug you towards him and back into the house as you laugh. Inside, Eric gets you a fresh glass of champagne then leads you towards a hallway off the kitchen of the house. 

“Come on,” he laughs, “you gotta see this.”

He drags you into a bedroom at the top of a flight of stairs and your heart races for a moment. He slides open the glass door to the balcony and extends his arm again to usher you through. You step out onto the balcony, joining the other members of the band, and your breath leaves your lungs as you take in the view. You can see all of Hollywood, including the Hollywood sign, illuminated in the distance. Eric joins you at the railing, leaning on his elbows next to you. The boys are all in their usual suits, though they’re missing their ties, and Eric’s got the top few buttons of his shirt undone. You can see the sweat leaving a shine on his collarbone.

“S’pretty fucking cool, huh?” he quips.

“Yeah…it is.”

Eric stands and Donovan holds his hand out to him. He passes him something that looks like a cigarette but smells worse. Eric takes a drag and then goes to pass it to you.

“Oh– no, thanks,” you say timidly. Eric smiles, then passes it over your shoulder to Wes. You stifle a small cough as he exhales the smoke a little too close to your face.

“How’ve y’been, honey?” Eric asks you, teasing you just a little.

“I’m good…busy. I’m doing my west coast shows,” you try to explain. 

“Oh yeah?” he chirps. “That’s right, I ‘member you mentionin’ that. Hey, when are you up in San Francisco?”

Wes hands Eric the cigarette again and he takes another drag as you answer.

“Two weeks. It’s supposed to be a cute little Fourth of July thing,” you explain. He chuckles.

“Cute…” he repeats, eyeing you. You can just barely smell the musk of his cologne under the smoke. “We’re actually playin’ a gig up there on the sixth, you should come ‘round…if you’re plannin’ on stayin’ in town.”

He reaches up to Wes and passes the cigarette back.

Eric is staring at you. His eyes look glassy. There’s something that’s been bothering you since you last ran into the guys. 

“Hey. Um. Can I ask you something?” you finally muster.

Wes hands the foul smelling cigarette back to Eric, who takes another puff. Donovan swirls a drink whose ice is barely solid anymore. Teddy sets down a beer bottle and you can tell by its soft clinking sound that it’s empty. You can feel their eyes on you, though your attention is fixed on Eric. The freckles across the tops of his cheeks sit in the same patterns that your imaginary stars do.

“Anythin’,” he says sweetly.

“When we met…you said I was…well, you said I was…right on the edge,” you say, awkwardly repeating his phrase from weeks ago. “What…what does that mean?”

Eric laughs, and the other boys join in. The feeling of all of them laughing at you makes your heart skip a beat and your cheeks warm.

“You’re right on the fuckin’ edge, that’s wha’ that means!” he croons. The others laugh again. “You’re right fuckin’ there, babe, you can do anythin’.”

“You’ve got that sound,” Teddy adds.

“What sound?”

“That million-fuckin’-bucks sound!” Eric exclaims. “Seriously. You’re doin’ that sweet little girl-next-door thing now, but this, rock and roll…that’s the future. And on that TV show, that’s what you’ve got. I saw a girl everyone calls cute and she didn’t look cute, she looked hot, she looked…”

His eyes land on you.

“...sexy.”

The word makes you twist away from him, your cheeks burning as you press your back against the railing of the balcony. Again, Eric offers you the cigarette and again you decline. The boys are laughing loudly now, teasing Eric.

“C’mon mate, we get it,” Wes smirks.

“Look, I’m just bein’ honest!” Eric protests. “Fucking angel, i’n’t she?”

He takes your hand and lifts it, gently prompting you to spin. You’re wearing a very short black skirt with a fringe made to look like piano keys. As Eric swiftly twirls you, he watches the keys flare out and expose more of your thighs. He whistles.

“Gorgeous,” he mutters when he has you standing in place again. The boys laugh once more.

“C’mon, Eric,” Donovan chides him playfully.

“Yeah, ‘sides… and don’t take this the wrong way, mate,” Teddy smirks. “But let’s jus’ say I’m not puttin’ any money on you in a fight wi’that soldier boy of hers.”

Your eyes go wide as the boys laugh once more. You wonder how they could possibly know. The TV show, your soundcheck– maybe they had seen your ring? Your heart races as you try to put together who else might know. Your thoughts are cut off sharply as the boys laugh.

“That boy scout!” Wes howls, taking another drag off the cigarette. It’s really starting to smell now, and you feel a little lightheaded. “You jokin’?! Eric would clobber ‘im!”

“You lot, tryin’ t’get me in trouble,” Eric tsks. He takes the cigarette from Wes without asking and takes another long, deep drag as Wes protests. His eyes stay locked on yours as the lights of Hollywood glitter over his shoulder and the end of the cigarette glows in the darkness. He exhales out the side of his mouth, sending his plume of smoke dancing away into the night sky.

He reaches out and hooks a finger under your chin, tilting your head up slightly.

“Tell your daddy I promise to have you home by ten, princess,” he muses, a mischievous playfulness in his tone.

He quickly thumbs your chin before withdrawing his hand. Your head is spinning. Eric looks you up and down and his tongue darts out to wet his lips. You can read the desire in his gaze. The hunger. 

It makes you feel so alive. To be so wanted. When he looks at you, he doesn’t see the cute young girl who got her start in a picturesque girl group wearing matching outfits. He doesn’t see America’s Sweetheart. The way he’s looking at you should make you feel objectified. But it just makes you feel…sexy.

You want him to kiss you.

To lean forward and feel his lips on yours, taste the smoke on his tongue. You ball your left hand into a fist, absentmindedly searching for your engagement ring with your thumb. You feel only skin.

Industry party. You left it at home.

You’re saved by the laughter of the boys as they one again rib Eric. He blushes, finally tearing his gaze away from you. You exchange a few more laughs before you excuse yourself, lying about needing to find a bathroom. You know Jack will be looking for you soon, if he isn’t already.

In the car on the way home, Jack is quiet. Your head is starting to clear up, that light, airy feeling dissipating. You get inside and head straight for your jewelry box to replace your engagement ring on your finger. Jack comes up behind you, nearly startling you as you glance up at him in the mirror. You smile sweetly at him.

“Hey,” you whisper. He doesn’t respond. “Everything okay?” you ask in a gentler tone.

“Why do you smell like pot?” he challenges you in a level tone.

“What?” you ask, horrified as you spin on your heel to face him now.

“You reek. I can smell it all over your clothes, your hair…” he continues. “Who were you hanging out with when you snuck off?” he accuses you.

“I did not ‘sneak off!’” you reply hotly. 

“Then where were you?!” he snips. “Honey, do you even know what kinda shit happens at these parties? People out here, they’re–”

He draws in a deep breath, cutting himself off. He rubs a hand down his face, then balls it into a tight fist.

“I need a minute,” he mutters. 

And without another word, Jack leaves the bedroom. You feel hurt at his accusation, that you would intentionally sneak away from him. The truth was that you needed some air, and Jack had already left you to get himself another drink. You weren’t out in the backyard long before Eric found you. 

And you feel dirty at his comments about the drugs. That must’ve been what the boys were passing back and forth. You don’t know what to do. You quickly shed your clothes, angrily tossing them in the hamper, but you don’t feel any cleaner. You flop on the bed, hot tears starting to sting your eyes. You press the heels of your hands into them, blinking away the salty water.

But what feels worse, what feels like the ultimate betrayal, is knowing how close you were to Eric. Knowing that he was flirting with you. Knowing that you liked it. It makes your chest ache. You love Jack. You love Jack. More than anything in the world. So why did you want to kiss Eric? It makes you feel confused and angry at yourself. Your shoulders shake with each quiet sob that escapes you.

Jack takes a few moments to himself in the kitchen. He’s not being fair. He knows that. He’s jealous and he’s taking it out on you. He plants his hands firmly against the stone counter underneath him, the gold band on his left finger glinting in the light. He takes a few deep breaths, trying to slow his heart down and bring rational thought back into his mind. He finally returns to the bedroom to see you, in only your bra and panties, stretched out on the bed, body convulsing gently with the force of your soft sobs. Jack feels an ache in his heart and a deep hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. 

He sits down on the bed next to you and reaches over, trying to stroke your hair. You turn your head away from him before he can make contact.

“Honey…” he coos.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, your voice tiny in the room.

Jack scoots back on the bed so he’s sitting up against the headboard as you shift to your knees, sniffling.

“I’m sorry Jackie, please don’t be mad at me…” you sob, launching yourself into his arms. 

“Woah, hey, hey, honey…” he mutters against you. You’re flush to his chest, arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders, face buried in the crook of his neck. He pulls your behind up into his lap.

“I’m sorry, I’m really, really sorry,” you hiccup. “I didn’t mean to sneak off…”

Jack gently holds you, an arm securely around your shoulders drawing you closer to his chest, and the other tucked under your knees, hand resting on your hip, supporting the weight of your legs. He smells like his cologne and sweat and cigarettes. You wonder if you still smell like pot.

“I’m sorry, honey…I shouldn’t have yelled at you,” Jack says gently as he rocks you lightly back and forth. Your cries still shake through your body. This is the first real fight you’ve had in a long time…the first one since you’ve been engaged, you’re almost certain of it. 

“I’m sorry, baby,” he continues. “It’s not your fault.”

“I just,” you manage to get out in between gasping breaths, “I needed some air and then Eric found me and then I was with them on the balcony and they were smoking and they asked me if I wanted any and I said no but–”

“Shhh, sh, it’s okay,” Jack shushes you. “I was being too harsh on you. I’m sorry,” he says again. The gentle rhythm of his rocking and the soothing sound of his voice finally starts to bring you back down. 

“I didn’t mean to sneak off,” you repeat with a sniffle. “Honest.”

“I know you didn’t, baby, I know.”

It feels good when Jack soothes you like this. You don’t know why. But something about the firm gentleness of his voice, the soft touch of his hands…it makes you feel so warm and cradled in his arms.

“I’m sorry…I’m sorry…” he murmurs in your ear. “I just get nervous when I don’t know where you are, baby.”

“I was with Eric and the band,” you sniffle pitifully, still clinging to Jack tightly.

“Did they give you anything?” Jack muses, stroking your hair.

“N-no,” you hiccup again. “They offered me something, but I said no.”

“Okay…okay, baby, shhh, shh…”

You can’t hold it back any longer.

“A-and, Eric, he…” You’re gasping for breath around the words.

“Take a deep breath, honey, relax,” Jack coaxes you, rocking you gently in his arms. His soft and loving touch only makes your heart heavier with guilt.

“Eric, he was…he was flirting with me,” you finally sob. “He, he– he was calling me pretty and…and sexy, and…and…and I almost…I’m sorry, Jackie.”

Jack rocks you until your breath evens out, quietly thinking. When you can finally breathe normally, you sit back a bit. Jack looks at you, tears staining your cheeks, makeup a mess. He gently wipes some of the mascara from under your eyes with his thumb.

“What happened, baby?” he asks gently. “Did he touch you?”

“N-no,” you manage to get out. “No. But he was…he was really close to me, and I could tell he wanted to kiss me…”

Jack watches you trail off, hesitant to finish the thought.

“Did you want him to kiss you?” he offers, his voice soft. You squeeze your eyes shut, more tears running down your cheeks as you nod. Jack wipes your face again and holds you to his chest again as you get out a few more sniffles.

“I’m sorry, Jackie…I still love you...promise…” you whimper. “I don’t know what…why…”

Jack smiles to himself.

“Honey…” he begins, leaning back from you again. “Do you still wanna marry me?”

“Yes,” you cry. “Yes, I do!”

Jack chuckles.

“Honey, you wanting Eric to kiss you doesn’t mean you don’t love me,” he says in a clear voice.

“But it felt so…scary,” you admit. “To want someone…someone else.” 

Jack considers you for a second.

“Baby, when we play,” he starts. “And I’m pretending to be someone else…does it mean you really wish I was someone else?”

You think about it for a second.

“N-no…” you admit. 

“Sweetheart,” Jack chuckles. “He’s a rockstar. Of course you like him.” You blush.

“I don’t–”

“It’s okay,” Jack cuts you off. “I love you, honey.”

He leans in and peppers gentle, feather-light kisses to your cheeks, your eyes, your neck. You lean back and let him press his lips to the skin of your throat, sighing softly under his touch. 

“I- I love you, too,” you whimper. 

“I’m sorry for yelling,” he repeats, pressing another soft kiss to your collarbone. “I’m not mad at you, honey.”

He dances his fingertips across your skin, skimming your thighs, your hips, your stomach. You squirm at the teasing touch of his fingers.

“Jaaaack,” you whine. “Do you wanna play?” you whisper.

Jack brushes a bit of hair from your eyes. His expression is soft. 

“I wanna be with you, honey,” he says gently. He leans in and presses a soft kiss to your lips. Your eyes flutter closed as you kiss him, tasting and smelling and feeling him. He rubs his hands over your shoulders and down your arms, gently resting his fingertips on your back. When he finally leans back again, his eyes are pleading. 

“I just wanna be with you,” he repeats. “Yeah? Can you do that?” 

You can feel your cheeks get warm and you nod, blinking away the last of your tears. Jack shifts and gently lays you back on the bed, one of his big hands guiding your shoulder down. The way he’s looking at you makes you fold your arms over your midsection and turn to the side.

“No, honey…please,” he whispers, gently pulling you back into place underneath him. Hearing Jack use the word please makes your heart flutter. “Please, sweetheart…let me see you…”

He’s so sweet it makes your chest feel like it might explode. 

“Tell me what to do,” you say in a quiet voice, almost out of habit.

Jack presses a kiss on your sternum.

“We’re not playing, honey,” he reminds you before moving on to your navel. “You don’t have to do anything.”

He kisses the skin just above the lacy hem of your panties before hooking his thumbs into the leg holes and rolling them down your thighs. Jack removes them and sets them aside. It’s odd not to see him shove them down his pants, put them in a pocket, sniff them, stuff them in your mouth. 

You try to keep your knees together, but Jack brings his palms back to your inner thighs, spreading you open. You wiggle and squirm, flexing your hips as you feel the pressure of Jack stretching you out. It feels deep and almost painful in your hips. You whine softly.

“Shhh, shh, I got you, sweetheart,” Jack muses, massaging your flesh gently. 

“Jack…” you whimper. It feels so good to use his real name. It’s been a little while since you had sex without playing.

“You’re so beautiful, baby,” Jack mumbles, moving over you. He reaches around behind you and unhooks your bra, helping you shed that as well. “God, there’s my pretty girl.”

You squirm a little against the mattress. You love when Jack calls you beautiful and pretty. But there’s some nagging part of you that wants…more.

“Am- am I sexy, Jack?” you whisper. He stares down at you, his eyes half-lidded.

“You’re so gorgeous, honey, love you so much…” he breathes in your ear, leaning over you.

It still doesn’t feel like enough. But you can’t protest when Jack brings his hand down to rub against you.

“What do you want, baby?” he asks you breathlessly.

“You, I want you,” you beg. Jack chuckles. 

“You want me, sweetheart?” he smiles. You nod. “Well, I’m right here, honey.” He leans down and kisses you again. 

You bring your fingers to rest on his belt buckle. 

“Can you…ugh, you’re teasing,” you accuse him. He laughs.

“Sorry, honey, not trying to tease you,” he says gently, starting to undo his belt. He presses soft little kisses to your cheeks as he removes his belt and tugs off his shirt. He kisses you again and you whine. He finally strips down to his boxers and rubs his clothed bulge against your thigh.

“You want me?” he repeats, breathless.

“You, Jack, I want you,” you sigh. He finally obliges, freeing his cock and rubbing himself in your slick.

“I want you, too, honey,” he purrs. “I love you.”

“I lo-oove you,” you whine as Jack slowly pushes in. The stretch feels incredible. He knows you like the abrupt, full feeling of him inside of you, so recently, Jack has been slowly working you up to a certain level of tolerance, gradually reducing the number of times he would make you take his fingers before filling you up. And it was so worth it.

His breath is hot against your neck as he pants against your skin, already dotted with sweat. He notices that your hair still smells like pot, but it somehow feels comforting to him, knowing that you’re so close that your presence is flooding his senses.

“God, you feel so good,” Jack moans. You’re digging your nails into his shoulders, desperate for something to hold onto. Your cheeks burn as you squirm underneath Jack. It’s so hard to feel him looking at you. You turn your face to the side, squeaking.

“Shhhh, shhh, I know, honey, I know it’s hard, hey,” he says gently before grabbing your chin with his fingers. He delicately turns your head so you’re facing him again. “You’re doing so good, sweetheart. Just breathe.”

You inhale deeply, your breath just slightly hitching as Jack readjusts his hips against you. 

“I- I love you,” you whisper to him. He rolls his hips against you and you whimper, but do your best to stay focused on him.

“I love you too, honey bunny,” he says softly. 

You don’t think you’ll last long. The feeling of Jack’s length dragging against your walls combined with the overwhelming eye contact already has you weak.

“J-j…Jack…” you whine. “Ca-can you touch me? Please?”

Jack grins and brings his fingers to your lips.

“Help me out, baby,” he tells you. You open your mouth and let him wet his fingertips on your tongue before he brings them down to rub your clit. You buck your hips at the extra stimulation, and feel Jack hit a spot even deeper inside of you.

“Ah- ah, Jack, Jack, pleaseee,” you whimper.

“You still wanna be my girl, right?” he asks, drawing his hips back slowly.

“Y-yes! Yes, God, Jack, yes,” you babble. He snaps his hips up into you again and rolls his thumb against your clit. You cry out at how unbelievably good it feels to give all of your attention to Jack– how he’s touching you, what he feels like inside of you, the idea of being his, only his, forever.

“And you’re gonna let me put a baby in here one day, right?” he breathes, resting one big hand over your tummy. “Gonna let me build us a life together?”

“Y-yes, yes, pleeeaseee, God!” you sob.

“You want all that, honey? House with a white fence,” he pants, picking up his rhythm just a bit. “Backyard…little feet running across the floor…”

“Jack, I want it, I want it…” you cry. “Can you try right now?” you beg him, clawing at his shoulders. He laughs.

“You-mmph-” Jack groans as he readjusts, feeling you squeeze him. “You want me to try right now? Give you a little baby?” he teases you.

“Yesss, yes, please!” 

The idea of little boys who look like Jack and little girls who look like you running around a sunlit house in the suburbs on a summer morning makes you feel faint.

“Are you still taking your pill?” he whispers to you. He knows that, even without playing, your mind isn’t being entirely objective in this moment. You nod.

“Y-yes, yes, but try,” you plead with him. “Give it to me, please?”  

You whine and paw at his chest. Your eyes are enormous and glassy with desire. Jack loves the needy version of you that emerges when you talk like this. 

“God, baby, you’re so cute like this,” Jack huffs.

“N-not cute!” you whine. “Sexy, say I’m sexy, please…”

Jack's heart dissolves.

“Sexy, you’re so sexy, honey,” he breathes. “You’re so fuckin’ hot.”

Hearing Jack finally use that word makes you melt in his hands as he leans down to kiss your neck. He gently nips at your collarbone, making you gasp. You feel him drive his hips up a few more times, bringing you right to the edge.

His soft whines in your ear are what send you over.

You cry out as you cum, digging your nails deeper into Jack’s skin. He winces at the pain.

“God, honey- fuck,” he whimpers. He wraps an arm around your waist and holds you close as you feel his cock twitch inside of you. Jack moans as he cums, and the warm feeling of his release in your womb makes your head feel airy and light. 

Jack doesn’t move for a second, just collapses against your sternum as you both breathe heavily. He presses a soft kiss to your collarbone. Your mind is still swirling with images of your little house in the suburbs, sunshine streaming through the window and a record playing as Jack brings you breakfast in bed.

You wince as Jack pulls out, feeling his cum rush out of you and drip down towards the sheets.

Jack quickly returns with a warm washcloth to help you clean up as he peppers more kisses to your cheeks. When you’re both comfortable again, relaxing in bed, his fingers tangled in your hair, your cheek flush to his chest, you remember what started your little argument. That floaty, dizzy feeling you had at the party around Eric wasn’t too far from the feeling you can still feel rippling through your body from being with Jack.

“Jack,” you ask him. “How do you know what pot smells like?”

He chuckles softly at you.

“Honey, you know I worked for the FBI before I met you,” he says. 

“Did you arrest bad guys?” you ask him.

“Well, not arrest,” he replies. You twist in the sheets, laying a hand on his bare chest and tracing little heart shapes with one nail against his skin. Jack loves the way the gentle scratching sensation feels on his chest.

“Did you beat them up?” you tease him, a grin creeping across your face.

“Sometimes,” he smiles back. You hum gently, your eyes still locked on his.

“D’you think we could…I mean, I’ve never…” You can’t get the question out. It sounds so silly. Jack studies you, propping himself up on one elbow.

“You’ve never…what, baby?” he teases you, grinning. He loves how cute you are when you get tongue-tied.

“I’ve never…done it before,” you admit quietly. “Have you?”

Jack chuckles.

“Just a handful of times,” he replies. “While I was undercover.”

“Is it…what is it like?” you ask him. Your eyes are enormous; Jack feels his heart pumping in his chest. So cute.

“You wanna try it, baby?” he muses. He didn’t think it was possible, but your eyes seem to go even wider.

“Really?”

“We could smoke…if you want to,” he adds. He almost can’t believe you’re asking. You hate cigarettes, and this is the first time Jack has even heard you mention drugs.

“Only if you think it would be…okay,” you reply, trying not to betray your trepidation. You are curious, but you’re nervous too.

“Of course, baby,” he reassures you. “I’ll be with you.”

You sigh contentedly, snuggling into his chest. Jack studies your features, taking in the glow that seems to illuminate your face in your post-orgasm haze.

“There’s something else, too, honey…if you want to…” Jack cautiously begins. 

“Mmm?” you hum sleepily.

“You know,” he continues. “A lot of people who… play like we do…they sometimes invite someone else to play with them.”

You sit up, alert now.

“Huh?” you ask him.

“If you want to,” he says softly, holding your gaze, “we could talk about how you could play with Eric.”

You’re stunned.

“Bu-but…but I love you,” you insist, that confused and angry feeling starting to creep back into your body.

“You do love me,” Jack reassures you, brushing some of your hair out of your eyes. “And I love you, baby. But Eric…Eric gives you some things that I can’t.”

It makes your heart feel like it’s splintering into a thousand pieces.

“No, Jack–”

“Shh. Honey, let me finish,” he says, his voice firm but gentle. “He’s a musician, just like you. He’s in the public eye, just like you. And you said he likes you?”

You nod silently, unable to meet his eye.

“I hate taking my ring off,” Jack says, his voice dropping to an even lower volume. “Every time we leave the house. Do you remember when we went to that awards show a few months ago, baby?” he asks. Again you nod. “Well, I was there with you, but it killed me that I couldn’t be there with you. Do you know what I mean?”

You nod again. It does hurt when you have to put your ring in the jewelry box before you go out. You don’t necessarily need to shout your love from the rooftops, but it does hurt that you can’t even be seen out in a romantic way with Jack. That you can’t even wear your ring to an industry party for fear of raising suspicion. 

“And he’s your age,” Jack continues.

“Jack, that doesn’t–” you protest quickly.

“Shh,” he silences you again. “It does matter, baby. How many guys your age have you been with?” he prods gently. You glance away. “And how many have you actually liked? You like him, right?”

You nod. It’s hard to do. It still feels like betrayal.

“I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do, honey,” Jack starts. “But what I am saying is that…if you like him, and he likes you…and you want to play with him…it doesn’t mean you love me any less, okay?”

You can’t contain it anymore. You wrap your arms around Jack’s neck and hide in his chest as tears prick at your eyes. It’s not sadness; you don’t really know what it is. But it’s an enormous feeling. You hear Jack’s heart thumping steadily under his ribcage as he plants a kiss on top of your head.

“Can we…can we talk about it?” you ask in a whisper.

“Yeah…’course we can, honey. Of course we can.”

thank you for reading! read the full be my baby series here. please reblog if you like what you read; it keeps writers engaged in fandom spaces and creating cool shit for you!

[scannainscanrula]

tumblrinas!!!! more be my baby!!!

pip really went so hard on this please enjoy

[iamyourdailydoseofbi]

I AM GROSS AND PERVERTED, I AM OBSESSED AND DERANGED. ( Fem! Remmick x Reader )

WARNING! This will contain ( CHOKING, FINGERING, BRAT TAMING, AND MILD MENTION OF BLOOD, BREEDING, BONDAGE. ) DO NOT ENGAGE IF YOU CANNOT HANDLE SMUT / DO NOT LIKE THIS / WILL BE TRIGGERED! AUTHOR NOTE! credit goes to @butchification-ray ( the og creator / mastermind of Fem! Remmick ) and @scannainscanrula ( who introduced me to this AU & gave me some tips ) .<3 pairing: Fem! Remmick ( Remi ) x Reader prompt : sometimes you just gotta dom your vampire girlfriend.. word count: 1,000+ words WARNING! This will contain ( CHOKING, FINGERING, BRAT TAMING, AND MILD MENTION OF BLOOD, BREEDING, BONDAGE. ) DO NOT ENGAGE IF YOU CANNOT HANDLE SMUT / DO NOT LIKE THIS / WILL BE TRIGGERED!

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ NEW YORK, 1999.

Resisting the urge to gag as your friend rambles on about her latest date, you cover your mouth with your hand, trying to keep your cocktail down. You couldn't understand the thought process of a man. Just..why? Why the fuck did they have be so god damn gross? Seriously. Never in your life have you looked at a man suggestively licking ice cream and want to throw your panties at him in lust. It was just cringeworthy and disgusting and made you grateful for having Remi. Shaking your head the more that describes the way that he was licking his ice cream, you take a sip of your cocktail, swishing it around in your mouth. The burn was far far more pleasant than her story.

“That is disgusting.” Remmi nods, her nose wrinkling up in disgust.

“Agreed.” You smack your lips together at the lingering burn of liquor in your mouth, “I just don’t get how anyone can do that and think that they look sexy.”

“I can’t believe a man would do that.” 

“I can, it’s a man.” You scoff, biting back a giggle at your own joke.

“Not as bad as doing that.” Remi argues, pointing to a couple on the other end of the bar. 

Following her hand, you raise a brow up at the clearly drunk couple, sprinkling a line of salt on each other's arms. Grabbing a lime from the bartender's hand, the couple proceed to lick each other's arms, downing the shot then sucking on the lime slice. Oh fucking please, that was tame compared to the man from your friends date. They were licking each other's arms to take a shot, they probably knew each other and were totally fine with it. They weren’t licking an ice cream cone to try to seduce someone who they had just met on a first date. Two totally different things. Rolling your eyes hard at the sight, you shake your head firmly, pushing hair over your shoulder. 

"Oh, shut it, tampon sucker.” You scoff, “You eat pussy, licking someone's arm to do a line of salt for a shot is nothing compared to what Jessie is talking about." 

"Tampon sucker?" Remi scoffs, placing a hand onto her chest.

"You heard me, Remi." You argue back, "Don’t act like you totally wouldn’t do it if I let you." 

It was a low blow and just an overall shitty insult, but too late to take it back now. You had said it and she had heard you. Narrowing her eyes hard at your words, she grit her teeth tightly, sucking in a breath through her teeth. Opening her mouth up to argue, she stops herself at the last second, tightly shutting her lips. Diverting your gaze back onto your friend, she’s continuing to ramble on about her date, not noticing you and Remi’s bickering. Good. She clearly needed to get all of this out of her system, and you weren’t going to tell her to shut up any time soon. 

Feeling Remi’s glare still on you, you turn your head, raising a brow up at the look on her face. It was a mix of anger, hurt, and brattiness. Wrinkling her nose up as she festers in her feelings, she pushes back strands of hair from her face, leaning forward on the bartop. You barely resist the urge to glance down as she pushes up her chest, clearly attempting to rile you up. She had worn that skimpy little band shirt, one that you had cut up for her for the summer time. She knew just how much you enjoyed it, how you liked how it hugged her curves. Evil little bitch. 

“I have standards.” She argues, making your scoff.

“I’ve seen the people you eat, you do not have standards, Remi.” You roll your eyes hard, “Blood is blood to you.”

“Nuh-huh! Blood is not just blood. I have very high standards for the things I eat.” She pushes back tousled curls over her shoulder, acting like she was above your claims. 

“Bullshit, Remi.” You scoff hard, shaking your head in firm disagreement.

“Bullshit? I do!” She argues, her voice raising up in offense.

“You don’t!” You argue back, “I saw you eat a literal rat out of a dumpster.”

“I had drunk the blood of someone with drugs in their system, that was not on purpose.” She argues back, lowering her voice to not be overheard. “I just had the munchies!” 

As if that was a good enough reason to justify eating a literal rat. Sure, you had gotten the munchies before after smoking a blunt with her before. But, there was always other options to get a snack⎯grocery stores, convenience stores, the chinese place next door or the pizza place down the block from the apartment. Surely, she couldn’t just find someone randomly on the street and just steal a quick bite? Instead of just eating a rat. Pointing at your tongue to pretend like you were sticking a finger down your throat, you let out a dramatic fake gag, mocking her shitty reasoning. Nothing could justify it. Nothing.

“You still did it.” You bicker back, leaning in closer to her. “That is far more gross than licking salt off someone’s arm.”

“Gross enough for you to not want to fuck me?” She pouts, pathetically giving you puppy eyes.

“If you eat another rat, I will never touch you again.” You argue firmly, “Let alone let that tongue of yours near me.”

“It was one time.” She huffs, dropping her facade instantly.

“One time too many!” You scoff, shaking your head.

Pushing open the door to the apartment, you kick off your shoes, watching Remi lingering in the doorway. Her lips curled down into a big and pathetic pout. Resisting the urge to roll your eyes hard at the sight, you don’t bother to invite her in just yet, throwing your jacket on the couch. She grumbles loudly, her face darkening as you deny her entry into the apartment. Taking an annoyed breath in through your nose at her grumbling, you walk away, continuing to deny her entry. 

She was being too much of a brat for you right now. She could sulk a little longer outside, maybe that would snap her out of it. Letting out another loud grumble, you don’t give her the attention that she was clearly demanding, unbuttoning your jeans. Pressing your back against the wall for support, you shimmy yourself out of them, kicking them down the floor in front of the laundry machine. Kicking the wall beside the doorway, she lets out another pestering huff, glaring at you.

“I can’t believe you seriously brought up the rat at the bar.” She huffs, tapping her foot on the floor.

“Remi, you started it.” You argue, shooting her a look.

“Did not.” She argues back, her tone ridiculously petulant.

“Did so, you little brat.” You threaten, “Keep it up and I won’t let you in.”

“You’d do that to me?” She gasps, acting like she was in some kind of crappy soap opera.

“Remi..”

Slapping your forehead with your hand, you let out a defeated sigh as she keeps on going, patience drying up quickly. Tapping her foot annoyingly, you let out a grumble, eye twitching at just how annoying she was acting. God, you just wanted to strangle and fuck this brattiness out of her at the same time. For someone who liked to brag about being a dominant top, she was sure acting like a bratty pillow princess. Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you try to focus on removing your socks, trying to show some self restraint. She was just trying to piss you off on purpose. She was tipsy and just pestering you like how she always did when she drank blood laced with liquor. 

“Stop it.” You scold, “You’re tipsy, Remi.” 

“You’re tipsy…bottom bitch.” 

“Remi, stop it.” You shake your head, “I’m serious. You’re being ridiculous and you didn’t even really drink that much blood tonight.”

“You’re not letting me in because you know the moment you let me inside I’d have you bent over the bed and moaning my name.” She taunts, letting out a soft giggle.

Letting out another pestering clearing of her throat, you lose all self control, sharply turning on your heels to face her fully. Oh, this little bitch. Now she was going too far. Smugly smirking at your reaction, you narrow your eyes hard at her, hands trembling at your side. You wouldn’t hit her. You wouldn’t hit her. Sticking her tongue out childishly, she flips you off, swaying slightly from side to side. Ugh, she didn’t even drink that much. It was one fucking slurp from your neck while the two of you were in the bathroom. It was literally nothing compared to 

“Suck it..” She taunts, “Or else I’ll find some other chick who will.” 

“You’re making a fucking fool of yourself, Remi. Get your ass inside now. I invite you or what the fuck that I need to say.” You snap, shooting her a firm glare. 

“Oooh, I’m so scared!” She mocks, holding her hands up in mock surrender.

Narrowing your eyes hard at her antics, she takes it a step further, mimicking jerking off her imaginary cock. It was ridiculously childish. Throwing her head back in a loud cackle, you lose what little of your patience that held you back, cheeks flushing hot from burning anger. God, why the hell were you with her again? She was such a fucking brat. Wrapping your hand around her throat, you spin her against the wall, kicking the door with your shoe. Choking on her laughter at your seriousness, she stares at you with wide eyes, her cheeks flushing a bright pink. From embarrassment? Lust? Shock? Anger? You couldn't really tell nor did you really care.

“Say one more thing, I fucking dare you, Remi.” You sneer, “I’ve been letting a lot slide, more than I should. And now you wanna talk about fucking others? Act like pretending to be tipsy is gonna save your ass, huh?”

She doesn’t respond, and you let out a sigh of relief. 

“We both know that you’re not really tipsy, you’re just acting like a brat for fun.” You press, trying to get her to finally act maturely about all of this. “So drop the act, I’m not having it tonight.” 

“Suck my dick.” 

That fucking does it. Giving her throat a firm warning squeeze, she lets out a pathetic whimper, squirming in your grip to break free. Not a fucking chance. She started this shit and she was gonna endure until you felt like it was enough. Opening her mouth to protest, you don't give her the chance, smashing your lips against hers to swallow the sound. Letting out a strangled noise against your lips, you could feel her hands everywhere, unable to linger in a spot for more than a second. One second they were in your hair, tugging hard at the strands until your scalp ached. The next they were groping at your waist, as if trying to rip apart your underwear like a rapid little beast.

Dragging your tongue over the seam of her mouth, you force her to let you in, dragging your tongue slowly over her fangs. All slimy from all the drool in her mouth. Humming in delight at the taste, you nudge her trembling thighs apart, forcing your knee in between them. Jolting at the pressure of your knee against her crotch, you swear that you could already feel how wet she was, practically dripping like there was a waterfall between her legs. Pathetic slut. She may pretend to be a domiant top who never faltered to your friends, but at heart she was still a pathetic bottom in need of getting fucked right by you. Breaking the kiss, a string of saliva connects from your lips.

“I can feel how wet you are already, haven’t even touched you.” 

“Am not.” She argues, her face flushing brighter from embarrassment.

“No?” You mock, tilting your head to the side. “No, Remi? So if I stick my hand in your panties they’ll be all dry? That pretty little pussy of yours isn’t gonna be drooling for me?” 

“No.” She lies, her voice trailing off at the end.

“Liar. I should stop right here and leave you in a puddle of your own wetness, slut.” You scoff, putting more pressure on her crotch. “But, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’re a little fucking sadist, like torturing yourself.”

Letting out a shuddered breath at the increase of pressure, she bucks her hips involuntarily, seeking out some friction. You could see that familiar glimmer in her eyes, the one that always came whenever you topped her⎯that craving for you to breed her, even though it was biologically impossible. Clicking your tongue scoldingly at her, you slowly pull your knee away, earning a high-pitched protest. It wasn’t quite words, but it wasn’t quite a noise either. It was something desperate and inbetween. God, it was beautiful. Smirking at her reaction, you give her throat a punishing squeeze, holding it for a second until you were sure that her lungs would burn from the lack of air. 

“Keep it up and I’ll tie your ass up.” You warn, releasing your grip just enough to let her breathe again. “Put you right in front of the window.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“You think I won’t after how much of a brat you’ve been acting since we got back from the bar, sweetheart?" You press harder, “Fucking mocking me. Fucking taunting me. Fucking acting like you’re drunk. You’re just an attention seeking whore.”

"You're being mean.” She whines, pouting deeply.

“You’re being a brat.” You argue, “Brats don’t get treated nicely.” 

Letting out another whimper at your words, she squirms around, clawing at your hips with her nails. Perhaps, you were being a little too mean to her. But, she deserved it after how she was acting. Brat’s don’t get to act that way and go unpunished for it. Besides, if you really wanted to be mean, you’d just walk away and go to bed. You could. You could leave her here, in a puddle of her own arousal. You probably should. But, you wouldn’t. Looking over her face slowly, you linger on the blush on her cheeks, on the way her eyes keep on growing heavier and heavier from lust. She was so pretty like this, all needy. But you liked seeing her moaning more.

“( Y/n )..” 

“Begging won’t help you, Remi.” You scold, “You’d do a hell of a lot worse to me if I was acting the way that you are.” 

“But, this is different⎯” She argues in a whiny voice, but you cut her off.

“Is it?” You raise a brow, “Don’t act like you wouldn’t already have me bent over the couch and ass all raw from slapping me.”

Opening her mouth up to argue again, you raise your brow higher, letting her dig a deeper hole for herself. She knew that it was the truth, deep down. If you acted even a fragment like how she had been, your ass would’ve been raw by the time the sun rose up. Stopping herself at the last second, you chuckle at the look on her face, begrudging defeat. Tightening your grip on her throat again, you slip your other hand down her stomach, feeling it trembling under your touch. Stopping at the button of her jeans, you fumble to remove it by yourself, roughly yanking the button free. 

Jolting as you unbutton her jeans, you press your thigh against her crotch, keeping her from moving anymore. It was a lot harder doing this with one hand, but you weren’t about to let go of her throat. Clumsily unzipping them, you take your time pulling them down, leaving them pooled half way down her thighs. The sight of her underwear bringing a smile to your face. The once pretty scarlet red now a dark maroon from how wet she was. God, you wished that you had a camera to take a picture of this. Remi this wet just from a little choking and kissing.

“Look at all this.” You mock, “Talking a big old game, acting like a total brat and you’re fucking ruining those panties of yours. You like when I slap you around, huh? Like when I remind you that I can just as easily top you, turn you into a whiny little bitch.” 

“Stop.” She argues, tightly closing her legs to keep you out.

“Open those legs for me, princess. Or else, I’m gonna walk.” You threaten, pulling your hand away abruptly. 

“Don’t you fucking dare!” She glares, her embarrassment melting away as desperation takes over.

“Open them.” You order, voice a little more stern than before.

Flushing an even brighter pink at your stern order, she surprisingly complies without complaint, spreading her thighs for you. Smugly smirking at her obedience, you slip your hand in her panties, still not removing them completely. You wanted her to sit in her wetness a little longer, feel humiliated just a little longer. Peeling the damp fabric off her folds, you swear that you could hear a low squelching sound from it, lewd and embarrassing. Biting back a whimper, you drag a finger through her folds, playing with the wetness that oozed out of her like a waterfall. 

Biting hard on her bottom lip, you smirk deeply at the sight, you could feel her body vibrating underneath you. Adjusting your other hand on her throat, you flick her clit, earning a strangled noise from her. Rubbing your thumb over her swollen clit, you trail your fingers further, the further you reach the wetter it gets. You barely resist the urge to mock her. Slowly pressing in your pointer and middle finger in, she tenses up instantly at the girthy stretch of your fingers, clenching hard around them. You could barely curl them, trying to find her g-spot.

“Please..” She whines, her hips bucking for more.

“You gonna cum already?” You mock, “Just barely put my fingers in, haven’t even moved yet.”

“You’re so fucking evil!” 

“Evil enough for you to want me to stop?” You snort, watching her face shift instantly.

“Don’t you fucking dare, I swear I’ll rip out your fucking throat⎯” 

Narrowing your eyes hard at her threat, she tries to get in your face, her fangs bared like a wild dog. Pushing her back against the wall by the throat, you sharply curl your fingers upwards, thrusting your fingers roughly. Moaning loudly at the rough pace you set, you chest your chest against hers, giving her throat occasional punishing squeezes. Not enough to make her lose her breath, but enough to make her uncomfortable. Thrusting your fingers in and out fast, you watch smugly as she blinks back hot tears of pleasure, your hand already beginning to ache. But, you push yourself through the minor discomfort. It would be worth it in the end.

Bucking her hips with each cruel thrust of your fingers upwards, you want to mock her, to mock how desperate she was to finish as quickly as possible. But, you refrain. Instead, you just take in every moan, every buck of her hips, every fluttering of her lashes as she barely manages to keep her eyes open. Shifting your hand between her thighs, you clumsily rub your thumb over her clit, ruthless circles that you know would push her closer to an orgasm. Digging her nails hard into your shoulders for support to keep standing upright, you hiss as she manages to break the skin, bloody crescent moon shapes appearing. 

“You’re close, aren’t you?” You purr, “Can feel that little tremble in your breathing.” 

“So close.” She nods, face heating up the closer she gets.

“Not even been doing this for five minutes, think that’s the quickest I’ve ever gotten you to cum.” 

“Please, just stop torturing me!” She wails, “I’m sorry! I’ll fucking behave, just please!”

Tilting your head down, you nip at the side of her neck with your teeth, trying to leave some marks behind. But, the skin keeps healing before you could even get close to it. Stupid vampire fast healing bullshit. Grumbling under your breath, you curl your fingers one last time, earning a high-pitched wail from her. Your ears ring from the sound. Gushing all over your fingers, you coax her through her orgasms, her hips jerking and twitching involuntarily. Gradually slowing down your pace, you give her swollen clit one last rub, watching her shudder violently from the overstimulation. Slowly pulling your fingers out, she winces at the sudden empty feeling, pouting. 

“There we go..” You coo, “So pretty when you cum, aren’t you?” 

“Fuck off.” She huffs, her voice shaky.

“Aww, don’t be like that, Remi.” You chuckle, licking your fingers clean.

The familiar un-naturally sweet taste of her on your tongue. Licking some sweat off her top lip, you chuckle at the sight, enjoying that post-orgasm glimmer in her. Pressing a teasing kiss onto her lips, she huffs against your lips, lightly pushing you away. Rolling your eyes hard at her reaction, you sharply walk away, deciding to deny her any more attention for the rest of the night. If she wanted to continue to be a brat, you’d just let her sulk. Your hand was aching and the temptation of your bed was more pleasing than trying to finger the brattiness out of her…again. 

“Goodnight.” 

“What the fuck?!” She shrieks, “That’s it?! You’re not going to even top me properly?!”

“Nope, brats don’t get those kinds of privileges. Be grateful that I even let you cum.” You argue, shaking your head. “Besides, I’m sleepy and wanna go to bed.”

“What the fuck?! No! You get your ass back here and top me properly! You haven’t even used the strap yet!” She complains, hot on your trail. “( Y/n )!”

-----

don't matter what the AU is or the trope or plot, i'm gonna bully the fuck out of remmick before fucking the hell out remmick..

[itsaaudraw]

remmick meets brick

[harrisonforded]

Jack O'Connell as Roy Goode Godless (2017) | Episode 5: Shot the Head off a Snake dedicated to @quietchaosclub 💚

[misssumner]

the thought of his hands over mine..and other places too

[cuntbitchandthebottlemen]

this is what he looks like on top of you btw

[bluesycatharsis]

my inner demonic, feral beast is about to come out please lock me up before it's too late

[cherrytomartyr]

Remmick being the host of your favourite late night radio show on some obscure station you stumbled across by accident. He sounds good, he's funny enough if a little pathetic. He makes references that he doesn't sound even remotely old enough to make with startling accuracy - he knows exactly who was touring where and when and who opened for who. The more you listen the less it makes sense. He's got to be faking somehow. He must research all this stuff obsessively before talking about it on air. Surely, if he's so happy to accept callers, he won't mind a few questions

[scannainscanrula]

can a gay girl get an amen?

rockstar!femmick x reader wc: 1.4k (just a little taste) warnings: so this goes back to that hatefucking/pre-vamp dynamic from the early r!r days. switchy femmick, oral sex, fingering, strap sex, top femmick, nipple play author's note: enjoy gays. this has been in the docs since october

“What do you have to say about your feud with Remmick?”

You shake your head, earrings jingling as you do. 

“I think she’s just being really nasty and unladylike. Girls have to look out for each other, right?”

Remmick huffs, taking another hit off of the joint between her fingers. You grimace at the chipped black polish and the way her hair sticks to her forehead. 

“You sound nasty and unladylike when you beg me to fuck you,” she grumbles.

“Jealous,” you tease, snatching the joint from her and taking a long hit, blowing the smoke in her face.

“You wanna fuck or what?”

You scoff. 

“Y’know, a little romance might get you pretty far.”

“Yeah?”

She leans in, taking back the joint. She kisses you messily, smearing your lipgloss.

“Remmick, my makeup,” you whine. 

You put the joint out on the ashtray, pushing her back with your other hand. 

“You are such a little rat,” you tell her, watching her bite her lip as you sit on her hips. You lean down and hover there, holding her back by the shoulders. 

“Yeah? What else am I?”

“Stop flirting! You called me a slut!”

“You are a slut,” she snickers, smacking your ass. 

You huff and sit up, shoving her down. 

“You’re such a dick.” 

“Need that pussy bad, sugar… I know she wants it.”

Her teasing tone has you squirming on top of her.

“C’mon, pretty girl,” she sings.

She squeezes your thigh. You roll your eyes and push her head down.

“Y’gonna sit on my face? Yeah? Gonna feed me that pussy, baby doll-”

“Oh my God,” you whine. “Stop teasing!” 

She grabs your thighs, yanking you down to rest your weight on her face. Her nose rubs against your clit and you gasp, grabbing the arm of the sofa.

“Remmi,” you sigh. 

You feel so floaty from the weed she brought, your brain empty and your cunt extra wet. She had her hand on your thigh from the moment you came in, and she’s been trying to get up your skirt all night. 

“Tastes’o good, baby,” she moans, her hips bucking up behind you. 

“Do you have a toy here?” you whine. 

“A toy,” she mocks you as she pushes a finger inside of you. “I got a dick for you, sugar. What, you wanna ride me?”

“That sounds nice,” you whimper, lip between your teeth. 

“Yeah? You wanna ride me, pretty girl? Fill you up with my dick, get all up in that tummy.”

“Yes, Rem-”

“Cum on my tongue and I’ll fuck you good, princess.” 

Her tongue slips inside of you, licking into you slow and rough. You squirm– not just because it feels good but from how dirty it is. 

“I know you wanna give it to me. I know, you’re such a good girl.”

You whine at her words.

“Aw,” she teases. “Oh, my poor baby. Poor baby. She needs’ta cum so bad… just cum, baby. Just cum on this tongue, give it to me.” 

“Shut up, Rem, just eat it!” 

You huff and grab her hair, tugging her closer. She squeaks but quickly readjusts. She always eats you like you’re nourishing, drinking down as much as she can get like she’s starved.

A quick swirl of her tongue around your clit and a graze of her teeth has you screaming. You pull her hair and arch back.

“Ow,” she winces. She cleans you up with her tongue. 

She drools so much that it doesn’t really leave you clean– it leaves your thighs wet and has you shaking again. 

“Still wanna ride me?”

“Maybe I wanna top you,” you pant.

“Aw, that’s cute. I don’t think so,” she scoffs.

You huff and narrow your eyes. You back up, crawling down her body and straddling her thighs. 

“Are you all wet, Remmi?” you tease, your fingers playing with the waistband of her men’s boxers. 

You rub her over the fabric, making her squirm below you.

“Quit- ngh- quit that!”

You reach up and shove your fingers in her mouth. You feel her jaw move to bite you. 

“Don’t bite me, Rem, just get my fingers wet…”

She watches as you dip down, ass in the air. You rest your head on her tummy, kissing and nipping her cross tattoo. She swallows and sucks your fingers, licking between them and slicking them up with her drool.

“Too bad I can’t finger you because of my nails,” you pretend to lament, pouting at her.

“Too bad,” she echoes, eyes wide and locked on you. 

You squeeze one of her breasts under her white tank top.

“You wanna fuck me, poser?”

“I ain’t a fuckin’ poser-”

“Do you ever stop talking?”

You hook your fingers in her jaw, pulling it down.

“So much cuter when you talk sweet to me.”

You help her get the strap on, yanking down her boxers like it’s a prank. You giggle.

“Rem, you’re totally soaked!”

You pull on a strap, checking if it’s securely on her hips. She wobbles when you push her back, sitting her on the couch.

“You’re gonna make a mess when I make you cum,” you sneer.

She whines and you giggle again.

“Aw… you’re drooling almost as much as your pussy, Remmi.” 

You sink down onto the silicone cock. She chose a good one, nice and thick, with a stretch that feels so good. It’s not too big– it fits snugly in your cunt. But it does bump your cervix when you fully settle.

“Th-this one is so good, damn…”

You circle your hips, grinding down and making the leather rub her clit, making her grab at your hips.

“Ah! Ngh… shit, baby. Y-you can really move you- oh, fuck!”

With your hands braced on her shoulders, you raise up and sit back down, bumping her again. You start a bouncy rhythm that has her squirming. She just makes it worse for herself, backing up and making the dildo hit you at a different angle, stroking your spot just right.

“Remmi!” the way you moan it out makes her red in the face. 

She growls and pushes you back on the sofa, pushing your legs open wider. She ruts into you like she’s trying to prove a point. 

Or get you pregnant. 

You twist below her, digging your long nails into her strong arms. 

“Quit that shit,” she growls. “I’ll put you in a fuckin’ headlock.”

“I’d like to see you try,” you egg her on, squeezing her breasts. 

You pinch her nipple, making her wince and try to wriggle away. You lock your ankles behind her back, leaving her trapped in you.

“St-stop,” she winces. 

You tug her down by the shoulder, pressing your lips to her ear.

“Are they so sensitive?” you ask with a breathy whine. “You drooled all over mine, but I haven’t even touched yours.” 

You tweak the other nipple and giggle at the way she flinches. Your rough touches are making her thrusts sloppy.

“Ugh, Remmick is so hardcore,” you sneer. “You can’t even fuck me right.”

She snarls and grabs your hands, pinning them next to your head.

“Open your mouth.”

You shake your head.

“Mm-mm!” 

“Open your fucking mouth!” she barks.

She bites your lip, which makes you gasp. With your lips parted, she spits in your mouth. 

“You’re mine,” she whimpers.

“You’re such a loser, Remmick-”

Her thumb rubs on your clit, making you twitch beneath her. 

“Your tight fuckin’ pussy. Stupid fuckin’ slut, you’re so fuckin’ dirty, baby, all filled up with this fat cock, cum on it. Cum on this cock, show me who you belong to.”

“You belong to me, you little creep!”

“I do, baby,” she moans, grinding the silicone cock into you, rubbing her clit and yours with the rough straps. 

“It’s too- o-oh my God!” 

“Please, please, please,” she chants, chasing her own orgasm.

You rake your nails down her back as you cum, clamping around the silicone with its almost-human squish. You’re only missing the satisfaction of taking a load inside. 

“Y-you’re so good, you’re so good,” she mutters as she jolts forward, thighs clenched together and jerking around above you. She collapses on your chest and you laugh softly.

“Good?” she asks.

“Mhm… I missed you,” you admit in a sleepy haze. 

“Missed you too… a lot.”

She listens to your steadying heartbeat. The strap shifts inside of you and she groans.

“I need something to eat,” she sighs, sitting up. 

[scannainscanrula]

happy pride!

[thlaylisden]

for @scannainscanrula 's rockstar remmick au..

[scannainscanrula]

HE'S SO CUTE!!!!

[scannainscanrula]

doubling down with rockstar remmick

rockstar!remmick x reader wc: 5.7k warnings: hivemind time travel fuckery, heavy drug use, handjobs, scratching, piv sex, this one is nice and angsty buckle up a/n: go raibh mile maith agaibh for waiting everyone this took me so so long to write. it is also a very belated birthday gift to @roomiesoreo who make this fic so much better in the editing process! you are the best pip and you deserve so many flowers for being such an amazing editor! grma mo chara x

You stub out a half-smoked cigarette, shaking your head for even trying. You haven’t enjoyed one for a while; the nicotine doesn’t do anything anymore. You just smoke for the warmth in your chest.  

You trace over the bubble letters and the flaky glitter glue of the card the girls had given you when you joined the band. Your sixteenth birthday was a filming day– the music video for your debut song. Bossy had talked the costume crew into getting you a longer skirt and a top with a higher neckline. 

“She’s a baby! She’s only fifteen!” she shouted, waving them away. 

“Sixteen,” you corrected her passively. 

“You’re not fifteen, Lovey?” Smarty asked.

“No, um- well, today-”

“It’s your birthday?!” Baddie shouted in surprise, shaking your shoulders. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Well, we’re working today,” you answered her.

“And?” Smarty laughed. “We can still celebrate.”

“Shit, we could have gotten you something!”

The videotape plays quietly on the fuzzy TV. It’s a scratchy recording of you wiping at tears while the girls serenade you.

“Happy birthday dear Lovey,” their harmonic voices buzz in the speakers– your memory plays along with it, and you recall that Smarty added a riff to make you giggle. “Happy birthday to you!”

You sniff and blink away a tear. You reach over and press the button, turning off the TV. You keep your hand on the box, feeling the heat slowly fade against your icy touch. 

“Baby, you in here?” Remmick calls. 

You step out and close the door. He catches you in a kiss and grins. 

“Sun’s down. You hungry?” he asks, his hands squeezing your hips. 

“Very,” you reply. 

After breakfast, you head down to the studio to work. It’s been a while since you’ve put out music. It’s been a while since you’ve been out. The tour was wildly successful; you both made bank on merchandise and CD sales. The Christmas show did a lot for Remmick’s image. Suddenly he was less of a mysterious freak and more of your misunderstood rocker boy. You keep your eye on the forums and fanclubs, and the disdain for him dies out more and more every day. It’s harder to get his fans to come around to you, but you’re cautiously optimistic for the future. 

And you have nothing but the future to think about. 

You dropped a surprise single on the radio in January. Yours & Mine, a lovey-dovey melodic tune that harkened back to your old tracks without feeling too immature. A verse with a sweet reference to Jamie and the band as your family had pregnancy rumours circling you like sharks in the water. 

That line of gossip was quickly dispelled by keeping a drink in your hand all night at the Grammys. You and Remmick didn’t win– you never would– but you got to perform a more stripped back, acoustic medley of SIN/SACRAMENT. Remmick made sure you felt like a winner that night, making you cum until you scratched his face, which only made the both of you want each other more. 

You’ve been feral since December. You fuck like animals. You want him deep and raw at all times. You were able to finally push away your hopeless desires for a baby, instead giving all of that bottled-up affection to Jamie. Not expecting anything to come from fucking Remmick has made it more fun. You scratch and bite and you don’t give a fuck about marks left on either one of you. He’s yours and you’re his just as much. If the media knows, it’s even better. You want your names in everyone’s mouths. Everyone should be talking about you and him and nothing else because there’s nothing better.

In those months, Remmick could feel you digging deeper. He felt most vulnerable while tangled up under the covers with you. He could feel your claws in the hivemind scratching for information. 

It’s a dark place up there, sugar, he told you, shutting you out. Every time the door slammed in your metaphysical face, it stung. 

When he does give you little breadcrumbs about what he was before he was this, you follow them diligently.

He lets you remember what you had seen those first hours of your turning. The montage of green and grief of his history in Ireland. When you and the girls would tour in the UK, you would half-watch the news stories on TV and listen to the hushed way the girls would talk about it. You have hundreds of years of context now.

He finally lets you in. Names and dates and locations. You’re finally starting to meet him.

It only took the both of you pretending to get married. Everyone thinks you are. It started as a stunt for the music video last year. The airing on MTV combined with paparazzi photos of you in a white dress sold the idea to your fans first– it was a harder pill to swallow for his fans. You doubled down with a cutesy I do on every night of the tour. You don’t wear rings, but nothing about either of you is very traditional anyway. You don’t want to correct people. You want people to think you belong to each other. You’re one and the same, just the way it feels in the hivemind.

You miss Jamie so much it hurts. His first album is out and he’s been doing shows around the country to drum up interest in a potential tour. He’s so far away that you can hardly feel him through that bond you made when you sunk your fangs in. You can’t imagine being that far from Remmick. It’s almost been a year since you turned him, and he’s taking to it a lot better than you did. 

A tour for Jamie would be easy to fund; you and Remmick have so much money that you don’t even know what to do with it. You fill up Jamie’s pockets, even if he’s far away, and you buy lavish things for Remmick. 

You want him to live in his memories and be proud of them. You want to fill the house up with mementos of his past. You try to build a timeline of his memories with little gifts. Your first present was a vinyl pressed at the recording studio he worked at in the sixties– you bought a second copy for the producer, of course. 

You buy him old guitars and vintage synthesisers. You find weird, expensive instruments he doesn’t even know how to play. You even manage to track down a very old banjo, one that makes his eyes light up in a new way.

You’re on the floor, kicking your feet as you try to write lyrics. You watch him above you. He absently plucks at the banjo as he sits on the edge of the sofa, his legs crossed to prop it up. You love him like this. You’ve let yourself act like him, getting lost in the music like it’s a deep ocean or a thick forest. Not allowing yourself to be scared of the depth, just surrendering to it.

You see his eyes closing, feel that thick, dreamlike fog of a memory filling up the room. You let your eyes fall shut and join him.

The sounds and smells of a smoky pub flood your senses. A pack of musicians share a corner, all beautifully in time. Remmick is snugly tucked in the middle. You’d know his face anywhere, and you’ve seen him in a hundred styles. His hair is longer now and he has a full beard with especially thick sideburns. He wears a brownish vest and funny shoes. 

“‘Twas there I first met with sweet Molly Malone,” he sings.

You’re abruptly taken out of it. You pop up on your elbows. 

“When was that?” you ask him softly. 

“Hm, eighteen hundreds. Banjo was new, I was old by then,” he answers you, plucking out a scale. “You saw that one was five strings. This type though… this four string… that’s newer.”

“Oh yeah? And how new is newer, grandpa?” you tease. 

You knew he was old when you used to call him that before, but knowing his real age, he’s more like a dinosaur. 

He scoffs.

“Ninteen twenties,” he huffs with a roll of his eyes. 

You scan through the mental timeline quickly and realise what that means. 

“So you were here,” you chirp, sitting up on your knees. 

You see the uncomfortable expression on his face– the one he’s been making for months since you’ve started piecing together the timeline of his life. You never want to pry. The memories sting less when he offers them willingly.

You get up and perch next to him on the sofa.

“Play me something,” you say, squeezing his shoulder. 

“Play you what?”

“That song.”

You hesitate.

“Give it to me,” you offer in a whisper.

“Baby…”

“Just the song,” you beg him, “it doesn’t have to be the whole memory.” 

He takes a measured breath and nods for you to move forward. Your nose brushes against his. 

You feel his breath on your lips as he lets you in. You inhale the past like smoke.

You’re there, but it feels like you’re underwater. The music comes through distorted and muffled– garbled like a bad radio wire. You turn to the side glacially. It’s like you’re moving through oil. Remmick is beside you, but not your Remmick. He’s the one from the memory with the vest and the sideburns. He reaches through the barrier and sucks you into his memory, pulling you into his lap and placing the banjo on your thighs. 

The song feels like it bursts out of you. He chuckles from behind you, kissing your shoulder. A song has never been like this before. It feels like you’re pushed together by the music, like it fills any space between the two of you and creates a vacuum, pushing your heart against his. It feels like there’s no end or beginning to the hands holding the banjo, like you’re holding it together. 

All of the sudden the song feels heavier on you. The oil has returned to fill up your lungs while Molly Malone grabs your heart and pulls down.

You gasp for air and drop, seeing the studio around you. Remmick catches the banjo before it can hit the floor– so it was in your hands. He sets it off to the side.

“Shit, y’alright?” he murmurs, his face painted with concern. 

He’s so worried for you. He means it. 

You wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him, crawling into his lap again. 

“More than alright, huh?” he jokes in a low tone that makes you moan.

“Thank you,” you breathe, your lips smearing over the corner of his mouth. “I love your memories,” you profess, holding his face. “I love you, Remmick.”

“I love you too, angel.” 

You wait in the studio nervously, watching the producer listen to the demo you and Remmick made the night before.

“Intimate, but bassy. Like a heartbeat. Sexy,” Remmick explains the sound, leaning over the producer’s shoulder to the soundboard. 

When he started to let you in, you were almost jealous about his intimate past with the band members. You’ve calmed down a lot in the last year. You’re not the same girl who scratched the hell out of the keyboardist after she blasted you with the image of a mullet-wearing Remmick fucking her in the back of a beat-up truck. You’ve come to realise it’s more of a who hasn’t slept with him situation. You’re not a one bite stand like her and the producer. You feel special now. You understand how much you mean to him compared to the others. 

The producer thinks for a second.

“Um, I like it. It’s…” he hesitates.

“Be honest,” you beg him.

“Sweetie, I’m not your publicist,” he starts.

Oh shit. What will Marcia think of this?

“It’s a little… desperate?” he finally says, a slight grimace on his face. 

You take it in. The lyrics are a little over the top. 

“How can we make it sound more fuck you?” you ask him, crossing your arms. 

Remmick grins and the producer follows suit. 

“He really is rubbing off on you,” he snarks, taking the pencil from behind his ear. 

You sit in Marcia’s office, her nails tapping on the jewel case of the CD as she listens to the final product. The CD player clicks off, leaving the two of you in uncomfortable silence. 

You like the song. You’re proud of it and you think it portrays exactly what you need everyone to understand. Remmick is your everything. 

“What do you think I’m going to say?” she finally speaks. 

“It’s tone deaf and rude and glosses over all of the actual issues and after that pregnancy rumour you owe me seven bonuses,” you joke, mimicking her voice. 

She sighs and pinches her nosebridge.

“I’m sorry,” you tell her softly. “I’m sorry. Really, I am. This whole thing just… it didn’t happen the way I wanted it to and I wish he wasn’t so much, but I love him, Marcia. I love him so much I… I don’t even know what to do with myself. And we’re so close, it’s like… we live in each other’s skin. I feel like I’ve known him for a thousand years, I feel like I’ve been him,” the words pour out of you without care. 

Marcia doesn’t understand the hivemind. You hope she never will, especially not because of you. Remmick is blowing smoke out of an open window in the hall, listening to the physical cues of your body and making sure you don’t get too excited. 

“I mean, all that wedding stuff for the album last year, that wasn’t just promotional, I want to marry him,” you gush. It’s sappier than you mean to sound, but you know what you want.

Marcia knows you’re not married, but she’s been crafting a very vague narrative that you probably are. 

“Do you? Really?” she huffs sarcastically.

“I mean it, Marcia. I want to be with him forever, I want people to know that. It’s a mess, but it’s my mess,” you finish.

“Oh, believe me, it’s my mess too,” she scoffs. 

She sucks her teeth.

“But it’s a good song,” she admits. “Write up a statement. We’ll send it next week.”

She eyes you.

“Your birthday is soon.”

“Oh, yeah,” you say. You had forgotten too. 

“Got any plans for that?” she questions, clearly hoping it won’t be another fire to put out.

“Uh… not yet. I’ll let you know. Um… Marcia?”

“Hm?” 

You meet her eyes. 

“I’m gonna wear a ring. On Up Late,” you confess. “Not… because we’re engaged. Yet. I just want to make Johnny look like an idiot.”

She looks surprised. 

“Yet?” she repeats your addition.

“C’mon, Marcia. It was gonna happen eventually, I don’t know why you’re so surprised.”

You see the disappointment in her eyes when she realises you’re serious about this.

“You want this? I mean really, truly want this?” she prods in a harsh tone. 

She leans forward.

“If he’s making you do this-”

“No, Marcia! Jesus. He’s- he’s not making me do anything! I’m my own woman, I-I’m not his little… fucking… minion!”

She shrugs, her eyes glassy as she teeters on the brink of tears. 

“If that’s what you want,” she relents.

“I’ve never wanted something so bad,” you sniffle. 

You promised yourself you wouldn’t tear up in front of her. It’s hard not to under that severely maternal glare of hers.

“Well. Thanks for the warning,” she says dryly.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologise to me, kiddo. I’m not the one sticking with him.”

The new single Talkin’ acts as both a profession of the singer’s love and a denial of any accusations about her boyfriend’s alleged drug habits or “cult-like” activities. 

The industrial rocker Remmick, controversial since he first blew up on the scene, has continued to be in hot water for the better part of the decade. Since 1993, there have been allegations of his band distributing narcotics as a means of recruiting young members. The band has also been very private, not revealing any personal information about members. 

Every CD of Talkin’ includes this statement: 

I hear a lot of talk, but I know that these people just do not know him the way I do. I know they see that cocky attitude and make snap judgements about his character. He is a natural born leader and I know other musicians are jealous of that. They wish they could have the same kind of trust and respect from the band and the roadies that he has. 

I love Remmick more than anyone I ever have before and I am never going to stop. 

So keep talking.

The next week you’re sitting across from Johnny Moon again, rolling the charm on your gold necklace between manicured fingers. He holds up the cover for Talkin’ and whistles.

“Wow! Just wow!” he laughs over the audience roaring.

You grin, feeling your fangs itching to slip down. 

“You look great. How are you?” Johnny asks. 

“I’m better than better,” you purr, pushing up your sunglasses. 

“Yeah? You looked a little queasy last time,” he jokes.

“Can you blame me for being a little nervous? You’re too cute.” 

He chuckles and you see a blush on his cheeks. 

“Tell us about this song,” he starts.

“You all saw what I had to say, right?” you ask, addressing the obscured people around you. 

They clap and cheer. 

“We love you!”

“Shut up, I love you too,” you respond, blowing a kiss. 

“Whoa, whoa. What’s that?” Johnny asks, reaching for your hand.

“Oh, this?” you laugh, showing the sparkling engagement ring. 

“You snuck up on me,” he chuckles, his teeth clenched.

He’s actually mad. It’s pretty cute. That was your intention. You wanted to stir the pot and get people confused. You might be the first celebrity to pull off two stunt marriages to the same man. 

“Till death do we part,” you tease in a singsong voice.

You see him nod his head away to the PA holding the cue cards and run his hand through his hair to calm down.

“I thought you were married already,” he counters with a tense smile.

“No, so there are these things called music videos, and they usually do a little story in them…” you make fun of him, the audience laughing. 

“So you’re really not backing down?” Johnny asks. “Even with everything that’s been said about him? All the rumours and-”

“Why should I? It’s complete lies or people who don’t like the way he talks. Newsflash! He’s a rockstar! He’s not a goddamn politician!” you shout to the audience, throwing your arms up.

“You love him?” he asks like he doesn’t believe you.

“I love him so much. I’m stupid about him. And I’m so happy because… we’re going to be together for the rest of our lives. For forever,” you announce, tapping your nail on his desk.

You can hear talking upstairs as you autograph a few vinyls and CDs for the next event you and Remmick are having. Your stomach turns slightly remembering your last time “meeting fans.” The nausea just turns into heartache when you think about Jamie’s sweet face.  

You set down your pen and sigh, heading up the stairs. 

“Don’t let her see that,” you hear Remmick say from around the corner. 

“Her better not be me,” you joke, grinning at him.

He takes your hand and tugs you to him, kissing your temple. You see the bassist holding a magazine and your smile drops. 

“A new review?” you ask, trying to steel yourself. 

“Ain’t nothin’,” Remmick waves it away. “Let’s talk birthday.”

“No, I don’t want to. Give me that,” you snap, taking the magazine. 

Your eyes find the review. You read the section quickly but carefully, taking in the negative energy and letting it curl around you. 

Inauthentic. 

Embarrassing. 

Irresponsible. 

You don’t realise your claws are growing until they puncture the paper, piercing through the image of the single’s cover above the words. You tear the magazine apart, leaving it in shreds on the floor. 

“Inauthentic?” you hiss, tears pricking at your eyes. “How do they know?!” you shout, throwing your hands up. 

“Baby-”

“Th-they don’t know what we are,” you snarl, storming away from him. “They don’t know what we can do! Everybody thinks I’m fucking brainwashed, they don’t know I’m better than them!”

You’re not sure if you mean these things or if you’re just angry. It feels good to be so strong. It feels great to not get tired, to not sweat or get short of breath. You know you’re not a porcelain doll. You know you have your own thoughts, even if Remmick has shared enough of his to fill up half your mind.

Your mindless hands find the things in your home you know you cherish. A crystal candlestick shatters when it hits the hardwood. A picture frame flies off of the shelf. The Kids’ Choice Award for 2*Sweet flies toward Remmick, who catches it before it can hit the bassist. 

“Fuck these people! Fuck them! They don’t know anything about us! They’re nothing!”

Your claws dig into a pillow, feathers puffing out and covering the den. Your hand goes right through your new flat screen TV. 

You stop in the corner. 

Your old guitar. The one you used to sing hymns on the road. Before 2*Sweet or pop music, before you even knew who Remmick was. When your father would turn off the radio if he couldn’t find the praise station. When your mother would pluck you off the swingset and chide you for dirtying up your Mary Janes. 

The past smacks you out of your rage and Remmick sees you deflate. He’s wanted to ask about the guitar before, but it had such heavy energy that he thought it wasn’t smart.

You turn with tears in your eyes.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, seeing the path of destruction.  

You run to the picture frame first, picking it up. You brush away the glass and delicately lift the photo. You and the girls before your first show of the tour. 

The frame is cracked and the glass is everywhere. You spent a day after the tour decorating the four corners of the frame with little beads or charms in each of your signature colours. Now your sisters are scattered around the room. 

“C-can you help- help me find them?” you beg Remmick pathetically.

He’s never seen you like this. You’re like a little girl, on your knees and picking up beads with no care for all the broken glass around you. 

The bassist leaves quietly. 

Remmick kneels down and helps you pick up each one. You sweep up the glass and he holds the dustpan. You vacuum the feathers and he empties the bag. He carries the television to the dumpster and puts the stupid orange blimp back in its place. 

He cleans up the shredded magazine.

He embraces you when the tears come back. He leads you to your room and lets you hide in his chest. 

“I don’t want a birthday party,” you admit to him in a whisper. “I just wanna be with you.” 

“We can do that.” 

The night has been all about you. You woke up to breakfast in bed– one of the blood bags Remmick keeps for special occasions or emergencies, whichever comes first. You snuggled for an hour watching TV until Remmick decided to give you your first present, three orgasms from his fingers and tongue. You scratched a whole new language into his back before he left you drooling. You had a shower together, even if half of it was spent with him fucking you against the tiles. 

Your first real present was a new piano. You covered his face in kisses for it. You spent some time testing it out and playing hits from your collective discographies, along with other favourites.

The next was a new car, which you both took out on an evening drive around Los Angeles. 

Now you’re just sitting in the kitchen swapping industry stories, laughing and moving cake around your plates with forks. It doesn’t taste like anything, but at least it looked pretty. 

You glance at the clock. 10:37. Goddamn it. You promised Jamie you’d call. You stand up and cross to the phone, dialing the number of the hotel and tapping your fuzzy slipper on the kitchen floor as it rings. You give his room number and your name.

“Right away, miss. Let me connect the call.”

It makes another clicking noise and you hear laughter and clinking glass. Music plays in the background. 

Jamie answers, slurring your name out. You hear the door shut and the music muffles.

“Hey! Oh, I thought y’like, forgot,” he chirps. You can hear his smile. “Happy Birthday!” 

“Thanks, Jamie. How is everything?” you ask.

“S’awesome! Thank you so much, this hotel’s way too fancy.”

“Aw, well, you’re welcome, J,” you laugh at his drunk honesty.

“‘N I made the guys promise t’clean up, don’worry. Seattle is the shit, I fuckin’ love these grunge boys. Fuck, they’re so hot.”

You hear what you can assume is him clapping a hand over his own mouth.

“Oh, fuck. Oh no, I’m sorry,” he giggles. “You don’need to know that.”

“You’re being careful, right? Just because you’re… like this doesn’t mean-”

“Super careful. Super, yeah.”

“And, y’know, I want you to be careful with the drinking and the drugs and everything-”

“Mom, seriously, m’being so careful-” 

Remmick watches your face change. He worries for a moment. Did something happen? Is Jamie hurt? 

“O-okay,” you manage to say. “I trust you.”

“Thanks.”

You hear talking behind him.

“Fifteen, Jimmy!”

“Jamie,” he corrects them. “Thanks. Hey, I gotta go for my show.”

“Okay,” you almost sniffle. “Break a leg.” 

“I miss you,” he adds softly. 

“I miss you too,” you breathe out, blinking back tears. 

“Bye.” 

“Bye, Jamie.” 

You hang up the phone and press your lips together, trying not to cry.

Mom. He called you Mom. He was intoxicated and he probably didn’t mean it, but deep down he thinks of you that way. Your baby.

Your baby who is drunk somewhere in Seattle surrounded by grungy punk rockers.

Remmick’s hand smoothes over your bare shoulder, kissing the long healed scar of your bite

“I bet he’s havin’ fun,” he chuckles.

You nod tensely.

“Baby,” he coos. “What’s the matter?” 

“I just miss him so much,” you whimper, hugging him tightly.

He laughs at you– not mean, just lovingly– and kisses your cheek.

“He’ll be back soon. And he’ll be fine.” 

“I know,” you respond in a small voice.

He pats your back. You listen to him take in a breath like he’s going to say something. He pulls back slightly.

“Do you wanna maybe… see another one?” he offers cautiously. He can’t bring himself to say memory, so he just taps his temple. 

“Really?” you ask, sniffling. 

He holds your face and smiles at you. His red eyes glint in the flickery kitchen light– you need to get it fixed, but you’ve been too busy. 

“We can go back, calm down a little bit?” he starts to explain the offer. 

“How far back?”

“Hundred-something. Not too bad,” he murmurs, his thumb rubbing over your cheek. 

“Not too bad. You’re so old,” you tease. 

“C’mon, birthday girl.” 

You move to your room, holding each other, snuggled in bed.

Suddenly you’re sitting on the floor in a corner. Your knees press against a wooden cot. This is a look you haven’t seen. His face is shaved, unlike your scruffy Remmick. He pulls off his brimmed cap and runs his hand over the short cropped cut. He shrugs off his thick coat and you spy his suspenders– you love him in suspenders. He pulls them off and unbuttons his shirt. 

Quiet, dark, musky. It smells like bodies and sweat, but it’s not a club. The air is full of the thick smoke of something you can’t place. 

You can’t speak, but you don’t have to with him. The knowledge wafts into your head with the smoke. Opium den, 1915. His face is dirty. His eyes are tired and sad, but so much more human. This is decades before you were even born. He was still ancient, but something about him was younger. He didn’t have the confidence he has now. 

You’re too busy looking around the room to catch him heating the pipe and inhaling deeply– but you feel it with him. You thought you were just observing this memory, but he reaches out and grabs your wrist, tugging you to him. It feels like a warm blanket wraps around you both. The tension in your shoulders morphs into liquid as you sink into his chest. 

You stay like that for a while, hardly feeling the wood beneath you. You breathe in time with one another with no regard for the smoke. You touch the thick fabric of his shirt and rub it between your fingers. 

It changes in your hand, turning back into Remmick’s worn Woodstock ‘94 shirt. The comforting feeling fades fast, replaced by want. It’s not the hyped-up horny that you feel from coke, but a deep, throbbing need for him. You crawl between his legs and pull down his soft flannel pyjama pants. You kiss his thigh and wrap your hand around his cock, stroking him lightly until he’s hard in your hand. 

“Baby,” he breathes, his head falling softly back onto the pillow. 

You kiss the tip and take him in your mouth, sucking on the head as you squeeze and jerk the base. His hand grabs your hair– lightly, he seems like he’s still a little dreamy. It was his memory after all. He doesn’t pull, just uses the grip to keep himself grounded while you work your hand over the length. 

“Get up here, get up here,” he begs. “C’mon, princess. Need’a feel you so bad,” he encourages you. 

You walk on your knees, pushing down your shorts and kicking them away.

“That’s it, yeah, baby, siddown,” he groans, feeling your wet cunt hug his cock as you sink down. He twitches inside of you and winces.

Your ass hits his thighs and you both moan. Sex is different now. The hivemind makes it better. Everything is felt by the both of you. If you hone in enough, you can even switch places and he gets to ride you. 

You just want to feel him now, planting your hands on his chest and lifting your hips. Your nails dig into his skin and his claws slice into your hips. Your lifting and rocking quickly turns into bouncing, letting him hit that spot that always gets you teary. His hips buck and your nails drag down, making ten little cuts on him. You gasp and cry out when his claws grow and pierce further into your skin, anchoring him to you.

“Good girl,” he purrs, moving with you, rolling up into you. “You’re my fuckin’ star, my angel… never been anythin’ like you, never will.”

Your blood runs faster than his, so he can take his hand away and lick the blood from his fingers. A gush of your wetness coats him, making your bouncing that much more fluid. 

“Fuck, Rem,” you whine.

He sits up, moving his hand from your hip to your shoulder– the spot where he bit you all those months ago– and his claws latch again. You’re so close.

Like you live in his skin. 

His claws retract and he rubs your clit in devastating circles. Your drool rolls down the column of your throat and he licks it up. He spits on his hand and returns to your clit, then ducks his head down to suck on your nipple. 

“My girl. My star,” he moans. “B-baby, I’m gonna cum-”

“Wait, wait, Remmick… wait… let me feel it, let me in-”

You’re in a rough straw bed covered in a wool blanket, the warmth of a fire filling the room. You breathe in woody smoke and breathe out sex. His hair is long– you reach to grab it and pull. 

“I lived here with my wife,” he whispers. 

You push him back down– half angry and half desperate. Why would he show you this? Why would he bring you here, now, with everything you’ve been doing in the past weeks? Your devotion rewarded by getting to fuck in the bed of some dead Irish girl?

“I’m your wife!” you sob into his mouth. “I’m your wife, you’re mine, I love you!” you wail, slicing him across the chest.

“Fuck! Yes!” 

You both scream as you cum, your vision and the memory whiting out. You shake and cry and he holds you through it. 

When you gasp for air and open your eyes, it’s just your bedroom. 

“Happy Birthday,” he laughs weakly. 

“Marry me,” you sob breathlessly. “Marry me, marry me, please.” You don’t care how pathetic it sounds. “Please, I just wanna be yours, I want everyone to know. Please…”

“Of course I will. Of course, princess. Anythin’ you want.” 

You wake up the next afternoon and stretch your arms. You’re still so full of blood and booze from last night. If you were still human you’d make yourself some kind of hangover cure, but today you just tidy up the mess you left behind. You see a message on your answering machine and press it. You pick up the cake to move it to the fridge. 

A hushed voice starts. 

“Okay… ready? One, two-”

“Happy Birthday!” a child’s voice shouts. 

Laughter rings out and you freeze.

“Happy Birffay Auntie Lovey!” another child says. 

“Alright, go find Daddy. Hi, my love,” Bossy– Noelle coos. “Just wanted to wish you a happy birthday. And my littlest- it’s his, too! Can you believe that? I guess you know it, I sent you that card. You’ve been ‘round my side of the pond and not said hello, so I expect your bum in a seat at my dinner table next time. I’ve been missing you, love. Give us a ring. Happy Birthday.”

“You down there?” Remmick calls as the answering machine clicks. 

The cake falls from your hands and hits the floor. 

remmick taglist: @cherrytomartyr @h3r3t1c @cryptidvillage @pom3granates @abby-gvf @idlephantom @susieqorion24 @theabhartachsbride @flixpii @bleedingsunlight @aniahvol3 @sonnensche1n @yourlostpenguin @calam-arii @luvbee17 @passine @heyylolitaheyy @mangobellini @4--eyez @budgiefeatherboa @thisbastardneedsafatherfigure @prettyliittleviolets @freezer-barbie @ceobuggy @nlnny @valvalvalval-val @pearlstiare @fr0ggieth1nk @remmickstalker @gravecleric0900

[scannainscanrula]

NEW SINGLE DROPS FRIDAY MAY 29TH

keep talkin' 💋

new single meaning rockstar!remmick part x

[harrisonforded]

Jack O'Connell as Oliver Mellors Lady Chatterley's Lover (2022) | dir. Laure de Clermont-Tonnerre

[kubyart]

more practice art feat jack o'connell

[pastabillities]

2 am shenanigans: drawing old knight!remmick being a menace at a museum, simpson style

“Old man yells at painting for not being ’gay’ enough”

IM CRACKING MYSELF UP THIS SHOULDNT BE THIS FUNNY

Shoutout to Thlay ( @thlaylisden ) and Abhi ( @scannainscanrula ) for the absolute crackship that is knight!remmick x rockstar!remmick