seen from Argentina
seen from China
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from Russia
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Bosnia & Herzegovina
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Estonia
seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from South Korea
seen from China
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from Austria
seen from Australia
jeiazu where jade and azul are both equally emotionally repressed losers who make it their goal to fluster each other as badly as possible
You mentioned wanting some inspo for the Nasty Dog series so I just thought I’d drop this!
My favorite work of the series is “Trust Me” where reader thinks Remmick is dangerous and then is scared that he is in danger. I know in the very first work you mentioned the “Custodians”. I was thinking something along the lines of reader thinking Remmick is in danger again, maybe with the Custodians! I loved in “Trust Me” how there was that sense of panic and desperation, and then relief when she found him! Plus the smut of course haha.
Just something I thought about! Love your stuff, especially Nasty Dog like everybody else. That Remmick is perfect xx
𝕴'𝖒 𝖗𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙 𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖊
ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ᴅᴏᴍᴇꜱᴛɪᴄ!ᴘᴇᴛ!ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ x ꜰ!ᴍᴏᴅᴇʀɴ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ
ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴀᴜ, ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴍᴜᴛ, ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ, ᴀɴxɪᴇᴛʏ, ʟᴏᴠᴇʀ ʙᴏʏ ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ, ꜱᴇʀᴠɪᴄᴇ ᴛᴏᴘ/ꜱᴜʙ ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ, ꜰ!ᴅᴏᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ᴍᴏᴅᴇʀɴ ᴇʀᴀ, ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ʜᴀꜱ ʜᴀɪʀ, ʙᴀᴛʜʀᴏᴏᴍ ꜱᴇx, ᴄᴜɴɴɪʟɪɴɢᴜꜱ, qᴜɪᴄᴋ ꜰᴜᴄᴋ, ᴠᴀɢɪɴᴀʟ ꜰɪɴɢᴇʀɪɴɢ, ᴀ ʙɪᴛ ᴏꜰ ꜰᴇᴍᴀʟᴇ ᴏᴠᴇʀꜱᴛɪᴍᴜʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴘʀᴇᴍᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴇᴊᴀᴄᴜʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴘ ɪɴ ᴠ, ᴄʀᴇᴀᴍᴘɪᴇ, ᴍᴏᴀɴɪɴɢ, ᴡʜɪɴɪɴɢ, ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ, ᴜɴᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛ ꜱᴇx, ꜱᴡᴇᴀʀɪɴɢ, ᴇxᴘʟɪᴄɪᴛ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ, ᴜꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴇᴛ ɴᴀᴍᴇꜱ.
𝘼/𝙣: 𝙏𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙧𝙚𝙦𝙪𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙫𝙞𝙣𝙘𝙚𝙙 𝙢𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙚𝙭𝙥𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙖𝙣 𝙞𝙙𝙚𝙖 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙝𝙖𝙙 𝙗𝙚𝙚𝙣 𝙛𝙡𝙤𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙 𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙮 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙙, 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙄 𝙙𝙞𝙙𝙣’𝙩 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙝𝙤𝙬 𝙩𝙤 𝙙𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙡𝙤𝙥. 𝘼𝙙𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙨𝙩 𝙢𝙖𝙙𝙚 𝙞𝙩 𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙞𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙤 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙠 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝, 𝙨𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙠𝙨 🤗 𝙄 𝙝𝙤𝙥𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙞𝙩💕
𝔹𝕒𝕤𝕖𝕕 𝕠𝕟 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕄𝕒𝕚𝕟 𝕊𝕥𝕠𝕣𝕪
ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ: 7ᴋ
You’ve been watching him for days, even when you pretend you’re not.
Remmick has never been good at hiding what he feels. Not in the first week of living together, and certainly not now. His nature exposes him, makes him almost transparent in your eyes. And by now, you’ve learned to read him the way one reads a book.
He’s irritable.
Not just irritable—no, that would be too simple.
He’s frustrated, restless, consumed by a hunger he can’t satisfy. Every night he comes back with the same empty look, lips pressed tight, hands trembling slightly as he takes off his coat as if even that gesture has become heavy. And then he starts complaining.
Always.
“Was easier at the start,” he mutters one evening, as he lets your hand slip into his short hair, untangling the small knots caused by the wind. “I didn’t have to go this far.”
You keep tending to him, not interrupting. You let him talk, because you know he needs it, even if every word is a splinter lodging itself between your nerves.
“It’s like…” he stops, searching for the words. “Like the area is dead.”
He’s not entirely wrong.
Ever since the Custodians intensified their patrols, everything has changed. Animals flee at their passing, abandoning inhabited areas and pushing farther and farther away. And creatures like him, who once hid in the shadows, are growing weaker and hungrier.
“You can’t go on like this,” you say at last. Your voice is calm, but firm. “You’re wearing yourself down.”
He looks up at you. His eyes are darker than usual, deep shadows shifting beneath the surface.
“I’m grand,” he replies automatically, showing you his adorable fangs.
You don’t believe him and he knows it.
Two more days pass before you finally lose your patience.
Two days of complaints, of sulking, of tension building in the air like electricity before a storm—until it reaches its breaking point today.
The car keys jingle between your fingers as you grab them from the table. Remmick is on the couch, apparently absorbed in a book he isn’t really reading. He glances up as soon as he hears the sound.
“Let’s go out,” you say simply.
He stiffens. “Now?”
“Now.”
He didn't ask questions, you don’t give explanations. He doesn’t need them.
After a moment of hesitation, he gets up. He follows you without protest—he always does, after all.
Outside, the sky is already heavy with clouds, dimming the moon slightly.
You drive in silence for most of the time. The car leaves the lit areas behind, reaching the highway that stretches longer, more isolated. The headlights cut the darkness in two, briefly revealing trees, rusted signs, stretches of worn asphalt.
Remmick doesn’t speak but you can feel him. His attention is palpable as he scans the horizon and through the dense trees.
“Still nothing?” you ask, without taking your eyes off the road.
He shakes his head, disheartened. “Nothing decent. Two scrawny rabbits and a few daft squirrels.” His voice carries that soft, slightly husky Irish accent that always tightens your stomach, even when he’s angry.
He hates squirrels.
You sigh, tightening your grip on the wheel and accelerating slightly.
The sound seems to make Remmick turn his head toward you, gray eyes faintly glinting in the darkness of the car. He wears a contrite expression as he watches you, rigid in your seat.
“Sorry ye've to be tramping about after me at this hour when tomorrow's gonna be a right savage day at work waitin' for ye.”
Your heart tightens.
Remmick is like this—caring in the sweetest way possible. When he’s full, he’s charming, ironic, with that crooked, roguish smile. When he’s hungry, he becomes small, vulnerable, in need of you in a way that makes you want to protect him.
“Don’t even say that,” you scold him, though your tone remains calm. “It’s not a burden to me. You are not a burden.”
He visibly shivers at those words. His pale cheeks flush with a faint pink, and he goes back to staring outside. He still hasn’t gotten used to your bluntness.
As you push a little farther, the rain begins to fall.
It’s not a violent storm, but steady, persistent. The drops drum against the car roof, creating an almost hypnotic background noise.
“Here is good!” he suddenly interjects, nearly making you slam on the brakes from the excitement. “I feel somethin'.”
You pull over slowly, turning off the engine.
You remain still for a moment, hands still on the wheel, then you inhale and open the door. The cold air hits you immediately, along with the rain. You open the umbrella with a quick motion and turn toward him.
Remmick is already outside, near the edge of the dense forest. The trees are so close together it feels like stepping into another dimension. The darkness is almost total, save for the faint light filtered from the moon.
You walk over, holding the umbrella above both of you. His scent, mixed with the rain, fills your nose and for some absurd reason relaxes you.
“Don’t go too far, alright?” you say, looking him in the eyes. “If you don’t find anything within a few kilometers, come back. We’ll find another spot.”
He watches you for a second. The rain has dampened his face despite how quickly you reached him. A drop slides down his cheek, stopping at the corner of his mouth. He looks like a lost puppy waiting.
“As ye wish, darlin',” he replies, making a playful gesture like a soldier snapping to attention, hand to his forehead. The attempt to lighten the mood is sweet and clumsy.
You roll your eyes at his theatrics.
You’re about to turn and head back to the car when he moves, and his hands reach you.
They find your face with certainty, and his lips settle on yours. The kiss is long—longer than you expected—and for a moment you lose your train of thought. His tongue brushes against yours with reverence, asking for permission even in this. His body presses against yours beneath the umbrella, trembling with emotion.
When he pulls away, his eyes are dilated, a deep red.
“I’ll be back soon,” he murmurs against your lips.
You swallow, trying to steady yourself.
“Okay.”
That’s all you say.
You let him go.
Remmick steps back, then another step. He throws you one last look, a mix of adoration and gratitude, then turns and disappears among the trees with an almost imperceptible rustle. Within seconds, the forest swallows him.
You remain staring into the darkness for a few more moments, then head back to the car.
You close the door, and the residual warmth of the engine wraps around you like a blanket. The umbrella drips onto the mat as you close it and toss it toward the back seats before letting yourself fall against the seat, closing your eyes.
You wait.
Time passes strangely in there. The rain shows no sign of letting up. You turn on the radio at the lowest volume, but the only signal you catch is a distorted news report about successful anti-supernatural operations in the north. You switch it off immediately.
Every now and then it feels like you see movement among the trees, but it could just be your imagination.
You fiddle with your phone, wasting time watching reels on TikTok or scrolling through news on X.
After a while, your eyes fall on the time displayed at the top.
Almost an hour.
Remmick has been gone for almost an hour now.
You’re about to dial the number of the phone you gave him when blinding lights catch you off guard, making you straighten in your seat.
They emerge from the forest like two cold, yellowish eyes, slicing through the curtain of rain with a harsh beam. The sound of the engine is low, deep—a mechanical growl that doesn’t resemble any ordinary car.
It’s a Custodians armored vehicle.
On the hood and doors, you can make out the stylized symbol: a silver sword piercing a crescent moon.
Your heart leaps into your throat.
The vehicle approaches slowly, unhurried, like a predator that already knows its prey is trapped. It stops about ten meters from your station wagon, and red and blue lights begin flashing in front of you.
For a long moment, you remain frozen, hands damp on the steering wheel, unsure what to do. Then two tall figures step out, heavy helmets covering their faces.
Lit by the headlights, you notice one is holding an assault rifle while the other keeps a hand near his hip, close to his holster as they advance in your direction, cautiously reaching the side of your door.
A gloved hand knocks on your window three times, leaving little room for doubt. You lower it a few centimeters, just enough to let the cold air in. Rain splashes onto your face as it hits the helmet of the agent leaning forward.
“Good evening,” the man says. His voice is filtered through the helmet—metallic, devoid of inflection.
“Good evening, officers,” you reply, trying to keep your tone calm, relaxing your hands onto your thighs.
“Any problem?” asks the second soldier, stepping closer. His eyes—or what you can see through the visor—scan the inside of your car: the empty seats, the blanket on the back seat, the half-empty water bottle in the holder.
“Oh, no. I’m just taking a short break because I’ve been driving a lot and felt tired.”
The words come out smoothly, as if rehearsed. In reality, your mind is racing.
The first soldier tilts his head slightly. “May I see your documents?”
“Of course.”
You reach toward the bag on the passenger seat, moving slowly so as not to appear nervous. You pull out your wallet, take out your driver’s license and ID, and hand them over through the gap in the window. Gloved fingers take them without haste.
While the two check your details, the silence becomes unbearable. The rain keeps falling. The engine of their vehicle hums softly in the background.
“It says here you live a few kilometers from here,” the first man observes, his voice still neutral. “What were you doing out at this hour?”
You swallow.
“Family visit… my sister wasn’t feeling very well, so I went to check on her.”
The lie is simple, plausible. You’ve used it before, when Remmick was too clingy and you had to justify your absences at work.
The two soldiers don’t respond immediately. They step a few paces away toward their armored vehicle. You see them bend over a tablet or portable scanner inside, the blue glow of the display faintly illuminating their visors.
You have time to panic.
They came out of the forest.
Did that mean they saw you let Remmick go? Were they lying in wait in the darkness among the trees, with night-vision goggles and directional microphones? Did they record the kiss, your words, his figure disappearing between the trunks?
No. Remmick would have sensed them if that were the case. His predator instincts are sharp, even when he’s hungry. He would have smelled other humans. He would have sensed the danger and run back to you.
Unless he hadn’t been able to sense them for some reason.
What if he had run into them during their patrol? Remmick is too weak for a confrontation…
Sweat trickles down your back despite the cold. Your hands tremble slightly on your knees. It can’t be…
“Here you go.”
The man’s voice catches you off guard. He hands your documents back through the window you’d left slightly open despite the rain, too lost in your thoughts.
You take them with stiff fingers.
“However, I suggest you rest in a more suitable rest area,” the soldier continues. “It’s dangerous here.”
“Oh really?” you manage to laugh, but it comes out forced, too sharp.
“We have reason to believe so.” They don’t elaborate. The tone is firm, final, like a sentence.
“I’ll just get going then. Thank you, officers.”
The two nod once, in sync, and head back toward the armored vehicle.
The headlights remain fixed on you. They don’t move. They wait for you to leave first.
With your heart pounding in your ears, you turn the key and start the engine. You shift into gear, turn on the headlights, and begin to move slowly, maneuvering in the muddy clearing. The tires slip a little on the soft ground, but you manage to rejoin the main road.
In the rearview mirror, you see the Custodians’ vehicle remain still, showing no sign of following you.
You drive for about two kilometers, continuing to cast glances in every direction.
The wide curve you’d been waiting for finally appears: a broad bend lined with tall bushes. When you disappear behind it, you drop all caution.
You swerve sharply to the right, leaving the road. The front wheels sink into the mud of a small, nearly invisible dirt path, marked only by two parallel tracks and an opening between the trees, and you switch off the headlights abruptly to hide.
The darkness swallows you instantly, broken only by the faint glow of the moon filtering through the clouds and the reddish light of the dashboard.
The car jolts violently. Gravel scrapes and slams against the car body and underside with a sharp noise, but you don’t care.
Now off the main road and vaguely safe, you cut the engine again and quickly grab the phone you’d left on the seat.
You dial Remmick’s number, but before it can even ring, it goes to voicemail.
Either there’s no signal, or it’s off.
You hang up.
“Jesus, Rem!” you curse, shoving the phone into your pocket and getting out of the car. The rain hits your face like a slap, and you pause only long enough to shut the door before pushing off the dirt track, half blindly toward the trees. You don’t want to turn on the flashlight and risk being located.
Your heart is pounding so hard you can feel it in your temples.
“Remmick…” you call, your voice low but clear, loud enough to carry a few dozen meters. “Remmick, where are you?”
No answer. Just the constant rustle of rain through the leaves and the dripping from the branches.
The ground is slippery, full of hidden roots and puddles.
“Remmick!” you call again, louder this time, turning your head from side to side. You keep checking the darkness behind you obsessively: no blue lights, no suspicious movement.
You walk faster, pushing deeper between the trunks. Low branches scratch your arms, soak your hair. The mud sucks at your shoes with every step.
“Rem, please…”
Your voice trembles. The anxiety you held back in the car is rising again, fast and suffocating.
You picture his pale body lying somewhere, pierced by silver bullets. You imagine the Custodians dragging him away while he screams your name.
You trip over a protruding root.
Your foot slips, you lose your balance, and you fall forward, landing on your hands and knees in the freezing mud. Pain shoots up your wrists, but it’s nothing compared to the knot tightening in your throat.
You struggle back to your feet, hands smeared with wet earth, breath short.
“Remmick!” you call again, your voice breaking this time. Tears burn your eyes, mixing with the rain on your face. “Where are you?! Fuck, don’t do this to me—!”
You take another step and feel empty space beneath your foot. This time you fall sideways against a trunk, your shoulder slamming painfully into the rough bark, making you groan and drop to your knees.
Panic takes hold completely: your breathing turns ragged, your hands tremble, your chest rises and falls too fast. The tears come freely now, warm against the cold rain.
You feel weak. You are weak. You can’t protect him—you never have been able to…
You’re about to completely break, to scream his name without restraint, when a heavy thud lands right beside you and a presence materializes in the dark.
Remmick appears between two trees less than five meters away, as if the forest itself had spat him out. His eyes glow a vivid red in the black of the night, the only thing that lets you recognize him.
“Rem…”
In an instant he’s in front of you, knees sinking into the mud as he kneels at your feet. His long, unnatural hands grab your shoulders with desperate force, but without hurting you.
“Are ye off yer head?!” he hisses, his voice low and hoarse, broken by anxiety. His Irish accent stronger than usual. “Why're ye out here?! Ye were meant to be waitin' in the car—”
“Where were you?!” you cut him off, your voice coming out too loud, full of anxiety and anger. “Why didn’t you answer me?!”
You shake him by the shoulders, your fingers digging into his soaked sweatshirt. His red eyes stare at you, confused, glowing in the dark like embers.
“I was miles off,” he replies immediately, urgency in his tone. “I came back as quick as I could. There was a bigger pack than I was expectin', I had to be tailin' them for—”
“I told you not to go too far!” you interrupt again, bunching the fabric in your hands. Your voice rises even though you know you should be quiet. “Why did you do it?! Why don’t you ever listen to me?!”
Your hands tremble as you grab and shake him, not even realizing how much force you’re using—even if it’s nothing compared to his.
It’s all too much: the anger, the fear, and finally the sudden relief. They overlap inside you, collide, become a tangle you can’t contain anymore.
And then it all gives at once.
The sobbing worsens, breaking your breath. You can’t stop it, you don’t want to stop it. You collapse forward, hiding your face against his shoulder. The contact is real, familiar—proof that this isn’t an illusion.
The smell hits you immediately.
Blood.
Metallic, thick, still fresh. It floods your nostrils with almost nauseating force. The rain can’t wash it away completely. It only dilutes it, carries it off in dark rivulets, never truly making it disappear.
And you stay there, clinging to him, breathing it in. Relieved, after all, that he managed to feed.
Remmick remains still for a moment, as if caught off guard. You’ve never been the type to break down like this, not in front of him, but that doesn’t stop him from reacting immediately.
His arms wrap around you, fast but careful, and he holds you tight.
One of his hands moves along your back, tracing slow, repetitive, almost hypnotic circles, while the other rises to the back of your head. His fingers, now returned to normal, slip into your wet hair, staying there, holding you, pulling you into his comfort.
“I’m sorry…”
His voice reaches you from very close, broken, bringing back the memory of a similar moment in the past. A whisper against your ear, heavy with guilt.
“I’m so sorry, darlin'.”
The way he says it makes you tighten your grip on his now-soaked coat even more.
“I didn’t mean to have ye frettin.”
He trembles slightly as he holds you, his strong body pressed against yours, his face brushing through your hair until he kisses you there, then on your temple, then your cheek, anywhere he can reach without pulling away.
“I’m here, darlin'. It’s alright. I’m not goin' anywhere on ye.”
You stay like that for several minutes, kneeling in the mud, under the unrelenting rain. His cold body warms you even though it shouldn’t, defying the laws of thermodynamics, and you struggle to find the strength to pull away, sniffling.
“We need to get back to the car,” you murmur, pressing your hands against your legs to push yourself back to your feet.
He nods immediately. “Aye. Let me carry ye. The ground's slippy, ye’re soaked and—”
“No,” you interrupt, still slightly upset. You stand up on your own, ignoring the pain in your knees and wrists. “I can walk.”
Remmick bites his lower lip, his fangs brushing against pale skin. He looks like he’s about to protest, but then lowers his gaze, subdued. “As ye wish.”
You start walking back toward the car, your steps unsteady in the mud. He follows a step behind, as always, but this time he’s closer than usual. Every now and then his hand brushes your back, ready to steady you if you stumble again.
He doesn’t speak, but you can feel his gaze on you: worried, guilty, in love.
When you finally reach the car, you’re drenched, muddy and exhausted.
You open the driver’s door while Remmick lingers outside for a second, under the rain, eyes wide as ping-pong balls.
“Can I get in?” he asks, gesturing toward the back of the car with a small grin. “Or would ye rather I stay in the boot so I don’t make a mess?”
You roll your eyes and open the passenger door, leaning across the seat. “Get in, idiot.”
The water is too hot, but you sink your foot and legs in anyway, with a pleasant sigh.
It wraps around you like an embrace, canceling the sensation of cold, as you let yourself slide lower into the tub, until even your shoulders disappear beneath the surface.
You close your eyes and let the heat seep into your tense muscles, loosening some of the tension, but your mind does not calm.
You think back to that horrible feeling that grabbed you in the woods: absolute helplessness.
If the Custodians had found Remmick tonight, what could you have done? Scream? Run? Take the rifle and aim it right at the Government that had provided it to you?
Remmick is fast, strong, immortal… but he too can be overwhelmed. You saw him almost die once. And what if it happened again? If one day they captured him while he was out hunting? If they took him to one of those laboratories where they dissect them alive?
Tears rise to your eyes again, silent.
You feel weak. Useless.
A fragile woman who had the arrogance to save a vampire and allow him to remain in your life. Remmick depends on you and feels safe in your care, and you depend on him.
If he disappeared, what would you have left?
The water cools slightly around you. You stay there, immersed, with your eyes closed and your heart heavy, letting the thoughts sink into you like stones until you hear a soft knock at the door.
“It’s open,” you say, without opening your eyes.
The door opens slightly with a light creak. He peeks in only with his head, gray eyes like an abandoned puppy watching you timidly.
You don’t tell him to come in, but he does anyway, quietly closing the door behind him to keep the heat in the room from escaping.
You open one eye to observe him. There is no trace of blood left on his skin. He must have rinsed off quickly at the guest bathroom sink.
He is wearing a clean black T-shirt and gray sweatpants that he usually wears when he wants to feel more comfortable.
He kneels on the mat next to the tub slowly, almost expecting you to send him away, but you don’t. He chooses exactly the spot where your arm rests on the edge, the part of your body most within reach.
Remmick crosses his arms on the edge of the tub and rests his chin on them. His face is a few centimeters from your hand, tilted slightly to one side, and his eyes seek you from beneath long lashes, with a shyness that has nothing artificial about it.
“Are ye still angry?” he asks.
“I’m not angry,” you reply, breathing tiredly.
He gives you a doubtful look, his eyebrows slightly furrowed, but he doesn’t object. He knows when it’s better not to insist.
Glad that he didn’t push, you extend your hand and begin to stroke him slowly, running your fingers through his damp, soft hair.
Remmick reacts immediately.
He closes his eyes as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and a small, sincere smile curves his lips. He leans more into your touch, like your cat when it seeks affection.
“Did you eat enough?” you ask softly, continuing to move your fingers through his hair.
He makes a low sound, a soft meow that seems like assent. His body visibly relaxes under your care: his shoulders drop, his breathing slows.
You stay like that for a while.
Your fingers continue to slide through his hair, over the nape of his neck, behind his ears. Every now and then he tilts his head to offer himself more to the touch, an expression of pure bliss on his face, which seems to be enough…
Or maybe not.
He tilts his head just enough to rest his lips on your wrist and places a very light kiss right where the vein pulses beneath the thin skin.
Then another. And another.
His tongue flattens against your warm skin, tracing a damp line from your wrist up the inside of your forearm. You feel the warmth of his cold breath contrasting with the hot water, and a shiver runs down your spine despite the boiling bath.
“Rem…” you scold him softly, your voice already cracking.
He doesn’t stop. On the contrary, he leans more toward you, his torso stretching over the edge of the tub.
His soft lips find yours in a deep kiss. His tongue slips into your mouth with the same slowness with which he had licked your wrist. It tastes of mint toothpaste, making you realize he brushed his teeth, aware that he would come close to you.
You stay in the kiss for a few seconds. Your lips move against his, your body relaxing in spite of itself.
It’s easy to lose yourself in him, in the way he kisses you as if you were the only thing keeping him anchored to this world.
But then you remember the woods, the headlights, the icy fear that clenched your stomach, and you push him back by the shoulders firmly.
Remmick immediately pulls back, obedient, but his face puckers into a perfect pout.
“Said ye weren’t angry,” he states, a little whiny.
“And I’m not,” you confirm, running a wet hand over your face to move an annoying strand of hair.
“Then what?” he whines. He leans forward again and gently forces your hand against his cheek, pressing your palm to his skin.
You look at him for a few seconds in silence. The slight roughness of the beard starting to grow scratches pleasantly against your palm. It’s something you can’t explain. He doesn’t age, but his hair and beard grow.
You stroke his cheek with your thumb, slowly, enjoying the sensation.
“I… I thought I had lost you, Rem,” you admit at last, your voice dropping to a whisper.
“They were so close… their vehicle was there, the soldiers checked my documents, they told me it was dangerous to stay. If they had seen you enter the woods, if they had taken you while you were still weak and slow… I wouldn’t have been able to protect you. I wouldn’t have been able to do anything,” you say all in one breath, certain you wouldn’t have exposed yourself if you had stopped to think.
You need to say it. You need to tell him that you didn’t feel—
“Stop it.”
The peremptory tone stops you, and your eyes widen at his audacity as you pull your hand away from his forehead. It’s the first time you’ve heard him address you like that.
Remmick holds your gaze without difficulty, head held high, and doesn’t delay in adding: “Don’t even be thinkin' it. Ye've been keepin' me safe every day, riskin' yer own neck. Ye’ve done it since the day ye found me in the tool closet, and ye’ve never once stopped.”
There is something firm in the way he says it, as if he were stating an undeniable fact.
“Ye are not weak. Ye are not useless.”
His hand reaches yours again and lifts it back to his face, indulging in the affection.
“Ye're me strength.” he finally adds softly, taking your breath away for a moment.
It sounds like an absolute truth, judging by the way he abandons himself to your warmth and your closeness. There is not the slightest hint of doubt in his voice, and perhaps it is precisely for this reason that you cannot dismiss them as mere words of circumstance and compassion.
Embarrassment makes your ears ring, and you are about to object or say something that might shatter that strange atmosphere, but the vampire seems to anticipate your move, and before you can even open your mouth, he lightly bites the inside of your wrist.
It’s not a real bite. Just a small, quick graze of fangs, light enough not to pierce the skin but enough to make you jump in surprise. A warm sting that immediately turns into a muffled laugh.
The tension breaks suddenly.
“Rem!” you exclaim between laughter and shock, pulling your hand back sharply but not dwelling on it. You knew he would never hurt you, not even as a joke.
As if nothing had happened, Remmick gets up from the mat and quickly moves behind you. You don’t turn to look at him, but you feel his presence near your shoulders.
He sits on the bidet next to the tub, settling naturally as he had done a thousand times before, and his hands reach your hair.
“The water's gettin' cold,” he observes when he brushes the surface with his knuckles.
His fingers weave through your hair, beginning to untangle it with infinite patience even though you had already taken care of it earlier. Every movement is careful: he separates the strands one by one, combs them with his fingers, lets them fall.
You can see his amusingly focused expression in the reflection of the water, and the image of the predator in the woods dissolves. It almost seems like he is in the place he has always wanted to be.
Here, taking care of you.
A strong emotion blooms in your chest, too full to be ignored: a mix of tenderness, possessiveness, and that deep need to have him close, to erase the distance that fear has created.
Without saying a word, you gently pull away from his hands, and Remmick lets go of your hair instantly, obedient, even though a small sound of protest escapes his throat.
You don’t give him time to understand.
You stand up inside the tub.
The water slides off your body in now-cool rivulets, following the lines of your skin, and gathers again below your calves. The contrast with the air is immediate, but you don’t care.
Not right now.
Remmick watches you, confused, as you turn toward him and push yourself forward. You place one knee on the ceramic so you can bend and shorten that distance that until a moment ago felt so heavy.
Your hands find his shoulders, sinking into the dark fabric of his T-shirt, and your lips capture his in the blink of an eye.
He whimpers into your kiss, a sound that vibrates directly against your lips, making them tingle. It’s a hoarse, broken meow, typical of when Remmick completely loses his self-control.
His arms rise immediately, wrapping around you, and he uses his grip to lift you up and pull you against him, bringing you out of the tub.
The water still clinging to your skin soaks into his T-shirt and pants as he settles you astride his lap.
The position isn’t the most comfortable. Your shins press painfully against the cold edge of the bidet every time you move, and yet you don’t care.
Not when Remmick’s tongue slides eagerly into your mouth, exploring every inch. It glides over your palate, brushes your teeth, intertwines with yours urgently.
You feel the slight scrape of fangs against your lower lip, but he’s immediately there correcting his position to avoid repeating the mistake.
One of his hands slides up along your wet side, fingers sinking into the soft flesh to pull you even closer, while the other moves slowly over your bare back, tracing your spine with the tips of his nails.
They’re longer than normal and decidedly sharper, leaving light trails of pleasure mixed with a prickling shiver across your skin.
It often happens when Remmick is worked up enough: he loses control over certain details of his supernatural body.
And this, in a completely perverse way, only excites you more.
Knowing he’s so lost in you that he can’t hold back his true nature sends a liquid heat straight between your legs.
In the middle of the kiss, you pull away slightly from his lips and move down along his neck.
Remmick immediately tilts his head to the side, offering you his pale throat without the slightest hesitation, and a hoarse moan slips from him when your lips touch his cold skin.
You kiss, suck, gently nibble the tender flesh just below his ear, just as he used to do to you while you were lying on your back on the bed in the other room, and you feel the violent shiver that runs through him from head to toe.
His hips jerk involuntarily upward, pressing his growing erection against you through the wet fabric, and he sighs.
“Darlin'… please…”
Remmick hides his face against your shoulder, forcing you to pull away from his neck. His breath brushes your collarbone, sending small shivers across your still-damp skin.
“You really scared me earlier,” you scold him, gently scratching the back of his head, running your fingers through his short hair.
“I know,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice muffled and full of remorse. “I’m sorry.”
“You always have that stupid phone turned off,” you continue, your tone sharpening despite the desire still pulsing between your legs.
Remmick tries to justify himself, kissing your shoulder with a, “I didn’t—”
You don’t let him finish.
With a firm motion, you grab a handful of his dark brown hair and yank hard downward.
For him it’s probably just a light scrape, a minor discomfort, but the sudden gesture makes him stiffen instantly. A choked sound escapes his throat—something between a moan and an Irish curse barely held between his teeth.
His hands tighten convulsively on your thighs as he closes his eyes for a second. When he opens them again, his irises are a bright, vivid, hungry red.
He breathes deeply, trying to gather composure. His covered chest rises and falls against yours, even though he doesn’t really need air.
“I can make it up to ye,” he whispers, fighting against your grip to move closer to your face. “Ye know I can.”
His words are confident, mischievous but with a core of hard seriousness, of a need to make amends.
You look down at him, still straddling him. His red eyes fix on you with a mix of desire, shame, and determination. The hand you used to pull his hair softens, returning to stroke the back of his neck.
“I know you can.”
Those two words are all he needs.
As if they were explicit permission, Remmick stands up in one fluid motion, holding you firmly by the hips, and crosses the bathroom hurriedly, as if he had already decided every step before even moving.
He carries you to the sink counter and sets you down on the edge of the cold marble.
The sudden contact with the icy stone pulls a sharp moan from you that you don’t bother to hold back, because the vampire is already lowering himself, bending onto his knees without fully kneeling.
His face disappears between your spread legs and he wastes no time on gentle foreplay: he dives into you with almost violent hunger.
His broad, cold tongue flattens against your warm core, licking from bottom to top with a fervor that makes you arch your back and knock your head against the mirror.
A moan slips from your lips as he repeats the motion, over and over, greedily taking in your taste. His hands keep your thighs spread wide, his abnormally long fingers splayed against your flesh for greater control.
When his lips close around your clitoris and he begins to suck in a steady rhythm, your knees tremble and the urge to close them becomes strong.
Remmick moans against you as he feels your resistance, the sound vibrating directly against your sensitive flesh. You’re on the verge of losing your mind when you finally feel two fingers slide into you without warning, deep, curved upward to immediately find that spot that makes you see stars.
“Ah— Rem…” you gasp, one hand snapping to grab his hair.
He doesn’t stop. His tongue keeps working your clitoris, alternating broad licks and firm suction, while his fingers move inside you in a perfect rhythm, guiding you along the golden path you love to follow every night.
His fingers are longer than normal, thinner, reaching places no human could touch with such precision, making you wetter and leaving you drooling against the stone counter.
Every time he pulls them out and pushes them back in, a wet, obscene sound fills the bathroom, but you’re far too lost.
You feel your orgasm approaching fast, unstoppable. Your thighs start to tremble sooner than expected, and you try to hold onto some clarity, one hand gripping him and the other clutching the edge of the sink until your knuckles turn white as you give in to a litany of pornographic moans.
“Come on, love. Give it to me.”
Remmick watches you from below, almost feverish, as he uses only his fingers, nibbling at your thigh and stroking your clitoris with his thumb in tight, rapid circles.
The combination is devastating. The orgasm crashes over you violently.
Your body arches sharply against the cold marble of the sink. A broken cry escapes your throat as you close your eyes, completely lost in the bliss, and you clamp down hard around his fingers, spasms shaking you from head to toe.
Remmick rubs his face against your thigh like an animal seeking comfort, continuing to move his fingers to prolong the pleasure as much as possible, but you don’t let him continue like that.
You need to feel him close. You need to drown in him the way he drowns in you.
With a firm motion, you bury your hand in his hair and yank hard upward, forcing him to lift his face.
Remmick lets himself be pulled more easily when he understands your intentions, a choked sound dying in his throat as he reaches you. His lips meet yours once again, only this time you can taste yourself on his tongue.
You could get drunk on this alone. On his taste and yours together.
With your other hand, the free one, you waste no time. You slide down along his torso, grab the waistband of his sweatpants and shove them down impatiently, along with his boxers.
The damp fabric slides down over his soft buttocks and stops just below his thighs. His cock springs free, hard, veined, already slick with his own arousal.
You take him in your hand immediately, gripping the base firmly, and Remmick jolts violently into the kiss, his hips thrusting forward to seek more contact.
You don’t waste time stroking him. You only hold him for a second, firm at the base, then guide him exactly where you want him.
Before you can catch your breath, before your body stops trembling from the just-finished orgasm, you tilt your hips toward him. The tip of his shaft brushes your still swollen, pulsing entrance, sliding between your wet folds, and you wrap your legs around his hips, locking your ankles behind his back.
Remmick breaks from the kiss with a gasp, his red eyes shining with pure desire as he looks at you, his face hovering close as if he lacks the strength to pull away.
“Darlin'… love, wait—”
The sentence dies on his lips when, with a firm push of your thighs, you force him forward, making him bury himself inside you to the base in one single, deep thrust.
Remmick’s shoulder presses against your lips immediately, muffling the overstimulated cry that bursts from you because of his girth. You feel his heavy, hardened testicles press against your ass, soaked with your arousal.
“Oh, fuck… fuck—”
Remmick whines against your temple, distressed and desperate, almost as if he were literally falling apart in your arms.
“My good boy.”
The endearment makes him act on instinct even if he knows how pathetic it sounds. He gives two sharp, deep, almost brutal thrusts, and each one lifts you slightly from the edge of the sink, making your back hit the mirror.
Your nails dig into his back through the wet shirt, scratching both fabric and the skin beneath with force, and Remmick shudders but doesn’t slow down: he drives all the way in each time, burying himself completely inside you with a primal need that contrasts with his usual submission.
The third thrust is the one that breaks him.
With a long, distinctly animalistic moan, Remmick comes.
You feel him pulse violently inside you, his shaft contracting in powerful spasms as cold, abundant seed spills in thick bursts, filling you until it overflows.
With every weak, residual thrust he can’t stop, part of your union slips out, running down your inner thigh and staining the edge of the sink.
His strong body trembles uncontrollably against yours. His arms tighten around you and he presses his forehead against your temple, rubbing his nose against your cheek as you catch your breath.
“Sorry… I couldn’t hold it…” he murmurs, his voice broken with pleasure and emotion. “Are ye okay?”
The words are gentle, almost shy, in stark contrast with the intensity of moments before. Remmick lifts his head slightly to look into your eyes.
His red irises are slowly fading, giving way to that beautiful gray you know so well. His cheeks are flushed, his lips swollen and damp, his hair disheveled in every direction.
He looks completely undone, more than you are.
“I’m okay,” you murmur softly, your voice still a little shaky from the intensity of it all. “We’re okay, Rem.”
The words come out sweet, reassuring, and you immediately feel Remmick’s body relax against yours. A long, almost pained sigh of relief escapes his lips as he presses his forehead more firmly to your temple and lets himself go.
Jax... stop being like this
delete your fucking useless ass gimmick blog. piece of shit
Naughty boys get punished.
