hi mamas !!! I'm the one who asked when your reqs would be back open :) and be prepared, this is kind of... detailed. (again, no rush) anyways, I had an idea where remmick would kind of stalk the reader- like straight up BEGS the girl every night to be let in. but, reader lives with her mama and maybe siblings, so she's worried he'll hurt them and she says no every time. but then this MANIPULATIVE ASS HO gets in anyway bc he deep fries himself in sun like how he did in the movie, and reader's MOTHER lets his dumbass in. and reader's mom is all nice to him and trying to patch him up, and reader's worried af but maybe pretends to not know this burnt up white man in her mama's kitchen. and later, it's nightime and all, and reader's tryna sleep but is scared for her family. and ofc, remmick's crazy ass is watching her in the dark. but then he comes into her room, and they talk, which calms reader down a bit. eventually, she's comfortable enough to start getting curious abt remmick being a vampire, so she ends up in his lap while checking out his fangs and claws… all of which leads to thigh-riding while remmick teases and kind of taunts reader. then, it gets spicier (ofc) and they do whatever you want them to do. but PLEASE at least once, let that man's hand be around reader's neck. (again, for the like third time, there is no rush, and ik if you do write this it'll be AWESOME bc you're just that iconic <33 i hope this isn't too much btw and ty for taking the time to answer my first question :)))
ʟᴇᴀᴠᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴏᴏʀ ᴏᴘᴇɴ
ᴡᴄ: 8.1k
ᴀ/ɴ: no because why is this song so delulu remmick coded. but don't give me such good requests yall because i will get carried away and completely twist the ask into absolute degeneracy. i also took some (many) creative liberties so i hope that's okay with you anon :3! please mind the warnings and do not interact if dark themes aren't your cup of tea (totally valid)!
ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: 18+ MINORS DNI!!!!, shamelessly nasty smut, minimal plot all porn, dark themes, noncon, degradation, groping, fingering, p in v, rough sex, choking, breeding kink, dacryphilia, babytrapping, cockwarming, fantasies of exhibitionism, threats of violence, dom!remmick, creep!remmick, delusional!remmick, feral!remmick honestly, sub!reader, poc!reader and the 1930s suspicions that follow, stalking, manipulation of a sweet old lady, slightly excessive divider usage, i got addicted to italics again, overall depravity in every sense of the word
It started with flowers.
Wild ones, mostly—asters, cosmos, bluebells with tangled stems. Arranged without rhyme or reason, more a fistful than a bouquet. Always fresh. Always different. Always left somewhere you couldn’t ignore.
Tucked into the curve of your fence.
Balanced on your windowsill, pressed in place by a rock so they wouldn’t blow away.
Dropped just outside the screen door, nestled like an apology beneath your feet when you stepped out in the morning.
You never brought them in.
You crushed the first bunch with your heel, left the second to rot. The third, you flung into the weeds and didn’t even bother to look back. You knew where they came from. What they meant. And he knew you knew, because the next one came with a note.
“It hurts when you don’t look.”
You tore that one up before your mama could see it.
And still—he kept coming.
You never saw him outright. Not at first. It was always shadows. Footsteps. The soft rustle of leaves behind you on your walk home from the grocer’s. A shape moving just past your periphery when you passed the fields. A cigarette still burning in the woods across the road when you shut the gate behind you at night.
You told yourself you weren’t scared.
You told yourself he’d get bored.
But one night, after a long shift and an even longer walk, you turned onto your road and saw it.
Right there at the bend before your porch steps, where your shoes always scraped the gravel just so.
Your necklace.
The one you lost weeks ago. The one your mama swore must’ve slipped down the drain. The one you’d already stopped looking for.
It was laid out neat, untangled, gleaming under the moonlight like it’d just been polished.
You didn’t sleep that night.
Your mama called him a “godsend.”
Said it with a sweet smile and her hands buried in the laundry basket, humming as she folded clothes and made her neat little piles. You stood frozen in the doorway, the sun hot on your back, heart sinking as she said it again.
“He came ‘round again this mornin’, right before the sun came up. Said he was passin’ by and saw the yard needed work. Ain’t that somethin’? Didn’t even ask for nothin’ in return.”
“Mama…” You didn’t even know where to start.
She waved you off, smile deepening.
“I know that tone. And I’m tellin’ you now, you hush with that. Just ‘cause he’s a stranger doesn’t mean he’s bad. You oughta be grateful someone’s willin’ to help. The weeds were up to my knees out there.”
You gritted your teeth. Tried to keep your voice soft.
“What’d he look like?”
She thought on it.
“White boy. A little short. Lean, too. Pale as could be, no wonder he doesn’t like the sun. He’s got the sweetest face. Oh, and you should hear his accent. It’s so silly! He’s not a talker, but real polite. His name was... Remmick.”
You didn’t say a word.
Ran out the back door so fast you almost left your shoes behind.
And there he was.
Right outside the fence, crouched low by the overgrown roses, a pair of gardening gloves tugged tight over his hands.
Remmick.
He looked up like he didn’t recognize you.
Like you were just some stranger walking out into the yard.
And then he smiled.
God, that smile.
Soft. Gentle. Like sunlight on water. Like apology in the shape of a man.
You wanted to claw it off his face.
But your mother was at the screen door already, waving at him.
“He’s gonna finish up the hedges,” she called. “Ain’t that kind of him?”
“Real kind,” you murmured, eyes locked on him like you could peel him open with your gaze.
He dipped his head—humble, almost bashful—and gave you a nod.
Didn’t say a word.
Didn’t have to.
Because you saw it.
The glint in his eye.
The curl of his fingers around the shears a little too tight.
The way his gaze flicked back to your mother just long enough to remind you that he knew.
Knew who she was.
Knew where you lived.
Knew how to worm his way into her soft spots, the same way he’d been trying to worm into yours for months now.
And you couldn’t say anything.
Couldn’t call him out.
Not without seeming crazy.
Not without hurting the woman who still smiled when strangers offered help, who still believed there were good men just walking the streets, who still thought angels could come in the form of a neighbor with strong arms and nice teeth.
So you stood there.
You watched him trim the hedges.
You watched your mother bring him lemonade.
You watched him wave goodbye and promise to stop by again tomorrow if the weather held.
And when he looked at you—just for a second—he smiled again.
Not sweet this time.
Not bashful.
Just knowing.
Like he’d already won.
A week passed, and with it, your sense of control.
It started small. It always did.
Remmick became a fixture.
He came by each morning just before sunrise, long before you woke, and stayed through the overcast days. Always outside. Always busy.
If he wasn’t mending the fence, he was hauling brush or tending to the many, many gardens he’d set up. One morning, you caught him beneath the house, dragging out years of junk like it was his duty—like he belonged there, under your home, under your skin.
Your mother fed him like a stray.
Brought him biscuits and bacon wrapped in a dish towel. Let him take water from the pump, even gave him a chipped mug to keep so he wouldn’t have to drink from his hands. You never saw her treat anyone like that before. Not the neighbors. Not her own family.
Just him.
Remmick never took more than he was given. He always smiled, always thanked her with that soft lilt in his voice—like honey caught on something colder underneath. You saw it clearer every day. The way he shifted when she wasn’t looking. The way his posture changed when it was just the two of you in the same breath of space.
He started speaking more.
To you, not her.
Small things, tossed off like threadbare compliments.
“Mornin’. Pretty out today, ain’t it?”
“Must be hard carryin’ all that weight in yer shoulders. Want help with the bags?”
“Y’look tired. Ya sleepin’ alright?”
You ignored him the first time.
The second, you muttered something sharp, just enough to sting.
The third, he got bold.
Tried brushing past you in the backyard, even though there was plenty of space. His hand didn’t just graze your side—it pressed, firm at your hips, fingers splayed like he had every right. For a split second, he dipped lower, just enough to make your skin crawl.
You spun so fast he nearly lost his footing, but he only chuckled, soft and low.
“Yer awful jumpy.”
“You’re awful close.”
He lifted both hands like a preacher at the altar, all innocence and soft retreat. Didn’t matter. You still went to bed that night with your dresser shoved against the door.
Now it was Friday.
Too long since he first walked into your mother’s good graces with dirt on his knees and a saint’s smile. The sky hung low that morning, heavy and gray. Rain tapped soft against the awning, not quite steady—more a hush than a downpour.
The kitchen was dim but warm, lit gold by the bulb above the stove. Your mother stood at the sink, wrist-deep in suds, humming something low and wordless while the faucet ran. Steam curled from the dishwater. Her breath fogged the glass when she leaned toward it, squinting through the haze to watch him work.
You leaned against the counter, arms folded tight.
Remmick was out back again, kneeling by the raised beds he’d built himself. From the window, you could see him—shirt rolled to his elbows, sweat darkening the collar, hair damp against his temples. He looked up at the glass like he felt her gaze, and when he smiled and waved, your mama gave a little wave back with the sponge still in hand.
“Lord, he’s somethin’,” she murmured, almost to herself. “Boy works like he’s got a home here.”
You didn’t answer right away. Just watched the way his hand settled at his waist. Right over the spot where he’d touched you.
“Mama,” you said, quiet but tight. “Don’t it strike you as strange?”
She blinked at you, then returned her attention to the dishes.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean—” You shifted your weight. Bit back the worst of it. “What business does a white man like him have hangin’ around here every day? Doing yard work? Building things for free? Doesn’t that sound off to you?”
She sighed, more tired than annoyed, but not without edge.
“You’re startin’ to sound like your auntie.”
You frowned. “I’m bein’ serious.”
“So am I,” she said, rinsing a plate with sharp swipes. “You think I don’t notice the way you watch him? The way you stiffen when he comes near?”
“He ain’t done nothin’ wrong,” she went on. “Not once. Been nothin’ but respectful to me. Doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t look me over. Doesn’t even take his eyes off the dirt when I’m speakin’. That’s rare, baby. I don’t care what color a man is—when you get kindness that steady, you don’t spit on it.”
You stared at the counter, jaw clenched. The hum of the faucet suddenly felt too loud.
“He feels wrong.” you whispered.
“Maybe you just ain’t used to good things.”
The words cracked through the quiet like a snapped branch. You looked up fast, but she wasn’t angry. Her eyes were soft, sad even, a little damp from the heat curling off the dishwater.
“It’s okay to be suspicious. I taught you that. Taught you to keep your guard up. This world doesn’t love girls like us.” Her voice shook the tiniest bit. “But if all we do is wait for things to go bad, we’re gonna miss when they’re actually good. And he’s been good.”
You almost told her then.
Almost grabbed her by the shoulders and said it plain—he touches me when you’re not looking. He says things with his eyes that I don’t like. He’s not here for you, Mama. He’s here for me.
But you didn’t.
Because you’d already tried convincing her, and all it did was make her dig in her heels.
At least now, he stayed outside. That much you’d managed. No matter how she fussed or insisted he ought to come in for supper or take a break from the sun, you always found a way to stop it. Quick lies. Fabricated errands.
“He said he’d rather eat out back.”
“He’s got somethin’ to finish before the light fades.”
You were always watching.
Because you had to be.
Now, your mother dried her hands and gave you a gentle look—the kind she used when you were little, when you scraped your knees and wouldn’t stop crying.
“We’re allowed to have good things, baby,” she said. “Even here. Even now.”
You didn’t answer.
Just turned to the window and watched him crouch again, hands in the soil, head tilted low. He wasn’t waving this time.
He was staring.
And this time, he didn’t stop when you caught him.
It was only a matter of time before Remmick got tired of waiting.
You felt it before you saw it. A stillness in the wind. A shift in the birdsong. The way the air hung heavy, too warm for the hour, too silent for how bright the sun was burning overhead. Even your mother felt it—her hands moved slower over the fabric she was folding, her eyes flicking to the window again and again.
He didn’t come that morning.
Not at dawn. Not by nine. Not by lunch.
He never missed a morning.
Not once in that long, crawling week. No matter the heat or the rain, he always found something to do. Always had dirt under his nails and a tool in his hand. Always checked in with your mother like he cared—“drinkin’ enough water today, miss? y’shouldn’t be out in this sun too long”—like he belonged there in her routine, like he had the right to speak to her soft and sweet like the son she never had.
His absence brought silence.
Sweet, golden peace.
You sat on the back steps with a cool drink in your hand, listening to the cicadas buzz in the trees. No shadow shifting behind the fence. No footstep just out of view. No eyes crawling up your spine.
It was the first time in days you’d been able to breathe.
Mama, though—she kept checking the window. Wringing her hands on the dishtowel. Muttering little nothings like “maybe he’s sick,” or “he said he’d be painting the tool shed today, didn’t he?” Her voice never rose, but the worry pressed itself into every syllable.
Then the scream came.
It was low at first. Hoarse. Animal. Like something dying slow just out of sight.
You were halfway up from your seat when it rose into a full, guttural shriek that made your skin crawl and your mother’s head snap toward the front door.
She didn’t even hesitate, already running before you could turn around.
You followed, legs stiff with dread, stumbling down the hallway behind her. By the time you reached the porch, she was already down the steps and into the yard. And there he was.
Remmick.
Writhing on the gravel like he was on fire.
Because he was.
The sun clung to him like acid, his pale skin bubbling and blackening in streaks, peeling back in sick, wet curls as he thrashed. His mouth was open wide, teeth clenched hard, and that scream—God, that sound—didn’t stop. You could hear the sizzle, the meat of him cooking under the light.
You froze.
Your heart leapt, not in fear, but—
Relief.
He wasn’t invincible.
“Help me!” your mother cried, dropping to her knees beside him, trying to shield his body with her arms like she could block out the sun with her shadow. “Get him inside, now!”
“Mama, no—”
“NOW!” she snapped, and that was it.
No room to argue.
No space to resist.
You clenched your jaw, grabbed him beneath the shoulders with shaking hands, and started dragging. His shirt came away in your grip, damp with blood and something worse. His whole body shook. The smell was awful—burnt skin and smoke and sweat and the iron-thick stink of his ruin. You gagged once, but kept pulling. Your mother had his legs. Together, you got him to the porch. Up the steps. Through the door.
And the moment you crossed the threshold—
He stopped screaming.
His back arched once, sharp and sudden, and then he slumped into your arms like a puppet with its strings cut. You almost dropped him right there.
Because he was smiling.
Not wide. Not obvious. Just a tiny tug at the corner of his mouth.
Like it had all been worth it.
Like you were the reward.
Your stomach flipped.
“Lay him down—careful, now, careful,” your mother barked, already dragging the cushions off the couch, already reaching for a towel to cover him with. “Get me the first aid kit. The big one. Under the bathroom sink.”
You hesitated.
“Go!”
You went.
But your hands trembled the whole time.
When you came back, she had a bowl of water ready, a stack of clean rags, bottles of aloe and burn salve and something else that smelled like alcohol. She worked like she’d done it a hundred times before, as though treating a man whose flesh melted under sunlight was no different than nursing a fever or bandaging a scraped knee.
You hovered by the doorway, clutching the kit like a lifeline.
“Don’t just stand there,” she snapped. “Hand me the salve.”
You moved toward them, each step heavier than the last. He was watching you. Of course he was. His eyes tracked you like a snake in the grass, lazy and slow and certain. One hand slipped from beneath the towel when you passed him the bottle.
Brushed your thigh.
Light. Deliberate.
You flinched so hard it nearly toppled the basin.
“Oh, stop bein’ dramatic,” your mother said, not even looking up. “He’s hurt. He ain’t thinkin’ straight.”
But he was.
You could feel it in your bones.
His fingers lingered every time you came near. When you handed her a rag, his knuckles brushed your wrist. When you brought over clean towels, his foot slid just close enough to touch yours. Always soft. Always gentle. Never enough to call out. Never enough to prove.
But you knew.
He was enjoying this.
Letting her see his ruin.
Letting you feel it.
You stood still, fists clenched at your sides, every part of you screaming to run—to scream yourself—but she looked so worried, so desperate to keep him breathing, and the only way to make sure she stayed safe was to play along.
So you passed the towels.
So you fetched the ice.
So you swallowed the bile rising in your throat every time he touched you.
And eventually, things calmed down.
The air settled. The heat broke. And the sun, as if it had seen what it had done and felt guilty for it, dipped below the trees earlier than you expected—leaving the house in the kind of dim amber that made everything feel quieter than it was.
Remmick sat upright now, stiff and still, perched in the worn armchair by the window like a doll someone had wrapped in gauze. His torso and arms were nearly mummified in clean white bandages, only his neck and the tops of his hands left bare. Every inch of him smelled like aloe and ash.
Your mother stood by his side, fretting with a teacup in her hands, eyes scanning him like she still couldn’t believe he was alive.
“Thank ya,” he said, voice low and hoarse but steady enough to carry. “Truly. For everything. I—I don’t know what I would’ve done if y’all hadn’t found me when ya did.”
He turned his gaze to you as he spoke.
You didn’t answer.
Didn’t look at him.
Didn’t trust yourself to.
Your mother, of course, just waved off his words with a hand to her chest, her voice tender with concern.
“Oh, hush. We weren’t just gonna leave you out there to burn. What kind of people do you think we are?”
“The good kind,” he said, smiling gently, even through the cracks of pain. “That’s rare.”
You almost scoffed.
But then she said it.
“Why don’t you stay the night?”
He blinked like it hadn’t occurred to him, like it wasn’t exactly what he wanted, like he hadn’t orchestrated the whole thing with timing so precise it turned your stomach.
“Oh—Miss, I couldn’t. That’s too much. I’ll be fine once the pain goes away—”
“Nonsense,” she interrupted, her hand already reaching to straighten the blanket tucked over his lap. “You need rest. Proper rest. Not curled up in somebody’s barn or huddled on a porch. You’re stayin’. No arguments.”
He gave a sheepish little smile.
“All right,” he murmured. “If y’sure.”
“I’m sure.” She turned to you then, unbothered, cheerful even. “Show him to the guest room, baby. Make sure the windows are shut.”
You froze.
Swallowed so hard it hurt.
Biting back what you wanted to say.
What you needed to say.
That he wasn’t helpless. That he was a liar. That she’d invited the devil straight into their home.
But you bit your tongue. Hard. Bit it until you tasted copper. Bit it because if you didn’t, she’d see it. She’d see the panic. She’d see you crack.
So you nodded.
Gestured with a tight jerk of your head.
“This way,” you muttered.
He stood slowly, stiff but sure-footed, bandages rustling with each step. He didn’t reach for you this time. Didn’t let his fingers drift or graze. Just followed behind you quietly, the floor creaking soft beneath his feet.
At the doorway, you turned the knob and opened the door, the guest room dim and still and far too welcoming.
He didn’t cross the threshold just yet.
He looked at you.
Not smiling. Not scheming.
Just looking.
And when he spoke, there was something strange in his voice. Something that sat too close to sincere.
“Thank ya,” he said again. “Really.”
It landed differently this time.
Less like a trick. More like… a confession.
It made your chest tight.
Made something flicker, weak and unwanted, at the back of your ribs.
But you didn’t answer.
Didn’t nod. Didn’t breathe.
You just stepped back, eyes flat, and shut the door.
And then you ran.
Not fast. Not loud. Just swift enough to let your hands tremble once you reached your room. Just quiet enough that your mother wouldn’t hear the way your breath hitched as you closed your door, leaned against it, and slid slowly down to the floor.
Heart pounding. Mouth dry. Skin crawling.
You stayed there for a long while, listening to the creak of the hallway floorboards, the distant clatter of dishes in the sink, and the whisper of wind against the windows.
Waiting for him.
Waiting for the next move.
But eventually, you felt safe enough to sleep.
You woke with the weight of it already on your chest.
That sick, bloated heaviness of being watched.
It clung to your skin like heat, like sweat that hadn’t come from any dream. Your eyes blinked open into the dark, and even before you could move, before you could think or breathe or cry out—
You knew.
It was him.
The clock hadn’t chimed. The sun hadn’t even thought about rising. It couldn’t have been past four, the whole world still deep in its hush, but he was awake. He was here. You kept your eyes trained on the window, on the soft, pale square of moonlight pressed against the pane like a prayer. You didn’t dare turn around. Didn’t even blink.
Your fingers curled into the sheets.
Your throat felt sealed shut.
There were no footsteps. No breath. Not even the creak of a floorboard to warn you. But something shifted. The air itself felt startled. As though the house knew it too—he’s here—and recoiled.
The door opened.
You didn’t hear it.
You felt it.
The space behind you changed. The air moved, warm and sour with something that didn’t belong, and even though your back was turned, you could picture it perfectly. The door swinging inward with unnatural grace. The shadows folding back to let him through.
He didn’t speak.
Didn’t have to.
He just stood there, watching.
You couldn’t tell for how long. It could’ve been seconds. Minutes. Hours. Long enough for your arms to numb beneath the pillow. Long enough for your heart to slam itself to pieces inside your chest. Long enough to know he was enjoying it.
And then—
He moved.
Silently.
Not walking. Not stepping.
Gliding.
Like something unbound by the rules that governed the rest of the world. You didn’t hear his weight shift. You didn’t hear the floor sigh. Just the soundless, aching knowledge that he was getting closer.
And closer.
And closer still.
And then—nothing.
Until the bed dipped.
So slight at first you almost thought it was your breath catching wrong. Then deeper, firmer. The mattress giving under a body that didn’t sound like it had one. Your spine stiffened, fingers white-knuckled in the blankets. You kept your eyes on the window. Don’t turn around. Don’t give him that.
The heat of him soaked into the room. Not warmth like a person. Warmth like breath in a crypt. Damp. Dense. Lingering.
And then he breathed.
Right against your shoulder.
A long, slow exhale, like he was savoring the shape of you beneath the sheet. His nose might’ve been inches from your skin. You didn’t dare flinch, though your stomach twisted so violently you thought you might vomit.
You wondered if your mama was still asleep down the hall.
You wondered what he’d do if you screamed.
You wondered how loud you’d have to be for someone—anyone—to hear.
But all those thoughts—every one of them—snapped like twigs under a boot the moment his hands moved.
One of them was already slipping beneath your nightgown, slow and certain, like he had every right. Like it was just something he did every night and you were just late to remember. The other moved to your chest—slow, deliberate—and cupped your breasts with such a terrifying familiarity it made your blood turn to ice.
You inhaled sharp, a scream already rising, raw and ragged, but before you could get it out—
His hand snapped up.
Covered your mouth in a single, practiced motion, calloused fingers pressing firm against your cheeks, his palm sealing the sound inside you like he’d done it a thousand times before.
You froze.
He leaned in.
Close enough that you felt the smile before you saw it.
Close enough that his breath hit your ear, still thick with the smell of your mother’s tea and something far too close to blood.
“Shhh,” he whispered. “Ain’t no need t’be carryin’ on like that.”
You bucked once—jerked hard—but he didn’t budge. Didn’t struggle. Didn’t even raise his voice. His grip didn’t waver. The hand under your gown simply kept climbing. Past your thigh. Your hip. Stopping at the soft of your stomach like he was praying over you.
“Been waitin’ on this,” he murmured, forehead pressing to your temple now, his voice pouring down your spine like molasses. “Waitin’ so damn long. Y’don’t even know, do ya?”
You tried to scream again, a muffled shriek choked back by his palm. He chuckled. God, he laughed—low and lazy like it thrilled him, like your panic was his favorite lullaby.
“Oh, darlin’,” he breathed. “Ya been mine.”
His nose dragged along your cheek, slow as sin. His thumb found your jaw, pried it down just enough to make you feel helpless, open.
“Was mine the minute you saw them flowers,” he went on, voice deepening, almost cutting. “Knew it then. Knew ya felt it. Y’ain’t never looked at nobody else the way you looked at me. Not once.”
His hand under your gown was moving again, lower this time, but not hurried. Not frenzied. Gentle. Reverent. Like he thought you ought to thank him for it.
“Y’don’t gotta act scared,” he said, and there was real pity in his voice now—something soft and condescending. “I know what ya been dreamin’ about. The way ya stare at me when y’think I ain’t lookin’. The way ya breathe when I walk past. Y’think I don’t smell that on ya?”
He pressed his face to your neck. Inhaled deep.
“I know ya,” he whispered. “Better than anybody.”
You whimpered—high, panicked—and he shushed you again, slower this time. Soothed his hand over your cheek like you were breakable and beloved all at once.
“No one else gets to touch ya like this,” he murmured, the words dragging wet against your skin. “Ain’t nobody else that deserves to.”
The hand between your legs slipped beneath your panties with a slow, sick grace—fingers sliding straight to your soaked folds, rubbing over them in lazy strokes.
“Ya feel that?” he asked, the growing smile present in his tone. “That’s how I know. Ya say y’don’t want it, but yer body don’t lie, sweetheart. Never has.”
You choked on a sob beneath his hand.
“I been patient,” he offered, like it meant something. “So, so patient. Sat out in the rain for ya. Burned for ya. Y’think I don’t deserve a little sweetness after all that?”
His mouth brushed your ear. Lips soft. Voice breaking open into something more desperate.
“Ya owe me.”
You bucked again. Harder.
Every fiber in you twisted toward the door, toward the window, toward anywhere that wasn’t here—beneath him, beside him. Your hips shifted with sharp panic, legs kicking, your whole body writhing like it could shake him off if only you could move fast enough.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t flinch.
Just let you squirm beneath him like it amused him.
“That’s enough of that now,” he said. “Y’can give it sweet, or I can take it rough. Don’t make me choose, sugar.”
His voice—so soft, so measured—broke you more than his grip. It was the way he said you can give, like this was still yours to offer. Like he hadn’t already peeled your control off in layers and folded it into his pocket.
You twisted again anyway, but this time, he caught your wrists. Pinned them easy. His strength didn’t show in his arms—it showed in his patience, in the lazy drag of his breath against your cheek, in the way he settled over you like weight, like heat, like ruin.
His head dipped lower, breath hot against your jaw. “Y’think ya can lie to me? Lie to yerself? Yer drippin’ want all over these sheets, darlin’.”
You sobbed. Quiet. Helpless.
He chuckled again, deep and fond.
“Bless yer heart,” he murmured. “Still thinkin’ thissus about choice.”
His hands dragged down—slow, so slow—settling at your hips like he could feel your heartbeat thudding through the bone. His fingers twitched. Adjusted. Pressed.
And you flinched again.
“Mm-mm,” he tutted. “Y’act like I’m doin’ ya harm, but you and I both know you opened the door a long time ago. Ain’t my fault ya didn’t know what walked through.”
He shifted behind you, breath dragging ragged across your neck now, his hand sliding higher—hovering just beneath your chin.
“Go on,” he murmured. “Open that mouth, darlin’. Y’know what I want.”
You clenched your jaw.
Hard.
His breath stilled.
Then cooled.
Then turned mean.
“Oh,” he said, soft with danger. “Yer playin’ coy now...”
His fingers pressed firmer against your chin.
“Y’know,” he went on, voice shifting to something quiet and thoughtful and casual. “I reckon if yer mama walked in right now, saw her baby girl laid out like this—pantin’, sweatin’, shakin’ under me—”
You made a choked, guttural noise.
“—well, I’d have to kill her.”
He said it like a shrug.
Like a truth.
“Not ‘cause I want to. Wouldn’t be personal. But can’t have her knowin’. Can’t have her ruinin’ what we got here.”
You sobbed, letting your mouth fall open.
Just enough.
Just barely.
“There’s my girl.”
Two fingers pressed against your lips.
He didn’t shove. He waited. Waited until you gave a little more. Until your lips parted around them like instinct, like defeat.
He pushed in. Slow. Deeper.
Further.
You gagged.
He cooed.
“Shhh, now. Relax that throat,” he whispered, voice dipping low again, syrup-thick. “Gonna be puttin’ that pretty mouth to good use real soon.”
The room swam.
Your pulse throbbed in your ears.
And still, he smiled.
That same awful, patient smile. The kind that didn’t need teeth to be cruel. The kind that knew you. That had waited for you. That had earned this.
“Ya make a mess of things, y’know that?” he murmured, slipping his fingers free from your mouth—slick and shining in the dark. He dragged them down slow, trailing your chin, your throat, your sternum—like you were something he built. Something he owned.
His hand found your hips again.
Then lower.
And lower.
You felt him part you with practiced ease—no hesitation, no tenderness—and the sound he made when his fingers met your folds again was nothing short of triumphant.
“Well now,” he breathed, almost laughing. “All this trouble ya give me, all that hollerin’—and look at ya.”
His fingers moved, just enough for you to feel it. Just enough to make you seize up from the inside out.
“Drippin’ like honey in July.”
You shuddered.
Not from pleasure.
From shame. From helplessness. From the way he moaned at the feel of you, low and giddy and proud like he’d won something sacred.
“All them nasty little things y’said. All that runnin’. All that fightin’ me.”
He curled his fingers inside you.
You choked on a gasp.
“And here ya are,” he whispered, dragging his tongue against your ear. “Soakin’ my fingers like a bitch in heat.”
“Yer mouth says no, but this sweet little thing here?”
He fucked his fingers harder.
You bit back a sob.
“This part knows. Knows what she wants. Knows who she belongs to.”
He set a rhythm, brutal and unrelenting, fucking you on his hand like you were something empty he meant to fill. Every drag of his fingers was followed by his voice against your cheek.
“Gonna make y’come on my fingers, sugar. Gonna make ya fall apart just right. You’ll love it. Ya will. I’ll tear that pride right outta ya, piece by piece, till all ya got left is me.”
Then he added a third.
No warning.
No gentleness.
Just the hot, sharp stretch of it forcing you wider, making your back arch and your breath stutter out of your lungs.
“There she is,” he said, voice gone breathless with awe. “Takin’ it like y’were made for me.”
And you couldn’t stop the tears now.
Couldn’t stop the way your body betrayed you, over and over again, no matter how hard your mind screamed.
He leaned in closer.
Kissed the corner of your wet, trembling eye.
“Don’t cry, baby girl,” he whispered. “You’ll be screamin’ for more soon enough.”
But it wasn’t the words that broke you.
It was the sound of them.
Because he wouldn’t stop. Wouldn’t give you even a second to breathe, to blink, to vanish inside yourself. He didn’t let you have silence—not even that. Not the last fragile scrap of dignity you’d tried to keep folded between your ribs.
His mouth never left your ear.
If he wasn’t talking, he was kissing. If he wasn’t kissing, he was licking. And if he wasn’t doing that, he was just breathing—loud and wet and there, fogging up the shell of your ear until you couldn’t tell the difference between breath and spit and sweat and tears.
His voice was everywhere. His hands, his mouth—him—filling the room, filling you, dragging you to a peak you clawed to resist. But your body had already betrayed you, your muscles tightening around his fingers like they needed him, like you wanted this.
You didn’t.
You didn’t.
But that didn’t stop the sharp, harrowing bloom of pleasure as your climax hit, ripping through you like lightning in a bottle.
And though you clenched your teeth, though you bit your tongue till you tasted blood—
A sound escaped.
Just a whimper. A choked little moan. Barely a breath.
But Remmick caught it.
“Ohhh,” he purred, triumphant. “There she is. Knew ya’d sing for me eventually, darlin’.”
His fingers slid out slow, glistening in the half-light, and he moaned again, louder this time—for your benefit. His tongue flicked out, licking at his knuckles, then dragging between each digit like a starving man savoring a feast.
He slurped. Loud. Deliberate.
A wet, obscene sound that filled the air and made your stomach twist.
“Sweetest damn thing I ever tasted.” he murmured, licking the last of you from his fingers like a dog cleaning bone.
You barely had time to breathe before he was on you.
His chest pressed to yours, hips pinning your spent thighs apart, his breath gone ragged and too fast, too hot against your throat. You tried to scramble back, but there was nowhere to go.
Then you saw his face.
Your heart dropped.
His eyes were near colorless now—bleached out, drained of anything human. Only a single, glowing dot of red burned in the center of each pupil, pulsing like fire in the dark.
And his mouth—God.
His fangs bared wide, lips split in a snarl, froth at the corners. He was drooling, shameless and bestial, saliva falling in thick, stringy ropes onto your chest, your stomach. Pooling in your navel. Smearing down the curve of your belly with every panting breath.
“Look at ya,” he rasped, voice full of awe and hunger. “All soft and shakin’ for me.”
He ripped off your nightgown like it was paper, shredding it in one swift motion until it hung in tatters beneath your back. Cold air met bare skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat radiating off of him. He pressed in closer, the head of him nudging against your entrance, greedy and pulsing and there.
“This is mine,” he whispered, eyes locked on yours, voice full of some manic, devotional tremor. “All this—you—it’s all for me. All this waitin’, all this work, all this cravin’—worth every second.”
He lined himself up, hand shaking, mouth slick and dripping.
“Gonna split ya open, sugar,” he breathed. “Gonna fill y’up ’til you forget who ya ever were without me.”
And he did.
He didn’t tease. Didn’t ease you in. Just thrust—hard, deep, to the hilt—without warning, without kindness, without a single goddamn thought for your whimpering body’s limits.
The air left your lungs in a ragged gasp, a cry caught on your tongue that would’ve broken every window in the house had he not slapped a hand over your mouth and held it there.
Too much.
Too deep.
Too fast.
You thrashed under him, body trying to squirm away from the stretch, the pain, the hot-sharp intrusion that burned through your gut like an inferno. He was bigger than you could bear, and he gave you no chance to adjust, no moment to breathe—just the deep, full pressure of him inside you, grinding bone against nerve until your legs spasmed and your head kicked back into the mattress.
And still he groaned.
Loved it.
“Fuck, yer tight,” he hissed, his breath shuddering out against your ear as his hips ground forward again, grinding at the very edge of cruel. “Like y’was built for me.”
He stilled a moment, just long enough for you to hope—just long enough for your body to start trembling toward that desperate reprieve.
He rocked into you slow. Once. Twice.
A lie.
Then he started to move in earnest—snapping his hips into you, one after another, hard and fast and mindless, losing himself in the wet clench of your cunt. His hand stayed locked over your mouth, muffling every sob, every scream, every choking little sound your body couldn’t stop from making.
He growled with every thrust.
Slick filled the air—his, yours, spit and sweat and drool all dripping down like rain. The wet slap of flesh-on-flesh echoed through the room, lewd and obscene, shaking the bedframe with every brutal stroke.
“Oh, listen to ya,” he rasped, pulling his hand away just long enough to let your broken voice slip through. “Cryin’ so pretty. Y’hear yerself, sugar?”
You did. That was the worst part. You could hear it—ragged and high-pitched and shameful. The kind of sound a body made when it was unraveling.
He leaned in.
Licked the tears off your cheek, lingering as if he was savoring the taste.
“Keep screamin’, baby girl,” he grinned against your skin, voice breaking with delight. “Wake the fuckin’ house.”
His hand slipped down again, caught your jaw, forced your mouth open as his tongue shoved its way inside—wet and invasive, tasting your throat like he meant to lay claim to your very breath. You choked against it, but he didn’t care. He devoured you like you were his last meal, grinding against you harder, faster, tearing groans from his own chest like he couldn’t help himself.
“Think yer mama can hear us?” he whispered when he finally pulled back, voice thick with spit and pride. “Think she’s sittin’ up in bed right now, wonderin’ what kinda sounds her little girl makes when she’s gettin’ her brains fucked out?”
You gagged.
He laughed.
“Wouldn’t mind an audience, if I’m honest,” he said, tone filthy with delight. “Wouldn’t mind lettin’ her see what a mess y’make on my cock. Wouldn’t mind lookin’ her in the eye while I make ya come.”
You nearly vomited.
The sound that tore out of your throat was nothing human—high, broken, wet with bile—and he shuddered, hips stuttering from the sheer joy of it.
He dragged his fangs down your shoulder, testing just how hard he could press before drawing blood. “Ya feel that? How yer clenchin’ on me now? Yer body’s greedy. Wants every inch. Don’t matter what that mouth says—this pussy knows who owns her.”
He snapped his hips again, harder this time—so hard your spine arched off the mattress, your heels dug into the sheets, your hands grasping for anything solid.
He gave you nothing.
Not reprieve.
Not mercy.
Only the low, maddened hum of his voice and the hot, relentless slam of him inside you.
“This is mine,” he whispered, low and ragged. “All of it. Every breath. Every sob. Every fuckin’ pulse of this sweet little hole. Say it. Say it’s mine.”
You couldn’t.
So he said it for you.
Again. And again. And again.
Fucking it into you like gospel. Breaking you open with every syllable.
Then his hand found your throat like it was always meant to be there.
No warning.
No question.
Just the sudden press of calloused fingers around the column of your neck, his palm hot and unforgiving. Not squeezing yet—just holding, like he was weighing something. Like he was testing the shape of you in his grip.
Then pressure.
Steady. Crushing.
Your mouth fell open on instinct, a gasp caught somewhere between shock and submission—and that made him grin.
“God, yer pretty like this,” he rasped, voice soaked in filth. “Eyes all wide. Mouth all quiet. S’like ya finally learned yer place.”
Stars burst behind your eyes. You clawed at his wrist without meaning to, hips twitching under his weight as he thrust deeper, harder, choking the sound from your throat like it thrilled him.
“Keep squeezin’,” he groaned. “God, ya feel divine when yer scared.”
And when your vision blurred, when your body went taut and fluttered around him—he loosened his grip just enough to let the air rush back in.
“Atta girl.”
He was close now.
You could feel it in the way his hips jerked, rhythm faltering—messier now, more desperate, like something inside him had broken loose and was tearing its way out.
“Fuck, fuck—darlin’—” he gasped, head falling to your shoulder as his thrusts grew frantic. “Y’feel that? Y’feel me throbbin’ in ya?”
You tried to answer, or maybe you tried to breathe, but neither came out right.
There was too much.
Too much of him, too much of this, of the thick, obscene drag of his cock in your aching cunt and the sound of it—slick and loud and soaking the sheets beneath you.
And he just kept talking.
“Gonna fill ya up,” he breathed, near mindless now. “Gonna knock ya up proper, sugar. Gonna watch ya swell with it—my baby. Keep y’like that. Forever.”
Your breath caught.
Your pulse spiked.
His words came like a punch to the chest, like a hand around your throat you hadn’t seen coming. Your legs tensed, body stiffening beneath him, but it only made him groan—low and guttural—like your panic excited him, like it drove him further off the edge.
“Don’t run,” he panted, licking at your throat, your cheek, your temple, leaving your skin sticky with spit. “Don’t fight me now, girl—y’already said yes. Ya begged for this. I’m just givin’ ya what ya asked for.”
You hadn’t.
Not this.
But he kept rutting into you like a man possessed, every thrust brutal with intention, like he could mold your insides to fit him. Brand you from within.
“Gonna keep ya all barefoot and full,” he growled, mouth dragging to your ear again. “Wanna see ya waddle through this house with my kid in your belly, cryin’ every night ’cause yer so fuckin’ needy for me. That sound good to ya?”
You shook your head, lips trembling.
But he only smiled and laughed, delighted.
“Y’don’t gotta answer,” he whispered, shoving his cock deeper, grunting when your body gave another helpless clench. “Yer pussy already did.”
You gasped, shuddering beneath him, helpless to stop the tears that slipped from your lashes. You were full—so full it felt like your ribs would crack from the pressure, your lungs too small to carry your fear. Your hands pushed weakly at his chest, but he didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just grabbed your wrists and pinned them down beside your head, bearing his weight over you like a coffin lid.
He licked a tear from your jaw, shivering with something close to ecstasy.
“I’m gonna come, sweetheart. Y’feel that? Y’feel it buildin’?”
You did.
Every muscle in his body was coiled tight, trembling like he was on fire from the inside out, like he might burst.
And when he did—
God, when he did—
He didn’t stop.
Even after his body convulsed, even after that guttural groan tore from the depths of his chest and his cock pulsed violently inside you—he didn’t pull out. He only buried himself deeper, impossibly deep, like he could carve out your very soul with the head of it, like he could scrape you clean from the inside and replace it all with him.
Hot. Heavy. Endless.
You felt it.
Every twitch.
Every throb.
Every thick, molten spill of him pouring into your womb like it was where he’d always belonged. You could feel the warmth of it pooling, the unnatural weight of it, like your body already knew it wouldn’t be able to hold it all.
And still—he didn’t move.
Didn’t so much as flinch.
His cock stayed nestled deep, buried to the root, like he wanted to seal himself inside you.
You couldn’t breathe.
Not under his weight, not under his heat. Not under the reality of it.
Remmick’s chest heaved against yours, damp with sweat. His breath came out in ragged little pants, fanning hot across your throat as he shifted only to press deeper—like he thought there might still be some hollow pocket inside you that hadn’t been claimed yet.
His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke, broken by exhaustion and euphoria both.
“I know ya love me,” he murmured, words warm and wet against your jaw. “Even if y’don’t know it yet.”
You turned your face away.
But he only nuzzled closer, lips brushing your temple, sticky strands of his hair clinging to your skin like spiderwebs.
“S’okay,” he breathed. “You’ll see. Gonna be the perfect little family, you ’n me.”
You wanted to scream.
You wanted to shove him off, tear him limb from limb, claw your own skin off to erase the sensation of him still inside you. But you couldn’t. You couldn’t even move. He had you pinned—physically, yes, but worse than that, he had you trapped.
You were full of him now.
And you knew—somewhere, deep in your bones, in the trembling, ruined edges of your mind—you always would be.
Remmick tilted your chin back and kissed you.
It wasn’t gentle.
It wasn’t even hungry.
It was complete. The kind of kiss you’d give a corpse before closing the casket, sealing it with a promise that no one else would ever touch what was inside. It consumed you. Smothered you. Left no oxygen in your lungs, no room for thought.
And then—
He sighed.
Satisfied.
Collapsed right onto your chest, cheek nestled over your hammering heart like it soothed him to hear it fight.
His cock softened inside you slowly, twitching one last time before going still. The slick warmth of his come leaked out in slow pulses, smearing your thighs and soaking the sheets, a filthy halo beneath your hips.
He was asleep before you could say anything.
Before you could even process it.
Just—gone.
Heavy and warm and content, like he’d just had a long bath. Like he hadn’t just hollowed you out and crawled inside.
You stared up at the ceiling.
You didn’t blink.
Didn’t breathe right.
Didn’t even try to move.
The tears came quietly—just a shimmer, at first. A sting. Then a drop. Then another. Until they streamed down the sides of your face into your hair, salt soaking the pillow beneath you while your body lay frozen, trembling beneath his deadweight.
And that ceiling…
You swore it tilted.
That old plaster warped like heat mirage, curling in on itself. Suffocating. Crooked.
This was your life now.
This room.
This bed.
This man.
You would never be alone again.
You would never be free again.
And all you could do was sob, soundless, eyes wide to that sagging, silent ceiling—while Remmick snored soft against your chest, dreaming of forever.
SYNOPSIS: in the aftermath of rook’s rest, you seek aemond out to inquire about his wellbeing. instead, you find him somewhere else — somewhere unexpected. (set after S2 EP4).
༺ FORMAT: one-shot — not requested.
༺ WORD COUNT: 5.2K.
༺ WARNINGS: SMUT (mdni) , spoilers for s2 ep4, public sex / risk of getting caught, knifeplay, imbalance of power, rough sex, darkish!aemond, dom!aemond, p in v sex (unprotected), oral (f!receiving), fingering, brief tiddy sucking, groping, biting / marking, hair pulling, choking, fucking right in front of the iron throne, inaccurate high valyrian, brief dirty talk, lots of aemond’s inner thoughts, breeding kink if you squint, aemond is extremely possessive of the reader to an unhealthy degree.
༺ AUTHOR’S NOTE: to preface, I am working on requests, this just happened to make its way out of my brain before anything else did. This was inspired by the single shot of Aemond standing in front of the Iron Throne in the S2 EP5 trailer, you can tell how desperate I got as soon as I saw it. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy! There will be a Jace fic dropping tomorrow, too! ❤️
𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐑𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐄 — a seat of power constructed by Aegon the Conqueror in the aftermath of a bloodied war, forged from thousands of surrendered swords.
In the days of Aegon the Conqueror, it was said that the Throne was sometimes too high to climb, a jagged labyrinth of blades melded by dragon’s fire, a throne fit for any ruler. Men impaled themselves upon one another’s blades for it, turned against one another, endless betrayals and treacheries ensued all for the sake of the endgame, to see themselves upon the Throne.
Brother turned against brother — you didn’t expect anything less from Aemond, whose desire to exact revenge boiled just beneath the surface. The Battle at Rook’s Rest had proved a slaughter on all fronts, between the decimation of both Cole’s armies and the castle they laid siege upon, to the death of the Princess Rhaenys and her dragon, Melys.
Whispers spread through the Red Keep in regards to King Aegon’s condition, bones crushed beneath the weight of Sunfyre, who plummeted from the skies in a ball of fire. His flesh was scorched, half of his body melded to the Valyrian Steel armor he wore, burnt beyond recognition.
If they were to be believed, King Aegon was gravely wounded — and if a fatality ensued, who would then bear the mantle of King?
A restless dusk gripped King’s Landing as the surviving soldiers from Cole’s armies arrived at the city gates, King Aegon amongst the wounded. In what you considered to be a mass panic and hysteria, Maesters rushed to diligently attend to their King, who seemed to be meeting a simmering grave inside of his armor — it would be his tomb if they weren’t careful.
Merely a handmaiden and servant to nobility, the antics of your masters didn’t interest you — you were wholly preoccupied with your own survival and self-preservation, amongst other things. It was said that Aemond and Vhagar had swarmed the battlefield and come to King Aegon’s defense, but by the time they had, Aegon had been swallowed by dragonfire.
Part of you had difficulty believing that Aemond truly attempted to save his elder brother, given Aemond’s embittered sentiments. Your relationship with the Prince had transcended all bonds of propriety — and if anyone were to find out, they would likely have your head for sullying his virtue.
Nevertheless, as chaos swarmed around you, you knew exactly who to seek out. Queen Alicent had little desire to be hounded by handmaidens while her eldest son struggled to hang onto his own life, something you could understand. Instead, you made for Aemond’s chambers, the route embedded into your mind.
You sought him — all of him. His lilac hue, a maelstrom of forlorn emotions, and his silvery tresses, like cascading silk, embedded themselves into your mind. His cunning countenance and beguiled expression were like hot-iron brands cast onto your thoughts, tormenting you with each waking moment.
As you stepped closer to the Throne Room, no longer guarded by Kingsguard, you saw the great door ajar — no King atop the throne. You wondered if he would live, Aegon — a drunken, broken man who preferred his cups and whores over ruling — or if he would perish.
You knew who would sit the Iron Throne, should Aegon fall.
A heavy darkness had befallen the throne room, fitting for the many tragedies, like the gloom of a shadow haunting all who dared to enter. Curiosity gripped you as you stepped inside, a place well above your station, yet you wondered if there was anyone inside.
The doors remained shut, save for the one you slipped through, the gap slim. Flickering braziers provided some illumination to such a grandeur hall, but it seemed so dour and lifeless without the presence of the day, without subjects fluttering in and out. Instead, it provided an ominous sense of dread, as if luring those inside with dark omens and false promises.
A familiar crown of silvery tresses stood at the very center, before the throne — he didn’t need to turn around for you to know who it was. He seemed entirely unscathed by the battle at Rook’s Rest, hands carefully folded behind his back, posture poised and dignified.
Aegon’s dagger flashed within his right hand, clutched tightly at his side. You wondered how he had acquired the blade so swiftly after a tragedy — but you knew. You had always known of Aemond’s nature, of his restrained resentment towards his brother, the King of the Seven Kingdoms.
“Aemond.” Your voice reverberated throughout the throne room, carrying a fair distance as you closed the door behind you. The studded mahogany groaned in protest, yet bent to your will as it closed with a noisy thud. Admittedly, you were surprised to see him here, and not in the comfort of his chambers.
He didn’t move, rigid and still as you quietly approached, dresses sweeping across the smooth stone beneath you. His violet hues remained transfixed upon the Iron Throne, a throne that would soon be his, if fate favored him. So many swords, so much strife and conflict that forged such a chair — so much bloodshed.
Aemond often wondered what the weight of the crown would feel like upon his brow — and even then, he knew he would wear it better than Aegon ever could. He had stood by the wayside for far too long, learned in his studies and a talented swordsman, wondering if it would all have some reward, some payoff.
Now, his opportunity was swiftly approaching.
Whatever anger he’d often kept leashed, it had struck out, like the bite of a poisonous viper, sinking into its prey with all its bitter viciousness. It was the same tempestuous rage that had lashed at Lucerys Velaryon, and now it had struck his brother, Aegon the Magnanimous.
A stupid sobriquet for a stupid man — a drunken fool. Aemond would simply pass it off as an unfortunate accident, with Aegon carelessly stepping into the line of fire whilst tangling with the Queen Who Never Was. Swift decisions had to be made on his part, his brother a victim of such action.
Any silver-tongued words that would placate his Mother, he was prepared to let them fly. Aemond knew enough to know that the consequences would be slim, and those of true action and cruel intentions would take Aegon’s place — men like himself.
Soft footfalls fell across black stone, and you called his name again, like a siren’s song luring the sailor into deeper waters. “Aemond.” It was saccharine, dripping with genuine warmth that the Prince was simply unaccustomed to.
The unexpected lull of your voice broke his fixation, and he looked to you with a gaze full of desire. It was a farcry from the frustrated, despondent man you’d encountered days prior following the incident at the brothel. There was a newfound fire within his eyes, a confidence restored — a sense of triumph.
Admittedly, you were rather perplexed by this invigorated side to Aemond — that wild gleam within his lilac eye only seemed to grow in intensity as you approached him. “I heard the news of what happened to your brother,” You began, pondering his reaction. “You have my deepest sympathies.”
The admiration he had for you only seemed to blossom, knowing that you were simply keeping up appearances for his sake. Aemond’s mouth tilted into the ghost of a smirk, feigning melancholy despite the truth of his own actions. “It was a horrible thing, what happened to the King,” He uttered, glancing toward the throne. “I wish for his swift recovery.”
A facade was a mere understatement — you could almost taste the smug bemusement that rested within Aemond’s tone. The slight quirk of his mouth, the manner in which he spoke — his sympathies for Aegon were nonexistent.
“As any good brother would.” You replied, stepping closer until you stood before the Iron Throne, gaze falling upon the thousands of swords swarming the seat, blades of many shapes and sizes. You wondered about the people behind each sword — who swung it, what their lives must’ve been like.
A brief hum escaped Aemond, who observed you hawkishly as you approached, violet hue greedily drinking you in as he had many times before. You had stood so faithfully by his side, never admonished him for the brash actions taken against his family, never deemed him pathetic for what happened at the brothel.
He cared little for your station, little for your status as a lowborn — if he sat the Iron Throne, he could have whatever he wanted. It didn’t matter if you were a commoner, Aemond could envision you as his wife, a Queen — no longer bowing to the whims of greater men and women who cared little for you.
“Did my Mother dismiss you this evening?” Aemond questioned, digits tense around the pommel of Aegon’s knife — now his. Seeing as he was no longer fit to carry the weapon, it was only just that it pass to his brother, his next of kin.
“She did,” A gentle exhale escaped you, one that allowed you to maintain your composure. Being in Aemond’s presence seemed to make you dizzy with desire with each passing moment — not a new sentiment, but an intoxicating one. “I was coming to find you, to see if you were well after the battle.”
Shamelessly, Aemond became quite aroused at the thought of you wandering about the Red Keep with the single-minded desire to see him. His blood ran hot after the battle — the surge of adrenaline did not lessen in your presence.
His jaw tensed slightly as he appraised you, taking a step closer, brazenly closing the distance between you both. He could smell your perfume, the warm bouquet of flowers and a touch of honey. “How thoughtful.” His voice dropped to a low purr, dripping with the first inklings of lust.
Your breath hitched, words turning to ash upon your tongue as your fingers curled into your dress. Aemond enticed you in ways that no man had before — and he saw you, a woman beneath the gowns of a servant. The hammering of your heart within your chest had stirred something powerful — your want for him consumed you like a tidal wave.
Before you could utter his name, he descended like a starving wolf to kiss you, open-mouthed and bleeding lust. You shivered, wanting to coax him into returning to his chambers before things became heated. His hand dropped to seize your hip, hauling you closer to him until no space was left between your bodies.
You reciprocated his kiss, able to hear a faint growl of approval building up within his throat. It was fiery and hot, with little concern of who might see you. Aemond was growing emboldened, brazen knowing the power he now held within his grasp.
“We should return to your quarters,” You whispered, a strained whimper tearing past your lips as Aemond kissed your jaw, sucking at the flesh of your neck. “Aemond, we can’t — not here.” Your breathy pleas fell upon deaf ears — what better place to claim you than before his new throne?
“We can,” Aemond murmured, pushing your tresses aside as he claimed your throat, laying waste to your flesh in his rabid kisses and hungry bites. “The rest of the Keep is preoccupied.” His reassurance was threadbare at best, but you were beginning to slip off of the deep end, fingers clawing at his tunic.
“What if someone sees?” Fear trickled into your voice, a subtle fright that Aemond found to be enticing. You worried for your own skin — he could understand that. A moan escaped you as Aemond nipped at your jugular, squeezing at your hips.
You failed to comprehend that he would protect you, shield you if needed. He did not need to justify his obsession for you, just as Aegon never offered any justification for his nightly whore hunts. Aemond seemed quick to soothe your worry, hand clasping at the nape of your neck.
“Then I will have their head,” His delectable purr dropped an octave, scratching the itch within your head. “You needn’t worry, ñuha dōna. I can do whatever I wish.” Aemond assured you, a great fire burning within his lilac hue. The leather of his eyepatch concealed the listless sapphire beneath.
He only needed to serve himself — his family cared little for him, and the world was often against him. He looked forward to facing Daemon whenever the time came, should he be bold enough to challenge him. Aemond dismissed it all — Aegon, his mother, Criston Cole — the only thing that mattered were the both of you.
Aemond’s streak of possessiveness had grown into something uncontrollable, a festering desire to keep you close, spiraling into obsession. You were many things to him, many things he coveted for himself.
After a moment of hesitation, you decided to make things tempting for Aemond, loosening the bodice of your dress. His breath hitched, the noise subtle if one wasn’t observant enough. He seized the back of your head once more, hungrily pressing his lips to yours, consuming you in another heated kiss.
A dour portrait of dusk hovers around the Red Keep, its shadowy tendrils slinking into the throne room. Only moonlight and dying braziers are your guide, and Aemond is at his prettiest whenever he’s touched by the silvery rays. It strikes his narrow visage, paints his silky tresses in pale light.
He is closer to a god now than he is a man — fortunately, you were willing to return to religion if it meant that Aemond was who you worshiped. As much as you liked to believe it was the foundation of your relationship, he thought of it alternatively, the roles reversed.
Your digits slip beneath the overcoat he wore, marred by speckled dirt and brimstone. His broad, sinewy shoulders are concealed by his tunic, and he seems vastly overdressed compared to you, still wearing your servant’s clothes. Aemond had gotten you a dress to wear with him before — you never wore it otherwise.
There is a certain intensity in the way he kisses you, as if each embrace might be your last. In the aftermath of a battle, you understand such sentiments, given the fate of the King and the Princess Rhaenys.
A growl reverberates within the depths of his throat as he pries his mouth away from you, gesturing toward the flight of obsidian steps that ascend toward the Iron Throne. “There,” He uttered, more of a command than a suggestion. “Lay down.”
A shudder rolls down the length of your spine, followed by an onslaught of goosebumps that snake across your flesh like a fever. Your stomach churned with anticipation, filling with the sensation of sloshing heat, burning brighter as each moment passed.
Without question, you step toward the throne, noticing the sharpness of some blades, the dullness of others. You find your footing upon the last step, feeling Aemond stalk closer. The rustling of his belt makes you shiver, only to find the steely chill of the Conqueror’s knife pressed against the dip between your shoulder and neck.
Aemond closes in behind you, caging you against his chest, like a predator swarming hapless prey. His narrow nose brushed along your soft tresses as he dragged the tip of the knife from your shoulder to ribcage. “Shall I cut this from you?” He uttered, digging the Valyrian steel into the fabric of your dress.
Swallowing the growing lump within your throat, you brace yourself for the bite of the knife, for the unruly tear of fabric, but it never comes. Instead, Aemond’s mouth pressed vigorous kisses against your neck, hand seizing you by the throat.
“Ao sytilībagon naejot nyke.” Aemond purred, feeling you turn within his grasp. Desire oozed between you both, an onslaught of carnality soon to follow. His lilac hue flickered over your countenance, drinking in your beauty with unrestrained rapture. You belong to me.
From what little High Valyrian you’d learned in the time you’ve been with Aemond, you strung enough of the sentence together to know what he meant. “Iksan aōhon.” A soft whimper emerged from between your parted lips, noticing the way his pupil dilated with amorous intent.
I am yours.
A flame of obsession roared within his gaze, enough to burn you alive where you stood. Aemond reveled in your submission to him, drank in your devotion — a devotion that would prove fruitful, should he ascend the throne. The tip of the knife prodded into your sternum, and you absentmindedly leaned forward.
Aemond captured your mouth once more, laying claim to you — his paramour. There was nothing sweeter than your desperate mewls and reciprocated passion, the succor of your mouth, the saccharine scent of your perfume.
The both of you descended to the floor, icy and stony as it prodded into your back. He knelt between your legs, gaze momentarily flickering between the shadow of the Iron Throne and your mesmerized visage. Aemond kissed you again, nipping at your lower lip before rucking up your skirts, pushing them toward your hips.
With one knee, he bullied his way in between your thighs, breaths heavier, wrought with anticipation as he lowered his mouth to your collarbone. In one smooth tug, he loosened your bodice, wrestling with the coarse material as he buried his face into your silky skin.
The throes of passion filled the air — short gasps and labored pants accompanied by the constant shuffling of fabric. “Aemond,” You moaned, watching as he bit the leather of his glove, removing the garment in one jerk of his head. Flesh to flesh, he moved to drag his digits along your weeping slit. “Aemond.” Urgency crept into your voice, strung-out by need.
“Hm,” His cajoling hum sent shivers down your spine, heat sloshing around within your stomach. Arousal pooled between your thighs, nectar sticky and gathering swiftly. “What a delicious gift you’ve given me.” Aemond uttered, slender digits continuing to stroke at your cunt, his pace agonizingly slow.
Lifting his fingers to his lips, he let them rest upon his tongue, gathering your juices to taste. A satisfied grunt of approval escaped him, one that made you meld into the floor. It was an uncomfortable surface, yet any thought of discomfort dissipated the moment Aemond’s lips pressed against the inside of your knee.
Instinctively, your hands flew toward his crown of silken tresses, digging in with an ironclad hold. Aemond released a low hiss of satisfaction, pressing hot kisses along the inside of your thigh. He dipped lower, breath fanning across your cunt.
His tongue raked hot embers across your aching core, delivering a series of deliberate strokes that were sure to make you squirm. Aemond preferred to savor you, consuming every drop of your nectar as if it were the finest of wines.
“Aemond!” Your voice rose above the cacophony of lewd noises ensuing below, noisy enough to reverberate throughout the throne room. It worried you, the potential of someone finding you with the Prince-Regent between your legs, but pleasure began to outweigh logic.
His name felt sweet from your mouth — if Aemond had it his way, he would make you say it a thousand times over. The sharp bridge of his nose buried itself into your mound, cock twitching within the leather of his breeches.
Another breathy moan left you, stomach pooling with a rush of molten heat. It oozed between your legs as your arousal fell upon the Prince’s tongue, much to his delight. He did not waste a drop, mouth traveling wherever he pleased, lapping at every inch of your cunt.
The Iron Throne overshadowed the both of you, a jagged mess of swords surrounded by dusk. Slats of moonlight trickled in from the stained glass above, falling across his visage, violet hue sparkling with lust. His lips greedily kissed at your clit, causing your hips to lurch forward.
“Look at me.” A pointed demand spoken from an edged tongue, one that commanded your attention without wavering. With a strangled moan, you turned your head to him, furthering the fire within your belly. Your doe-eyed stare locked onto him, lips falling apart.
As your eyes flickered over his poised features, your hand tightened within his tresses, coaxing him closer toward the apex of your thighs. Aemond wasn’t sly at suppressing the delight he felt in that moment, greedily lapping at your cunt.
You watched, enthralled by the ministrations of his mouth, the flick of his tongue, the tantalizing efforts made to draw you back in. His features were carved like marble, by the steady hand of a sculptor — godly, in the best way possible.
Aemond hoped that your blissful cries would alert the guards — perhaps, all could bear witness to his carnal delights, know that you belonged to him and him alone. His lips crawled to a sluggish pace, made only to torment you as he peppered feather-light kisses against your clit. The lack of pressure nearly made you wretch, digits curling into a fist.
Every fiber of your being felt as if it had been set ablaze, washed within the fires of his affection. He knew your body well, as well as he knew his own, tongue dipping to have a taste of your core as it lightly jutted against your entrance. You whimpered, the noise pathetic and pitiful, yet overwhelmingly eager.
“Please,” You moaned, breathy and clawing for some shred of release, canting your hips forward. Aemond retreated, just enough to leave you writing upon the steps before a sly chuckle reverberated between your thighs. His torture of you was playful and intimate, intended to make you beg. “Please, Aemond!”
How could he deny you when you sounded so sweet?
With a soft hum, Aemond returned to devour your cunt, drink from the nectar that oozed between your legs. His hands situated themselves against your thighs, nails digging in enough to leave behind traces of angered crescent marks.
The heat between your legs intensified, arousal stinging your bones, body bent underneath Aemond’s will as he lapped at your core. His lips were accompanied by his spindly digits as two fingers prodded at your entrance, feeling the crescendo of your whimpers before sinking themselves into your tight cunt.
Squelching intermingled with that of brazen pants and your myriad of moans, a cacophony of lust that permeated the throne room. It felt sinful, to defile the steps of a seat of power, but that shame swiftly contorted into bliss — it felt good.
It felt good to be desired, for Aemond to feel not an ounce of regret or remorse for being with you or for the carnage his actions wrought. The darkness that festered within his eye only grew, once a flickering shade, now growing into something sprawling.
At last, his lips pursed around your clit, stimulating that sensitive clutch of nerves. Your back arched from the stone, thighs rattling like falling leaves as he brought about your ruin. His digits viciously pumped in and out of your cunt, preparing you for the act that was to follow.
His tongue lashed across his lower lip, not wasting a drop of what sweetness you provided him with. Aemond’s mouth hastily abandoned your cunt, yet the curling of his fingers seemed to make up for the loss of pleasure. You felt his wet lips purse around the pebbled peak of your breast, suckling like a greedy babe.
Aemond’s senses drowned in desire, cock throbbing within his trousers, desperate to be inside of you. It wouldn’t be much longer now as he bit and kissed your chest, letting the work manifest as love bites, evidence of his carnal want for you.
“I need you, Aemond. I need you inside of me.” The suddenness of your words left him reeling, a snarl stirring within his chest as his teeth gnashed into the soft flesh between your breasts. You longed to feel his cock lay waste to your cunt, for him to fuck away his anger, his frustration.
Hastily, his hand flew to the ties of his breeches, loosening the threads of leather. You grabbed the front of his tunic, enough to effectively grab his attention as you pulled him in for a hot kiss. Passion bled through, and you could taste yourself upon his tongue as it danced with yours.
The warmth of his cockhead prodded against your folds, already slick with your cum and his own. It was messy, an entanglement born of desire, of the will to possess one another — a claim eternal. Aemond’s hand snaked toward your hip, the other keeping himself afloat before he snapped forward.
His cock invaded your cunt without any sluggishness to it, the deliberation gone entirely. A wild shimmer glistened within his eye, a domineering edge that seemed to wrestle with itself. Aemond wanted to submit to you, but in the wake of Rook’s Rest, adrenaline and a desire for power simply wouldn’t allow it.
As he fucked you like a hound, as Aegon had colorfully put it, Aemond could see you seated beside him, a crown upon your brow, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. A commoner, crawled from dirt and from nothing, into his arms — into a seat of power that none would dare challenge.
Fantasy consumed him, making him mad with lust. He wanted to crawl beneath your flesh, reside there, hear your heart hammering within your breast. He seemed pleasantly surprised when you claimed his mouth, your tongue advancing past his parted lips.
With your skirts having fallen to the swell of your hips, you hitched one leg around him, hand clawing at his back, between his shoulders. “Aemond,” You moaned, overwhelmed by his barrage of erratic thrusts. His stamina was something to witness as he kept a rather vigorous pace. “My King.”
A low growl stirred within his throat, a stark warning not to continue with your current line of thought. Aemond bit at your lower lip, prompting you to moan into his mouth, but you surprised him again when you reciprocated. Things were intense, far more fiery than they ever had been before.
Battle made him hot — such a sensation wasn’t aided by your presence, intensified tenfold. With Aegon wasting away inside of his chambers, steel melting into his flesh, swarmed by flocks of Maesters, Aemond felt no remorse — none at all as he fucked you before the Iron Throne.
He felt no remorse when he ordered Vhagar to burn his brother, he felt no remorse when he brought you into his bed — and he would feel no remorse when he ascended the throne and made you his Queen.
His cock furiously battered away at your cunt, the lewdness of flesh and intermingled breaths being the only sounds that mattered. That lilac hue of his studied your countenance, the devotion and rapture that rest upon it, your complete and utter joy. Aemond had been blessed with the loveliest creature — you.
The stretch you felt as Aemond invaded your nethers was a pleasant one, your walls tight around his length as he continued to fuck you. Face to face, chest to chest — there was no room left for deception, nowhere left to turn to. With a groan, Aemond kissed you yet again.
“Kesan mazverdagon ao ñuha dāria.” I will make you my Queen; he growled into your ear, biting at the shell, the act enough to make you whimper. He filled your cunt with his cock, the only one that it would ever take. In the heat of the moment, he bit at your neck, hand gripping your thigh so hard that it was bound to leave bruises.
Darkness swallowed the hallowed halls — braziers flickering out completely, leaving only moonlight. Even through the silvery haze, Aemond’s face remained a picture of living perfection, his brow creased with concentration.
The fervor of his pace began to slow, cock throbbing with an onslaught of arousal, one that flooded his body with waves of bliss. He wasn’t neglectful of your needs, swiftly placing a hand between your bodies, thumb rubbing circles around your clit.
Heavy footfalls of guardsmen resonated from outside of the sealed doors, a nightly patrol, prompting you to shiver from worry, but Aemond did not stop — and he wouldn’t. His blazing eye bared down upon you, glistening with the sheen of lust, of obsession, a man starved of the love and devotion he so desperately chased.
Your lips felt swollen, a byproduct of Aemond’s biting, of the many shared kisses that had turned into hunger. You were ravenous for him in ways that you had little knowledge of, scraping the surface of what desire truly meant.
Silky, pale tresses fell through your digits as you threaded them within his hair, gripping it in fistfuls as you continued to kiss him until every wisp of air was stolen from your lungs. Aemond did not relent, continuing to adopt a rhythmic pace of fucking you, cock halfway out before he thrust forward again and again.
As the both of you approached the precipice, falling into a white-hot abyss, you could hear him murmuring something in High Valyrian, strings of sweet praises and compliments. His thumb continued to circle your clit even after you had your release, milking his cock with an onslaught of your nectar.
Aemond grunted, forehead nudging against yours as he snapped forward one final time, cock sheathed inside of you as he found a warm place to spill his seed. The recklessness of it was of little consequence to him — an herbal tea could remedy it, yet the thought of filling you with an heir became tantalizing.
Not yet — not now.
If his seed were to take, it would sow discord across his house, and there was enough of that already. Aemond huffed, gathering his composure as your whimpers dwindled into soft pants. His claws sank so deep into you, talons wrenched into your heart, your body, everything.
He placed a kiss upon your brow, a subtle gesture that reminded you of his lingering duality. Aemond pulled himself out of you with an onslaught of stickiness, a mess that would only be remedied by a long soak in the bath — something he would need you for.
Your chest felt tight, both from exhilaration and the intensity of it all. As you adjusted your skirts back into place, Aemond gently coaxed you to your feet, pressed close against you as he stared at the throne. “Perhaps, once I ascend, we will have to make use of the throne.” His salacious purr made you shudder.
“There is no law forbidding us from acting upon that now,” You challenged, and Aemond had to restrain himself from acting upon such a lascivious impulse. For as coy as you could be, you were just as lustful as he was at times, a quality that he greatly adored. “Your Grace.”
As much as the teasing title seemed to provoke him, Aemond grabbed your hips, lips twitching into his familiar smirk, a near-permanent expression. “Aemond,” He corrected, pressing a kiss against your jaw. “For now, I will need assistance with drawing a bath.”
The Throne’s harrowing shape cast its shadow as the both of you abandoned the dark halls and into the light of Aemond’s chambers.
copyright @ swordgrace ; please do not attempt to steal or translate my works onto other platforms or claim it as your own.
❝ The Devil appears three times in your life.
Once to tease. Once to tempt. Once to take.
you meet three devils—one with a wolf’s grin, one with a vampire’s hunger, one with a witch’s voice. each one touches you like they already know your name. each one leaves you more undone. you don’t run. you learn how to want.
"be still," he whispers, voice deep and ancient against your ear. "let me take. Let me make you mine." his cock drags slow and deep, your thighs trembling as the spell circles your spine. every thrust feels like an oath you didn't know you were swearing.
remmick doesn't touch you like a man.
he touches you like a ritual.
pairing(s): Remmick (three versions of him cause i am but a lowly glutton) x Black Femme Reader
themes: seduction as a slow unraveling / first contact with monsters (wolf/vampire/witch) / erotic prophecy / gradual surrender / monsters who don’t need to hurt to own you
⚠️ warnings: mild dubcon implications via supernatural seduction / oral sex (f receiving) / power dynamics (consensual but intense) / mild blood mention (vampire feeding themes)
tags: #poly monster romance #werewolf x reader #vampire x reader #witch x reader #soft seduction #filthy worship #slow burn kink #black femme reader #sensual horror #body worship #oral sex (f receiving) #teasing and edging
summary: In the heat-choked hush of the Mississippi Delta, you answer a knock you swore would never come. Remmick—unaging, unholy, unforgettable—returns to collect what was promised. What follows is not romance, but ritual. A slow, sensual surrender to a hunger older than the Trinity itself.
wc: 13.1k
a/n: Listen. I didn’t mean to simp for Vampire Jack O’Connell—but here we are. I make no apologies for letting Remmick bite first and ask questions never. Thank you to my bestie Nat (@kayharrisons) for beta reading and hyping me up, without her this fic wouldn't exist, everyone say thank you Nat!
warnings: vampirism, southern gothic erotica, blood drinking as intimacy, canon-typical violence, explicit sexual content, oral sex (f!receiving), first time, bloodplay, biting, marking, monsterfucking (soft edition), religious imagery, devotion as obsession, gothic horror vibes, worship kink, consent affirmed, begging, dirty talk, gentle ruin, haunting eroticism, power imbalance, slow seduction, soul-binding, immortal x mortal, he wants to keep her forever, she lets him, fem!reader, second person pov, 1930s mississippi delta, house that breathes, you will be fed upon emotionally & literally
tags: @xhoneymoonx134
likes, comments, and reblogs appreciated! please enjoy
Mississippi Delta, 1938
The heat hadn’t broken in days.
Not even after sunset, when the sky turned the color of old bruises and the crickets started singing like they were being paid to. It was the kind of heat that soaked into the floorboards, that crept beneath your thin cotton slip and clung to your back like sweat-slicked hands. The air was syrupy, heavy with magnolia and something murkier—soil, maybe. River water. Something that made you itch beneath your skin.
Your cottage sat just outside the edge of town, past the schoolhouse where you spent your days sorting through ledgers and lesson plans that no one but you ever really seemed to care about. It was modest—two rooms and a porch, set back behind a crumbling white-picket fence and swallowed by trees that whispered in the dark. A little sanctuary tucked into the Delta, surrounded by cornfields, creeks, and ghosts.
The kind of place a person could disappear if they wanted to. The kind of place someone could find you…if they were patient enough.
You stood in front of the sink, rinsing out a chipped enamel cup, your hands moving automatically. The oil lamp on the kitchen table flickered with each breath of wind slipping through the cracks in the warped window frame. A cicada screamed in the distance, then another, and then the whole world was humming in chorus.
And beneath it—beneath the cicadas, and the wind, and the nightbirds—you felt something shift.
A quiet. Too quiet.
You turned your head. Listened harder.
Nothing.
Not even the frogs.
Your hand paused in the dishwater. Fingers trembling just a little. It wasn’t like you to be spooked by the dark. You’d grown up in it. Learned to make friends with shadows. Learned not to flinch when things moved just out of sight.
But this?
This was different.
It was as if the night was holding its breath.
And then—
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Not loud. Not frantic. But final.
Your body went stiff. The cup slipped beneath the water and bumped the side of the basin with a hollow clink.
No one ever came this far out after sundown. No one but—
You shook your head, almost hard enough to rattle something loose.
No.
He was gone. That part of your life was buried.
You made sure of it.
Still, your bare feet moved toward the door like they weren’t yours. Soft against the creaky wood. Slow. You reached for the small revolver you kept in the drawer beside the door frame, thumbed the hammer back.
Your hand rested on the knob.
Another knock. This time, softer.
Almost...polite.
The porch light had been dead for weeks, so you couldn’t see who was waiting on the other side. But the air—something in the air—told you.
It was him.
You didn’t answer. Not right away.
You stood there with your palm flat against the rough wood, your forehead nearly touching it too—eyes shut, breath shallow. The air on the other side didn’t stir like it should’ve. No footfalls creaking the porch. No shuffle of boots on sun-bleached planks. Just stillness. Waiting.
And underneath your ribs, something began to ache. Something you hadn’t let yourself feel in years.
You didn’t know his name, not back then. You only knew his eyes—gold in the shadows. Red when caught in the light. Like a firelight in the dark. Like a blood red moon through stained-glass windows.
And his voice. Low. Dragging vowels like syrup. A Southern accent that didn’t come from any map you’d ever seen—older than towns, older than state lines. A voice that had told you, seven years ago, with impossible calm:
"You’ll know when it’s time."
You knew. Your hands trembled against your sides. But you didn’t back away. Some part of you knew how useless running would be.
The knob beneath your hand felt cold. Too cold for Mississippi in August.
You turned it.
The door opened slow, hinges whining like they were trying to warn you. You stepped back instinctively—just one step—and then he was there.
Remmick.
Still tall, still lean in that devastating way—like his body was carved from something hard and mean, but shaped to tempt. He wore a crisp white shirt rolled to the elbows, suspenders hanging loose from his hips, and trousers that looked far too clean for a man who walked through the dirt. His hair was messy in that intentional way, brown and swept back like he’d been running hands through it all night. Stubble lined his sharp jaw, catching the lamplight just so.
But it was his face that rooted you to the floor. That hollowed out your breath.
Still young. Still wrong.
Not a wrinkle, not a scar. Not a mark of time. He hadn’t aged a day.
And his eyes—oh, God, his eyes.
They caught the lamp behind you and lit up red, bright and glinting, like the embers of a dying fire. Not human. Not even pretending.
"Hello, dove."
His voice curled into your bones like cigarette smoke. You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.
You hated how your body reacted.
Hated that you could still feel it—like something old and molten stirring between your thighs, a flicker of the same heat you’d felt that night in the alley, back when you were too desperate to care what kind of creature answered your prayer.
He looked you over once. Not with hunger. With certainty. Like he already knew how this would end. Like he already owned you.
"You remember, don’t you?" he asked.
"I came to collect."
And your voice—when it finally came—was little more than a whisper.
"You can’t be real."
That smile. That slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. Wolfish. Slow.
"You promised."
You wanted to shut the door. Slam it. Deadbolt it. But your hand didn’t move.
Remmick didn’t step forward, not yet. He stood just outside the threshold, framed by night and cypress trees and the distant flicker of heat lightning beyond the fields. The air around him pulsed with something old—older than the land, older than you, older than anything you could name.
He tilted his head the way animals do, watching you, letting the silence thicken like molasses between you.
"Still living out here all on your own," he murmured, gaze drifting over your shoulders, into the small, tidy kitchen behind you. "Hung your laundry on the line this morning. Blue dress, lace hem. Favorite one, ain’t it?"
Your stomach clenched. That dress hadn’t seen a neighbor’s eye all week.
"You've been watching me," you said, your voice low, unsure if it was accusation or realization.
"I’ve been waiting," he said. "Not the same thing."
You swallowed hard. Your breath caught in your throat like a thorn. The wind shifted, and you caught the faintest trace of something—dried tobacco, smoke, rain-soaked dirt, and beneath it, the iron-sweet tinge of blood.
Not fresh. Not violent. Just…present. Like it lived in him.
"I paid my debt," you whispered.
"No, you survived it," he said, stepping up onto the first board of the porch. The wood didn’t creak beneath his weight. "And that’s only half the bargain."
He still hadn’t crossed the threshold.
The stories came back to you, the ones whispered by old women with trembling hands and ash crosses pressed to their doorways—vampires couldn’t enter unless invited. But you hadn’t invited him, not this time.
"You don’t have permission," you said.
He smiled, eyes flashing red again.
"You gave it, seven years ago."
Your breath hitched.
"I was a girl," you said.
"You were desperate," he corrected. "And honest. Desperation makes people honest in ways they can’t be twice. You knew what you were offering me, even if you didn’t understand it. Your promise had teeth."
The wind pushed against your back, as if urging you forward.
Remmick stepped closer, just enough for the shadows to kiss the line of his throat, the hollow of his collarbone. His voice dropped, intimate now—dragging across your skin like a fingertip behind the ear.
"You asked for a miracle. I gave it to you. And now I’m here for what’s mine."
Your heart thudded violently in your chest.
"I didn’t think you’d come."
"That’s the thing about monsters, dove." He leaned down, lips almost grazing the curve of your jaw. "We always do."
And then—
He stepped back.
The wind stopped.
The night fell quiet again, like the world had paused just to watch what you’d do next.
"I’ll wait out here till you’re ready," he said, turning toward the swing on your porch and settling into it like he had all the time in the world. "But don’t make me knock twice. Wouldn’t be polite."
The swing groaned beneath him as it rocked gently, back and forth.
You stood there frozen in the doorway, one bare foot still inside the house, the other brushing the edge of the porch.
You’d made a promise.
And he was here to keep it.
The door stayed open. Just enough for the night to reach inside.
You didn’t move.
Your body stood still but your mind wandered—back to that night in the alley, to the smell of blood and piss and riverwater, your knees soaked in your brother’s lifeblood as you screamed for help that never came. Except it did. It came in the shape of a man who didn’t breathe, didn’t blink, didn’t make promises the way mortals did.
It came in the shape of him.
You thought time would wash it away. That the years would smooth the edges of his voice in your memory, dull the sharpness of his presence. But now, with him just outside your door, it all returned like a fever dream—hot, all-consuming, too real to outrun.
You turned away from the threshold, slowly, carefully, as if the floor might cave in under you. Your hands trembled as you reached for the oil lamp on the table, adjusting the flame lower until it flickered like a dying heartbeat.
The silence behind you dragged, deep and waiting. He didn’t speak again. Didn’t call for you.
He didn’t have to.
You moved through the house in slow circles. Touching things. Straightening them. Folding a dishcloth. Setting a book back on the shelf, even though you’d already read it twice. You tried to pretend you weren’t thinking about the man on your porch. But the heat of him pressed against the back of your mind like a hand.
You could feel him out there. Not just physically—but in you, somehow. Like the air had shifted around his shape, and the longer he lingered, the more your body remembered what it had felt like to stand in front of something not quite human and still want.
You passed the mirror in the hallway and paused.
Your reflection looked undone. Not in the way your hair had fallen from its pin, or the flush across your cheeks, but deeper—like something inside you had been cracked open. You touched your own throat, right where you imagined his mouth might go.
No bite.
Not yet.
But you swore you could feel phantom teeth.
You went back to the door, holding your breath, and looked at him through the screen.
He hadn’t moved. He sat on the swing, one leg stretched out, the other bent lazily beneath him, arms slung across the backrest like he’d always belonged there. A cigarette burned between two fingers, the tip flaring orange as he dragged from it. The scent of it hit you—rich, earthy, and somehow foreign, like something imported from a place no longer on the map.
He didn’t look at you right away.
Then, slowly, he did.
Red eyes caught yours.
He smiled, small and slow, like he was reading a page of you he’d already memorized.
"Thought you’d shut the door by now," he said.
"I should have," you answered.
"But you didn’t."
His voice curled into the quiet.
You stepped out onto the porch, barefoot, the boards warm beneath your soles. He didn’t move to greet you. He didn’t rise. He just watched you walk toward him like he’d been watching in dreams you never remembered having.
The swing groaned as you sat down beside him, a careful space between you.
His shoulder brushed yours.
You stared straight ahead, out into the night. A mist was beginning to rise off the distant fields. The moon hung low and orange like a wound in the sky.
Somewhere in the bayou, a whippoorwill called, long and mournful.
"How long have you been watching me?" you asked.
"Since before you knew to look."
"Why now?"
He turned toward you. His voice was velvet-wrapped iron.
"Because now…you’re ripe for the pickin’.”
You didn’t remember falling asleep.
One moment you were on the porch beside him, listening to the slow groan of the swing and the way the crickets held their breath when he exhaled, the next you were waking in your bed, the sheets tangled around your legs like they were trying to hold you down.
The house was too quiet.
No birdsong. No creak of the windmill out back. No rustle of the sycamores that scraped against your bedroom window on stormy nights.
Just stillness.
And scent.
It clung to the cotton of your nightdress. Tobacco smoke, sweat, rain. Him.
You sat up slowly, pressing your hand to your chest. Your heart thudded like it was trying to remember who it belonged to. The lamp beside your bed had burned down to a stub. A trickle of wax curled like a vein down the side of the glass.
Your mouth tasted like smoke and guilt. Your thighs ached in that low, humming way—though you couldn’t say why. Nothing had happened. Not really.
But something had changed.
You felt it under your skin, in the place where blood meets breath.
The floor was cool under your feet as you moved. You didn’t dress. Just pulled a robe over your slip and stepped into the hallway. The house felt heavier than usual, thick with the ghost of his presence. Every corner held a whisper. Every shadow a shape.
You opened the front door.
The porch was empty.
The swing still rocked gently, as if someone had only just stood up from it.
A folded piece of paper lay on the top step, weighted down by a smooth river stone.
You picked it up with trembling hands.
Come.
That was all it said. One word. But it rang through your bones like gospel. Like a vow.
You looked out across the field. A narrow dirt road stretched beyond the tree line, overgrown but clear. You’d never dared follow it. That road didn’t belong to you.
It belonged to him.
And now…so did you.
You didn’t bring anything with you.
Not a suitcase. Not a shawl. Not a Bible tucked under your arm for comfort.
Just yourself.
And the road.
The hem of your slip was already damp by the time you reached the edge of the field. Dew clung to your ankles like cold fingers, and the earth was soft beneath your feet—fresh from last night’s storm, the kind that never really breaks the heat, only deepens it. The moon had gone down, but the sky was beginning to bruise with that blue-black ink that comes before sunrise. Everything smelled like wet grass, magnolia, and the faint rot of old wood.
The path curved, narrowing as it passed through trees that leaned in too close. Their branches kissed above you like they were whispering secrets into each other’s leaves. Spanish moss hung like veils from the oaks, dripping silver in the fading dark. It made the world feel smaller. Quieter. As if you were walking into something sacred—or something doomed.
A crow cawed once in the distance. Sharp. Hollow. You didn’t flinch.
There was no sound of wheels. No car waiting. Just the road and the fog and the promise you'd made.
And then you saw it.
The house.
Tucked deep in the grove, half-swallowed by vines and time, it rose like a memory from the earth. A decaying plantation, left to rot in the wet belly of the Delta. Its bones were still beautiful—white columns streaked with black mildew, a grand porch that sagged like a mouth missing teeth, shuttered windows with iron latches rusted shut. Ivy grew up the sides like it was trying to strangle the place. Or maybe protect it.
You stood there at the edge of the clearing, breath caught in your throat.
He’d brought you here.
Or maybe he’d always been here. Waiting. Dreaming of the moment you’d return to him without even knowing it.
A shape moved behind one of the upstairs curtains. Quick. Barely there.
You didn’t run.
Your bare foot found the first step.
It groaned like it recognized you.
The door was already open.
Not wide—just enough for you to know it had been waiting.
And you stepped inside.
The air inside was colder.
Not the kind of cold that came from breeze or shade—but from stillness, from the absence of sun and time. A hush so thick it felt like you were walking underwater. Like the house had held its breath for decades and only now began to exhale.
Dust spiraled in the faint light seeping through fractured windows, casting soft halos through the dark. The wooden floor beneath your feet was warped and groaning, but clean. Not in any natural sense—there was no broom that had touched these boards. No polish or soap.
But it had been kept.
The air didn’t smell like rot or mildew. It smelled like cedar. Like old leather. And deeper beneath that, like him.
He hadn’t lit any lamps.
Just the fireplace, burning low, glowing embers pulsing orange-red at the back of a cavernous hearth. The flame danced shadows across the faded wallpaper, peeling in long strips like dead skin. A high-backed chair faced the fire, velvet blackened from age, its silhouette looming like something alive.
You swallowed, lips dry, and stepped further in.
Your voice didn’t carry. It didn’t even try.
Remmick was nowhere in sight.
But he was here.
You could feel him in the walls, in the way the house seemed to lean closer with every step you took.
You passed through the parlor, past a dusty grand piano with one ivory key cracked down the middle. Past oil portraits too old to make out, their eyes blurred with time. Past a single vase of dried wildflowers, colorless now, but carefully arranged.
You paused in the doorway to the drawing room, your hand resting lightly on the frame.
A whisper of air moved behind you.
Then—
A hand.
Not grabbing. Not harsh. Just the light press of fingers against the small of your back, palm flat and warm through the thin cotton of your slip.
You froze.
He was behind you.
So close you could feel his breath at your neck. Not warm, not cold—just present. Like wind through a crack in the door. Like the memory of a touch before it lands.
His voice was low, close to your ear.
"You came."
You didn’t answer.
"You always would have."
You wanted to say no. Wanted to deny it. But you stood there trembling under his hand, your heartbeat so loud you were sure he could hear it.
Maybe that was why he smiled.
He stepped around you slowly, letting his fingers graze the side of your waist as he moved. His eyes glinted red in the firelight, catching on you like a flame drawn to dry kindling.
He looked at you like he was already undressing you.
Not your clothes—your will.
And it was already unraveling.
You’d suspected he wasn’t born of this soil.
Not just because of the way he moved—like he didn’t quite belong to gravity—but because of the way he spoke. Like time hadn’t worn the edges off his words the way it had with everyone else. His voice curled around vowels like smoke curling through keyholes. Rich and low, but laced with something older. Something foreign. Something that made the hair at the nape of your neck rise when he spoke too softly, too close.
He didn’t speak like a man from the Delta.
He spoke like something older than it.
Older than the country. Maybe older than God.
Remmick stopped in front of you, lit only by firelight.
His eyes had dulled from red to something deeper—like old garnet held to a candle. His shirt was open at the collar now, suspenders hanging slack, the buttons on his sleeves rolled to his elbows. His forearms were dusted with faint scars that looked like they had stories. His skin was pale in the glow, but not lifeless. He looked like marble warmed by touch.
He studied you for a long time.
You weren’t sure if it was your face he was reading, or something beneath it. Something you couldn’t hide.
"You look just like your mother," he said finally.
Your breath caught.
"You knew her?"
A soft smirk curled at the corner of his mouth.
"I’ve known a lot of people, dove. I just never forget the ones with your blood."
You didn’t ask what he meant. Not yet.
There was something heavy in his tone—something laced with memory that stretched back far further than it should. You had guessed, years ago, in the sleepless weeks after that alleyway miracle, that he was not new to this world. That his youth was a trick of the skin. A lie worn like a mask.
You’d read every folklore book you could get your hands on. Every whisper of vampire lore scratched into the margins of ledgers, stuffed between church hymnals, scribbled on the backs of newspapers.
Some said they aged. Slowly. Elegantly.
Others said they didn’t age at all. That they existed outside time. Beyond it.
You didn’t know how old Remmick was.
But something in your bones told you the truth.
Five hundred. Six hundred, maybe more.
A man who remembered empires. A man who had watched cities rise and burn. Who had danced in plague-slick ballrooms and kissed queens before they were beheaded. A man who had lived so long that names no longer mattered. Only debts. And blood.
And you’d given him both.
He stepped closer now, slow and deliberate.
"Yer heart’s gallopin’ like it thinks I’m here to take it."
You flinched. Not because he was wrong. But because he was right.
"You said you didn’t want my blood," you whispered.
"I don’t." He tilted his head. "Not yet."
"Then what do you want?"
His smile didn’t reach his eyes.
"You."
He said it like it was a simple thing. Like the rain wanting the river. Like the grave wanting the body.
You swallowed hard.
"Why me?"
His gaze dragged down your frame, unhurried, like a man admiring a painting he’d stolen once and hidden from the world.
"Because you belong to me. You gave yourself freely. No bargain’s ever tasted so sweet."
Your throat tightened.
"I didn’t know what I was agreeing to."
"You did," he said, softly now, stepping close enough that his chest nearly brushed yours. "You knew. Your soul knew. Even if your head didn’t catch up."
You opened your mouth to protest, to say something, anything that would push back this slow suffocation of certainty—
But his hand came up to your jaw. Fingers feather-light. Not forcing. Just holding. Just there.
"And you’ve been thinkin’ about me ever since," he said.
Not a question. A statement.
You didn’t answer.
He leaned in, his breath ghosting over your cheek, his voice a rasp against your ear.
"You dream of me, don’t you?"
Your hands trembled at your sides.
"I don’t—"
"You wake wet. Ache in your belly. You don’t know why. But I do."
You let your eyes fall shut, shame burning behind them like fire.
"Fuckin’ knew it," he murmured, almost reverent. "You smell like want, dove. You always have.”
His hand didn’t move. It just stayed there at your jaw, thumb ghosting slow along the hollow beneath your cheekbone. A touch so gentle it made your knees ache. Because it wasn’t the roughness that undid you—it was the restraint.
He could’ve taken.
He didn’t.
Not yet.
His gaze held yours, slow and unblinking, red still smoldering in the center of his irises like the dying core of a flame that refused to go out.
"Say it," he murmured.
Your lips parted, but nothing came.
"I can smell it," he said, voice low, rich as molasses. "Your shame. Your want. You’ve been livin’ like a nun with a beast inside her, and no one knows but me."
You hated how your breath stuttered. Hated more that your thighs pressed together when he said it.
"Why do you talk like that," you whispered, barely able to get the words out, "like you already know what I’m feeling?"
His fingers slid down, grazing the side of your neck, stopping just before the pulse thudding there.
"Because I do."
"That’s not fair."
He smiled, slow and crooked, nothing kind in it.
"No, dove. It ain’t."
You hated him.
You hated how beautiful he was in this light, sleeves rolled, veins prominent in his arms, shirt hanging open just enough to show the faint line of a scar that trailed beneath his collarbone. A body shaped by time, not by vanity. Not perfect. Just true. Like someone carved him for a purpose and let the flaws stay because they made him real.
He looked like sin and the sermon that came after.
Remmick moved closer. You didn’t retreat.
His hand flattened over your sternum now, right above your heartbeat, the warmth of him pressing through the cotton of your slip like it meant to seep in. He leaned down, mouth near yours, not kissing, just breathing.
"You gave yourself to me once," he said. "I’m only here to collect the rest."
"You saved my brother."
"I saved you. You just didn’t know it yet."
A shiver rippled down your spine.
His hand moved lower, skimming the curve of your ribs, hovering just at the soft flare of your waist. You could feel the heat rolling off him like smoke from a coalbed. His body didn’t radiate warmth the way a man’s should—but something older. Wilder. Like the earth’s own breath in summer. Like the hush of a storm right before it split the sky.
"And if I tell you no?" you asked, barely more than a breath.
His eyes flicked to yours, unreadable.
"I’ll wait."
You weren’t expecting that.
He smiled again, this time softer, almost cruel in its patience.
"I’ve waited centuries for sweeter things than you. But that don’t mean I won’t keep my hands on you ‘til you change your mind."
"You think I will?"
"You already have."
Your chest rose sharply, breath stung with heat.
"You think this is love?"
He laughed, low and dangerous, the sound curling around your ribs.
"No," he said. "This is hunger. Love comes later."
Then his mouth brushed your jaw—not a kiss, just the graze of lips against skin—and every nerve in your body arched to meet it.
Your knees buckled, barely.
He caught your waist in one hand, steadying you with maddening ease.
"I’m gonna ruin you," he whispered against your throat, his nose dragging lightly along your skin. "But I’ll be so gentle the first time you’ll beg me to do it again."
And God help you—
You wanted him to.
The house didn’t sleep.
Not the way houses were meant to.
It breathed.
The walls exhaled heat and memory, the floors creaked even when no one stepped, and somewhere in the rafters above your room, something paced slowly back and forth, back and forth, like a beast too restless to settle. The kind of place built with its own pulse.
You’d spent the rest of the night—if you could call it that—in a room that wasn’t yours, wearing nothing but a cotton shift and your silence. You hadn’t asked for anything. He hadn’t offered.
The room was spare but not cruel. A basin with a water pitcher. A four-poster bed draped in a netting veil to keep out the bugs—or the ghosts. The mattress was soft. The sheets smelled faintly of cedar, firewood, and something else you didn’t recognize.
Him.
You didn’t undress. You lay on top of the blanket, fingers threaded together over your belly, the thrum of your heartbeat like a second mouth behind your ribs.
Your door had no lock. Just a handle that squeaked if turned. And you hated how many times your eyes flicked toward it. Waiting. Wanting.
But he never came.
And somehow, that was worse.
Morning broke soft and gray through the slatted shutters. The sun didn’t quite reach the corners of the room, and the light that filtered in was the color of dust and river fog.
When you finally stepped out barefoot into the hall, the house was already awake.
There was a scent in the air—coffee. Burned sugar. The faintest curl of cinnamon. Something sizzling in a skillet somewhere.
You followed it.
The kitchen was enormous, all brick hearth and cast iron and a long scarred table in the center with mismatched chairs pushed in unevenly. A window hung open, letting in a breath of swamp air that rustled the lace curtain and kissed your ankles.
Remmick stood at the stove with his back to you, sleeves still rolled to the elbow, suspenders crossed low over his back. His shirt was half-unbuttoned and clung to his sides with the cling of heat and skin. He moved like he didn’t hear you enter.
You knew he had.
He reached for the pan with a towel over his palm and flipped something in the cast iron with a deft flick of the wrist.
"Hope you like sweet," he said, voice thick with morning. "Ain’t got much else."
You didn’t speak. Just stood there in the doorway like a ghost he’d conjured and forgotten about.
He turned.
God help you.
Even like this, barefoot, collar open, hair mussed from sleep or maybe just time—he looked unreal. Like a sin someone had tried to scrub out of scripture but couldn’t quite forget.
"Sleep alright?" he asked.
You gave a small nod.
He looked at you a moment longer. Then—
"Sit down, dove."
You moved toward the table.
His voice followed you, lazy but pointed.
"That’s the wrong chair."
You paused.
He nodded to one at the head of the table—old, high-backed, carved with curling vines and symbols you didn’t recognize.
"That one’s yours now."
You hesitated, then lowered yourself into it slowly. The wood groaned under your weight. The air in the kitchen felt thicker now, tighter.
He brought the plate to you himself.
Two slices of skillet cornbread, golden and glistening with syrup. A few wild strawberries sliced and sugared. A smear of butter melting slow at the center like a pulse.
He set the plate in front of you with a quiet care that felt almost obscene.
"You ain’t gotta eat," he said, leaning against the table beside your chair. "But I like watchin’ you do it."
You picked up the fork.
His eyes stayed on your mouth.
The cornbread was still warm.
Steam curled from it like breath from parted lips. The syrup pooled thick at the edges, dripping off the edge of your fork in slow, amber ribbons. It stuck to your fingers when you touched it. Sweet. Sticky. Sensual.
You brought the first bite to your mouth, slow.
Remmick didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His eyes tracked the motion like a starving man watching someone else’s feast.
The bite landed soft on your tongue—golden crisp on the outside, warm and tender in the middle, butter melting into every pore. It was perfect. Unreasonably so. And somehow you hated that even more. Because nothing about this should’ve tasted good. Not with him watching you like that. Not with your body still humming from the memory of his voice against your skin.
But you swallowed.
And he smiled.
"Good girl," he murmured.
You froze. The fork paused just above the plate.
"You don’t get to say things like that," you whispered.
"Why not?"
Your fingers tightened around the handle.
"Because it sounds like you earned it."
He chuckled, low and easy. A slow roll of thunder in his chest.
"Think I did. Think I earned every fuckin’ word after draggin’ you out that night and lettin’ you walk away without layin’ a hand on you."
You looked up sharply, heat crawling up your neck.
"You shouldn’t have touched me."
"I didn’t," he said. "But I wanted to. Still do."
Your breath caught.
His knuckles brushed the edge of your plate, slow, casual, like he had all the time in the world to make you squirm.
"And I know you want me to," he added, voice low enough that it coiled under your ribs and settled somewhere molten in your belly.
You pushed the plate away.
He didn’t flinch. Just reached forward and dragged it back in front of you like you hadn’t moved it at all.
"You eat," he said, gentler now. "You need it. House takes more from you than it gives."
You glanced around the kitchen, suddenly uneasy.
"You talk about it like it’s alive."
He gave a slow nod.
"It is. In a way."
"How?"
He looked down at your plate, then back at you.
"You’ll see."
You pushed another bite past your lips, slower this time, aware of the weight of his gaze with every chew, every swallow. You didn’t know why you obeyed. Maybe it was easier than defying him. Maybe it was because some part of you wanted him to keep watching.
When the plate was clean, he reached out and caught your wrist before you could stand.
Not hard. Not even firm. Just…inevitable.
"You full?" he asked, his voice all smoke and sin.
You nodded.
His eyes darkened.
"Then I’ll have my taste next."
Your breath lodged sharp in your throat.
He said it like it meant nothing. Like asking for your pulse was no more intimate than asking for your hand. But there was a glint in his eye—red barely flickering now, but still there—and it told you everything.
He was done pretending.
You didn’t move. Not right away.
His fingers were still wrapped around your wrist, light but unyielding, the pad of his thumb grazing the fragile skin where your pulse drummed loud and frantic. Like it wanted to leap out of your veins and spill into his mouth.
You swallowed hard.
"You said you didn’t want blood."
"I don’t."
"Then what do you want?"
"You."
You watched him now, trying to make sense of what you wanted.
And what terrified you was this—
You didn’t want to run.
You wanted to know how it would feel.
To give something he couldn’t take without permission.
To see if your body could handle the worship of a mouth like his.
Remmick’s other hand came up slow, brushing hair from your cheek, his knuckles rough and reverent.
"You said I smelled like want," you whispered.
"You do."
"What do you smell like?"
He leaned in, mouth near your throat again, his nose dragging along your skin, slow, as if he were drawing in the scent of your soul.
"Rot. Hunger. Regret," he said. "Old things that don’t die right."
You shivered.
"And still I want you," you breathed.
He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes.
"That’s the worst part, ain’t it?"
You didn’t answer.
Because he was right.
His hand slid down to your elbow, then lower, tracing the curve of your waist through the thin fabric. His touch was warm now, or maybe your body had just given up trying to tell the difference between threat and thrill.
He guided you up from the chair.
Didn’t yank. Didn’t drag.
Just stood and took your hand like a dance was beginning.
"Come with me," he said.
"Where?"
"Somewhere I can kneel."
Your heart stuttered.
He led you through the house, down the long hallway past doorways that watched like eyes. The floor groaned underfoot, the air thickening around your shoulders as he brought you deeper into the home’s belly. You passed portraits whose paint had faded to shadows, velvet drapes drawn tight, mirrors that refused to hold your reflection quite right.
The door at the end of the hall was already open.
Inside, the room was dark.
Just one candle lit, flickering low in a glass jar, its light catching the edges of something silver beside the bed. An old bowl. A cloth. A pair of gloves, yellowed from time.
A ritual.
Not violent.
Intimate.
Remmick turned toward you, his face bare in the soft light. He looked younger. More human. And somehow more dangerous for it.
"Sit," he said.
You sat.
He knelt.
And then his hands found your knees.
His hands rested on your knees like they belonged there. Not demanding. Not prying. Just there. Anchored. Reverent.
The candlelight licked up his jaw, catching in the hollows of his cheeks, the deep shadow beneath his throat. He didn’t look like a man. He looked like a story told by firelight—half-worshipped, half-feared. A sinner in the shape of a saint. Or maybe the other way around.
His thumbs made a slow pass over the inside of your thighs, just above the knee. Barely pressure. Barely touch. The kind of contact that made your breath feel too loud in your chest.
"Yer too quiet," he murmured.
"I don’t know what to say," you whispered back.
His gaze lifted, locking with yours, and in that moment the whole room seemed to still.
"Ya ain’t gotta say a damn thing," he said. "You just need to stay right there and let me show ya what I mean when I say I don’t want yer blood."
Your lips parted, but no sound came.
He leaned in, slow as honey in the heat, until his mouth hovered just above your knee. Then lower. His breath ghosted over your skin, warm and maddening.
You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until he pressed a single kiss just above the bone.
Your lungs stuttered.
His lips trailed higher.
Another kiss.
Then another.
Each one higher than the last, until your legs opened on instinct, until you felt the hem of your slip being eased upward by hands that moved with worshipful patience. Like he wasn’t just undressing you—he was peeling back a veil. Unwrapping something sacred.
"You ever had someone kneel for ya?" he asked, voice rough now. Thicker.
You shook your head.
He smiled like he already knew the answer.
"Good. Let me be the first."
He kissed the inside of your thigh like it meant something. Like you meant something. Like your skin wasn’t just skin, but a prayer he intended to answer with his mouth.
The air was too hot. Your thoughts slid loose from the edges of your mind. All you could do was breathe and feel.
He looked up at you once more, red eyes burning low, and said—
"You gave yerself to me. Let me taste what I already own."
And then he bowed his head, mouth meeting the softest part of you, and the rest of the world disappeared.
His mouth touched you like he’d been dreaming of it for years. Like he’d earned it.
No rush. No hunger. Just that first velvet press of his lips against the tender center of you, reverent and slow, like a kiss to a wound or a confession. He moaned, low and guttural, into your skin—and the sound of it vibrated up through your spine.
He parted you with his thumbs, just enough to taste you deeper. His tongue slipped between folds already slick and aching, and he groaned again, this time with something like gratitude.
"Sweet as I fuckin’ knew you’d be," he rasped, voice hot against your core.
Your hands gripped the edge of the chair. Wood bit into your palms. Your head tipped back, eyes fluttering shut as your thighs trembled around his shoulders.
He didn’t stop.
He licked you with patience, with purpose, like he was reading scripture written between your legs—each flick of his tongue slow and deliberate, every pass perfectly placed, building pressure inside you with maddening precision.
And all the while, he watched you.
When your head dropped forward, you found him staring up at you. Red eyes glowing low, heavy-lidded, mouth glistening, jaw tense with restraint. He looked ruined by the taste of you.
"Look at me," he said. "Wanna see you fall apart on my tongue."
Your breath hitched, hips rocking forward on instinct, chasing his mouth. He growled low and deep in his chest, gripping your thighs tighter.
"That’s it, dove," he murmured. "Don’t run from it. Give it to me."
He flattened his tongue and dragged it slow, then circled the swollen peak of your clit with the tip, teasing you to the edge and pulling back just before it broke.
You whined. Desperate.
He smirked against your cunt.
"You want it?" he asked, voice thick. "Say it."
Your lips barely formed the word—"Please."
He hummed in approval.
Then he devoured you.
No more teasing. No more pacing. Just his mouth fully locked on you, tongue relentless now, lips sealing around your clit while two fingers slid into you with that obscene, perfect pressure that made your body jolt.
You cried out, gasping, your thighs tightening around his head as the world tipped sideways.
"That’s it," he groaned, curling his fingers just right. "Cum f’r me, girl. Let me taste what’s mine."
And when it hit—
It hit like a fever. Like lightning. Like your soul cracked in half and bled straight into his mouth.
You broke with a cry, hips bucking, your fingers tangled in his hair as wave after wave crashed through you.
He didn’t stop. Not until your thighs twitched and your breath came in ragged little sobs, not until your body went limp in his hands.
Then, finally—finally—he pulled back.
His lips were wet. His eyes were feral. And he looked at you like a man who’d just fed.
"You’re fuckin’ divine," he whispered. "And I ain’t even started ruinin’ you yet."
The room pulsed with quiet. The candle flickered low, flame swaying as if it too had held its breath through your unraveling.
Your body felt boneless. Glazed in sweat. Your pulse echoed everywhere—in your wrists, your throat, between your legs where he’d buried his mouth like a man sent to worship. You weren’t sure how long it had been since you’d spoken. Since you’d breathed without shaking.
Remmick still knelt.
His hands were on your thighs, thumbs drawing idle circles into your skin like he couldn’t bear to stop touching you. His head was bowed slightly, but his eyes were on you—watchful, reverent, hungry in a way that had nothing to do with the softness between your legs and everything to do with something older. Something darker.
He looked drunk on you.
You opened your mouth to speak, but your voice caught on the edge of a sigh.
He beat you to it.
"Reckon you know what’s comin’ next," he murmured.
You didn’t answer.
He rose from his knees in one slow, unhurried motion. There was a heaviness to him now, a tension rolling just beneath his skin, like a dam about to split. He reached up with one hand and wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of it—then licked the taste from his thumb like it was honey off the comb.
You watched, breath held tight in your chest.
He stepped closer. You stayed seated, knees still parted, your slip pushed up indecently high, but you didn’t fix it. Didn’t move at all. The heat between your legs hadn’t faded. If anything, it curled deeper now, thicker, laced with something close to fear but not quite.
He stopped in front of you.
Tilted his head slightly.
"How’s yer heart?"
You blinked.
"It’s…fast," you whispered.
He smiled slow. Not mocking. Not soft either.
"Good. I want it fast."
Your throat tightened.
"Why?"
He leaned in, hands bracing on either side of your chair, body boxing you in without touching.
"‘Cause I want yer blood screamin’ for me when I take it."
Your breath caught somewhere between your ribs.
He didn’t touch you yet—didn’t need to. The weight of his body, caging you in without a single finger laid, made your skin flush from your chest to your knees. Every inch of you throbbed with awareness. Of him. Of your own pulse. Of the air cooling the places he’d worshiped with his mouth not moments before.
You swallowed.
"You said you’d wait," you whispered.
He nodded once, slowly, his eyes never leaving yours.
"I did. And I have. But yer body’s already beggin’ for me. Ain’t it?"
You hated that he was right. That he could feel it somehow. Not just see the tremble in your thighs or the way your lips parted when he leaned closer—but that he could feel it in the air, like scent, like vibration.
You lifted your chin, barely.
"I’m not scared."
He chuckled low, and it rumbled through your bones.
"Good. But I don’t need ya scared, dove. I need ya open."
He raised one hand then, slow as scripture, and brushed his knuckles along the column of your throat. Just a whisper of contact, a ghost’s touch. Your head tilted for him without thinking, baring your neck.
"Right here," he murmured. "Right where it beats loudest. That’s where I wanna taste ya."
You shivered.
He bent down, mouth near your pulse. His breath was warm, slow, drawn in like he was savoring you already.
"I ain’t gonna hurt ya," he said. "Not unless you want it."
Your fingers twisted in your lap.
"Will it—" you started, but the question got tangled.
He smiled against your skin.
"Will it feel good?"
You said nothing.
"You already know."
You did.
Because everything with him did. Every word. Every look. Every touch. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t holy. But it was real. It lived under your skin like rot and root and ruin.
You nodded once.
"Then take it."
Remmick stilled.
And then his lips pressed to your throat. Not with hunger. With reverence. Like a blessing.
"That’s my girl," he breathed.
And then he bit.
It wasn’t pain.
It was pressure, first.
A deep, aching pull that bloomed just beneath the skin, right where his mouth latched onto you. His lips sealed tight around your throat, and then—sharpness. Two points sinking in like teeth through silk. Like sin through flesh.
You gasped.
Not from fear. Not even from the sting. But from the rush.
Heat burst behind your eyes, white and sudden and dizzying. Your hands flew to his shoulders, clinging, grounding, anchoring you to something real while your mind drifted into something else—something otherworldly.
The pull came next.
A steady rhythm, slow and patient, like he was sipping you instead of drinking. Like he had all the time in the world. You could feel it, the way your blood left you in waves, not violent, not greedy—just…intimate. Like giving. Like surrender.
He groaned low against your neck, the sound vibrating through your bones.
"Fuck, you taste like sunlight," he rasped against your skin, voice thick with hunger and awe. "Like everythin’ warm I thought I’d forgotten."
Your head tipped further, offering him more.
You didn’t know when your legs opened wider, or when your hips rocked forward just to feel more of him. But his body shifted instinctively, meeting yours with a growl, his hand gripping your thigh now, possessive and unrelenting.
Your pulse faltered. Not from weakness, but from pleasure. From the unbearable knowing that he was inside you now, in the most ancient way. That your body had opened to him, and your blood had welcomed him.
Your moan was breathless.
"Remmick—"
He shushed you, mouth never leaving your throat.
"Don’t speak, dove. Just feel."
And you did.
You felt every lick. Every pull. Every sacred claim. You felt his tongue soothe where his fangs pierced, his hand slide higher along your thigh, his knee pushing between your legs until your breath stuttered out of you in something like a sob.
It was too much. It was not enough.
And when he finally pulled back, slow and reluctant, your blood on his lips like a mark, like a vow, he stared at you like you were holy.
Like he hadn’t fed on you.
Like he’d prayed.
The room was quiet, but your body wasn’t.
You felt every beat of your heart echo in the hollow where his mouth had been. A slow, reverent throb that pulsed through your neck, your chest, your thighs. It was like something had been lit beneath your skin, and now it smoldered there—glowing, aching, changed.
Remmick’s breath was uneven. His lips were stained red, parted just slightly, his jaw slack with something like awe. The burn of your blood still shimmered in his eyes, brighter now. Alive.
He looked undone.
And yet his hands were steady as he reached up, cupped your jaw in both palms, and tilted your face toward him. His thumb swept across your cheekbone like you might vanish if he didn’t touch you just right.
"You alright?" he asked, voice quieter now, roughened at the edges like a match just struck.
You nodded, though your limbs still trembled.
"I feel…" you swallowed, the word too small for what bloomed in your chest, "…warm."
He laughed, soft and almost bitter, and leaned his forehead against yours.
"You should. You’re inside me now. Every drop of you."
The words rooted somewhere deep. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. You could still feel the heat of his mouth, the bite, the pleasure that followed. It wasn’t just lust. It wasn’t just surrender. It was something older. Something binding.
"Does it hurt?" you asked, your fingers brushing the side of his neck, the line of his collarbone slick with sweat.
He looked at you like you’d asked the wrong question.
"Hurt?" he echoed. "Dove, it’s ecstasy."
You stared at him.
"You mean for you?"
He shook his head once.
"For us."
Then he pulled back just enough to look at you—really look. His gaze swept your features like he was committing them to memory. As if this moment, this very breath, was something sacred. His fingers moved to your throat again, this time to the place just above the bite, and he pressed lightly.
"You’ll bruise here," he said. "Won’t fade for a while."
"Will it heal?"
"Eventually."
"Do you want it to?"
His mouth curved, slow and wicked.
"No," he said. "I want the world to see what’s mine."
And before you could reply—before the heat in your belly could cool or your mind could gather itself—he kissed you.
Not soft.
Not careful.
His mouth claimed you like he’d already been inside you a thousand times and wanted to do it a thousand more. He kissed you like a man starving. Like a creature who’d gone too long without flesh, and now that he had it, he wasn’t letting go.
You tasted your own blood on his tongue.
And it tasted like forever.
The house knew.
It breathed deeper now. Its wood swelled, its walls sighed, its floorboards creaked in time with your heartbeat—as though it had taken you in too, accepted your offering, and now it wanted to keep you just like he did. Not as a guest. Not as a lover.
As a belonging.
Remmick hadn’t let you go.
Not when the kiss ended. Not when your blood slowed in his mouth. Not when your knees gave and your body folded forward into him. His arms had caught you like he knew the shape of your collapse. Like he’d been waiting for it. Like he’d never let you fall anywhere but into him.
He carried you now, one arm beneath your legs, the other braced around your back, his chest solid against yours.
"Don’t reckon you’re walkin’ after all that," he muttered, gaze fixed ahead, voice gone syrup-slow and thick with something possessive.
You didn’t argue. You couldn’t.
Your head rested against the place where his heart should’ve beat. But it was quiet there. Not lifeless—just other.
He carried you past rooms you hadn’t seen. A library, long abandoned, lined with crooked books and a grandfather clock that had no hands. A parlor soaked in velvet and silence. A door nailed shut from the outside, something heavy breathing behind it.
You didn’t ask.
He didn’t explain.
The room he took you to was nothing like the others.
It wasn’t grand.
It was personal.
The windows here were narrow and high, soft light slanting through the dusty glass in thin gold ribbons. The bed was simple but large, the sheets dark, the frame iron-wrought and worn smooth by time. A single cross hung above the headboard—but it had been turned upside down.
He set you down like you were breakable. Sat you on the edge of the bed, knelt once more to remove the slip still clinging to your body, inch by inch, as if undressing you were a sacrament.
"Y’ever wonder why I picked you?" he asked, voice low as the hush between thunderclaps.
Your breath stilled.
"I thought it was the blood."
He shook his head, his hands pausing at your hips.
"Nah, dove. Blood’s blood. Yours sings, sure. But it ain’t why I chose."
He looked up then, red eyes gleaming in the half-light.
"You remind me of the last thing I ever loved before I died."
The words landed like a stone in still water.
They rippled outward. Slow. Wide. Deep.
You stared at him, breath shallow, your skin bare under his hands, your throat still warm from where he’d fed. The room held its silence like breath behind gritted teeth. Outside, somewhere beyond the high windows, something moved through the trees—branches bending, wind pushing low and humid across the land—but in here, it was only the two of you.
Only his voice.
Only your blood between his teeth.
"What…what was she like?" you asked.
His thumbs drew circles at your hips, but his eyes drifted, not unfocused—just distant. Remembering.
"She had a mouth like yours. Sharp. Didn’t know when to shut it. Always speakin’ when she should’ve stayed quiet." A smile ghosted across his lips. "God, I loved that. I loved that she ain’t feared me even when she should’ve."
He exhaled through his nose, slow.
"But she didn’t get to finish bein’ mine."
Your brows pulled.
"What happened to her?"
He looked back at you then, and the heat in his gaze returned—not hunger, not even desire, but something deeper. Possessive. Terrifying in its tenderness.
"They tore her from me. Burned her in a chapel. Said she was a witch on account’a what I’d given her."
Your heart dropped into your stomach.
"Remmick—"
"She didn’t scream," he said, voice rough. "Didn’t cry. Just looked at me like she knew I’d find her again. And I have."
You froze.
His hands slid higher, up your ribs, his palms reverent.
"I don’t believe in fate. Not really. But you—" he leaned in, lips brushing your jaw, voice low like a spell, "you make me wanna believe in things I ain’t allowed to have."
You whispered against the curl of his mouth.
"And what do you think I am?"
He kissed the hinge of your jaw.
"My penance," he said. "And my reward."
You shivered.
"You said you saved me."
He nodded.
"I did."
"Why?"
He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, and his voice dropped to a near whisper.
"‘Cause I ain’t lettin’ another thing I love burn."
You didn’t realize you were crying until he touched your face.
Not with hunger, not with heat, but with the kind of softness that had no business living in a man like him. His thumb caught a tear on your cheek like he’d been waiting for it, like it meant something sacred.
"You ain’t her," he murmured. "But you feel like the same song in a different key."
His voice cracked a little at the edges, not enough to ruin the shape of it, just enough to prove that something in him still bled.
You reached up, fingers trembling, and cupped the side of his neck. The skin there was warmer now. Still inhuman, still not quite alive, but it held your heat like it didn’t want to give it back. You felt the ridges of old scars beneath your palm. The echo of stories not told.
"I don’t know what I’m becoming," you said.
He leaned into your hand, eyes half-lidded.
"You’re becomin’ mine."
Then he kissed you again—not like before. Not full of fire. But slow, like he had all the time in the world to learn the shape of your mouth. His lips moved over yours with a kind of tenderness that made your bones ache. A kind of reverence that said this is where I end and begin again.
When he pulled back, your breath followed him.
The room shifted.
You felt it. Like the house had exhaled too.
"Lie down," he said, voice softer than it had ever been. "Let me hold what I almost lost."
You obeyed.
You lay back against the sheets that smelled like him, like dust and dark and something unnameable. The iron bed creaked softly beneath you, and the candlelight trembled with the movement. He undressed with quiet purpose, shirt sliding from his shoulders, buttons undone by slow fingers, trousers falling away to bare the sharp planes of his body.
And when he climbed over you, it wasn’t to take.
It was to be taken.
Remmick hovered above you, breath warm at your lips, hands braced on either side of your head. He looked down at you like he was staring through time. Like you were something he'd pulled from the fire and decided to keep even if it burned him too.
You’re mine, he whispered, but didn’t say it aloud.
He didn’t have to.
His body said it.
His mouth said it.
And when he finally eased inside you, slow and steady, filling you inch by trembling inch—your soul said it too.
His body hovered just above yours, every inch of him trembling with a control you didn’t quite understand—until you looked into his eyes.
That red glow was dimmer now. No less powerful, but softened by something raw. Something reverent.
Not hunger.
Not lust.
Not even possession.
Devotion.
The kind that didn’t speak. The kind that buried itself in the bones and never left.
His hand slid down the side of your face, tracing the curve of your cheek, then the line of your jaw, calloused fingers lingering in the hollow of your throat where your heartbeat thudded wild and uneven.
"Still fast," he murmured, half to himself.
"You’re heavy," you whispered, not in protest, but in awe. Every breath you took was filled with him.
He smirked, the corner of his mouth twitching in that crooked, wicked way of his.
"Ain’t even layin’ on you yet."
You didn’t laugh. Couldn’t. Your body was stretched too tight, strung out with anticipation and need. Every inch of you burned.
He leaned down then, not to kiss you, but to breathe you in. His nose skimmed your cheek, the edge of your ear, the curve of your throat already marked by his bite. His hands traced your ribs, the sides of your waist, slow and steady, like he was trying to learn you by touch alone.
"You’re shakin'," he whispered, voice low, thick with something close to worship.
"So are you."
A pause.
Then softer—truthfully,
"Yeah."
He kissed the inside of your wrist, then the space between your breasts, then lower still—his lips reverent as they moved over your belly, your hipbone, the softest parts of you.
"You ever had someone take their time with you?" he asked, mouth against your skin.
You didn’t speak.
"Didn’t think so," he muttered. "Shame."
His hand slid between your thighs, spreading you again—not rushed, not greedy, just gentle. Like he knew he’d already had the taste of you and now he wanted the feel.
"Tell me if it’s too much," he said.
"It already is."
He looked up at you then, his face half-shadowed, half-lit, and something flickered in his eyes.
"Good."
His cock brushed against your entrance, hot and heavy, and you nearly arched off the bed at the first contact. Not even inside. Just there. Teasing. Pressed to the slick mess he'd made of you earlier with his mouth.
He groaned deep.
"Fuck, you feel like sin."
You reached for him, pulled him down by the back of his neck until your mouths were inches apart.
"Then sin with me."
He didn’t hesitate.
He began to press in—slow. Devastatingly slow. The head of his cock stretching you open with a care that felt like madness. His hands gripped your hips as if holding himself back took more strength than killing ever had.
He moved in inch by inch, his breath hitched, jaw tight, sweat beginning to bead at his temple.
"Shit—ya takin’ me so good, dove. Just like that."
You moaned. Your fingers dug into his back. You were full of him and not even halfway there.
"Remmick—"
"I gotcha," he whispered. "Ain’t gonna let you break."
But he was already breaking you. Gently. Thoroughly. Beautifully.
He filled you like he’d been made for the task.
No sharp thrusts. No hurried rhythm. Just the unbearable slowness of it. The stretch. The burn. The drag of his cock as he sank deeper, deeper, deeper into you until there was nothing left untouched. Until your body stopped bracing and started opening.
You clung to him—hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt that still clung to his back, damp with sweat. He hadn’t even undressed all the way. There was something obscene about it, something holy, too—the way he kept his shirt on like this wasn’t about bareness, it was about belonging.
"That’s it," he rasped against your throat. "There she is."
Your moan was caught between breath and prayer.
He buried himself to the hilt.
And still—he didn’t move.
His hips pressed flush to yours, his breath shaky against your skin as he held himself there, nestled so deep inside you it felt like you’d never known emptiness before now. Like everything that came before this moment had just been the ache of waiting to be filled.
"You feel that?" he whispered, voice thick, almost reverent. "Where I am inside ya?"
You nodded. Couldn’t find your voice.
His lips brushed the shell of your ear.
"Ain’t no leavin’ now. I’ll always be in ya. Even when I ain’t."
You whimpered.
Not from pain. From how true it felt.
He moved then—barely. Just a slow roll of his hips, a gentle retreat and return. It was enough to make your breath hitch, your body arch, your legs wrap tighter around him without thinking.
"That’s right, dove. Let me in. Let me have it."
You didn’t even know what it was anymore.
Your body?
Your blood?
Your soul?
You’d already given them all.
And still, he took more.
But not cruelly.
Like a man kissing the mouth of a well after years of thirst. Like a thief who knew how to make you feel grateful for the stealing.
He found a rhythm that made the air vanish from your lungs.
Slow. Deep. Measured. His hips grinding just right, dragging his cock against every place inside you that had never known such touch. Every stroke sang with heat. Every breath he took turned your name into something more than a sound.
"Fuck, I could stay in you forever," he groaned. "Like this. Warm. Tight. Mine."
You dug your nails into his shoulders, legs trembling.
"Please," you whispered, though you didn’t know what you were asking for.
He did.
"Beg me," he said, dragging his mouth down your neck, over the bite he’d left. "Beg me to make you come with my cock in you."
"Remmick—"
"Say it."
You were already gone. Already shaking. Already his.
"Make me come," you breathed. "Please—God, please—"
His smile was sinful.
And then he fucked you.
His rhythm shifted—no longer slow, no longer sacred.
It was worship in the way fire worships a forest. The kind that devours. The kind that remakes.
Remmick braced a hand behind your thigh, hitching your leg higher as he thrust harder, deeper, dragging guttural sounds from his chest that you felt before you heard. The bed groaned beneath you, iron frame clanging soft against the wall in time with his hips. But it was your body that made the noise that filled the room—the gasps, the breaking sighs, the high whimper of his name torn raw from your throat.
He kissed your jaw, your collarbone, your shoulder, not like he was trying to be sweet but like he needed to taste every inch he claimed.
"You feel me in your belly yet?" he growled, words hot against your skin.
You nodded frantically, tears pricking the corners of your eyes from the sheer force of sensation.
"Say it," he panted, each thrust brutal and beautiful.
"Yes—yes, I feel you, Remmick, I—"
"You gonna come f’r me like a good girl?"
"Yes."
"Say my fuckin’ name when you do."
His hand slid between your bodies, finding your clit like he’d owned it in another life, and the moment his fingers circled that aching bundle of nerves, your vision went white.
Your body seized around him.
The sound you made was raw, wrecked, something no one but him should ever hear.
He kept fucking you through it, hissing curses through his teeth, chasing his own high with the rhythm of a man who’d waited centuries for the perfect fit.
And then he broke.
With your name groaned low and reverent in your ear, he came deep inside you, hips stuttering, breath ragged, body shuddering with the force of it. You felt every throb of his cock inside you, every spill of heat, every ounce of him taking root.
For a long, suspended moment, he didn’t move.
Only the sound of your breaths tangled together.
Your sweat mixing.
Your bodies still joined.
"That’s it," he whispered hoarsely, pressing his forehead to yours. "That’s how I know you’re mine."
The house exhaled around you.
The candle sputtered in its jar, flame dancing low and crooked, like even it had been made breathless by what it had witnessed. Somewhere in the walls, the wood groaned—settling. Sighing. Accepting.
You didn’t move. Couldn’t.
Your body was a temple razed and rebuilt in a single night, still pulsing with the memory of his mouth, his weight, the stretch of him inside you like a secret only your bones would remember. Every nerve hummed low and soft beneath your skin, like your blood hadn’t figured out how to move without his rhythm guiding it.
Remmick stayed inside you.
His body was heavy atop yours, but not crushing. His head tucked into the curve of your neck, the same place he’d bitten, the same place he’d worshipped like it held some holy truth. His breath came slow and ragged, the rise and fall of his chest matching yours as if your lungs had struck the same pace without meaning to.
"Don’t move yet," he muttered, voice wrecked and hoarse. "Wanna stay here just a minute longer."
You let your hand drift through his hair, damp with sweat, curls sticking to his forehead. You carded through them lazily, mind blank, heart full.
He pressed a kiss to your throat. Then another, just above your collarbone.
"You still with me?" he asked, quieter now.
You nodded.
"Good," he murmured. "Didn’t mean to fuck the soul outta ya. Just…couldn’t help it."
You let out the softest laugh, and he smiled into your skin.
His hand slid down your side, tracing the curve of your waist, your hip, the spot where your thigh met his. His fingers moved slowly, not with lust, but with a kind of quiet awe.
"Y’know what you feel like?" he whispered.
"What?"
"Home."
The word struck something inside you. Something tender. Something deep.
He lifted his head then, just enough to look down at you. His eyes had faded from red to something darker, something richer—garnet in low light. The kind of color only seen in blood and wine and promises too old to be remembered by name.
"You still think this is just hunger?" he asked.
You blinked at him, dazed.
"It was never just hunger," he said. "Not with you."
The silence between you was warm now.
Not empty. Not tense. Just quiet, the kind that comes after thunder, when the storm’s rolled through and the trees are still deciding whether to stand or kneel.
You felt it in your limbs—heavy, humming, holy. The afterglow of something you didn’t have language for.
Remmick hadn’t moved far.
He still blanketed your body like a second skin, one arm braced beneath your shoulders, the other tracing idle shapes across your hip as if he were still mapping the terrain of you. His cock, softening but still nestled inside, pulsed faintly with the last of what he’d given you.
And he had given you something. Not just release. Not just blood. Something older. Something that whispered now in the place between your ribs.
You turned your head to look at him.
His gaze was already on you.
"What happens now?" you asked, barely above a whisper.
He didn’t answer right away.
Instead, he ran the back of his fingers along your cheekbone, down the side of your neck, pausing over the place where his mark had already begun to bruise.
"You askin’ what happens tonight," he murmured, "or what happens after?"
You blinked slowly. "Both."
He let out a breath through his nose, the sound tired but not cold.
"Tonight, I’ll hold you. Long as you’ll let me. Won’t leave this bed unless you beg me to. Might even make ya cry again, if you keep lookin’ at me like that."
You flushed, and he smiled.
"As for after…"
He looked past you then, toward the ceiling, like the truth was written in the beams.
"Ain’t never planned that far. Not with anyone. Just fed. Fucked. Moved on."
"But not with me."
His eyes snapped back to yours. Serious now.
"No, dove. Not with you."
You swallowed the knot rising in your throat.
"Why?"
His jaw flexed, tongue darting briefly across his lower lip before he answered.
"‘Cause I been alone too long. Lived too long. Thought I was too far gone to want anythin’ that didn’t bleed beneath me."
He leaned closer, forehead resting against yours, his next words no louder than a ghost’s sigh.
"But you—you made me want somethin’ tender. Somethin’ breakable."
"That doesn’t make sense."
"Don’t gotta. Nothin’ about you ever has. And yet here you are."
You let your eyes drift shut, just for a moment, and whispered into the stillness between your mouths.
"So I stay?"
He didn’t hesitate.
"You stay."
The candle had burned low.
Its glow flickered long shadows across the walls—your bodies painted in gold and blood-tinged bronze, limbs tangled in sheets that still clung with sweat and want. The house had quieted again, the way an animal settles when it knows its master is content. Outside, the wind threaded through the trees in soft moans, like the Delta herself was eavesdropping.
Neither of you spoke for a while. You didn’t need to.
Your fingers traced lazy patterns across Remmick’s chest—over his scars, the slope of muscle, the faint rise and fall beneath your palm. You still half-expected no heartbeat, but it was there, slow and stubborn, like he’d stolen it back just for you.
He watched you. One arm draped across your waist, his thumb stroking your bare back like you might fade if he stopped.
"You still ain’t askin’ the question you really wanna ask," he said, voice rough from silence and sleep.
You paused.
"What question is that?"
He tipped his head toward you, resting his chin on his knuckles.
"You wanna know if I turned you."
Your heart gave a traitorous flutter.
"And did you?"
He shook his head.
"Nah. Not yet."
"Why not?"
His fingers stilled. Then resumed.
"’Cause you ain’t asked me to."
You looked up at him sharply.
"Would you?"
A long beat passed. Then he nodded once.
"If it was you askin’. If it was real."
Your breath caught.
"And if I don’t?"
His gaze didn’t waver.
"Then I’ll stay with you. ‘Til you’re old. ‘Til your hands shake and your bones ache and your eyes stop lookin’ at me like I’m the only thing that ever made you feel alive."
Your throat tightened.
"That sounds awful."
He smiled, slow and aching.
"It sounds human."
You looked at him for a long time. At the man who had killed, who had bled you, who had tasted every part of you—body and soul—and still asked nothing unless you gave it.
"Would it hurt?"
His hand slid up, fingers curling beneath your jaw, tilting your face to his.
"It’d hurt," he said. "But not more than bein’ without you would."
The quiet stretched long and low.
His words hung in the space between your mouths like smoke—something sweet and terrible, something tasted before it was fully breathed in.
Your chest rose and fell against his slowly, and for a long time, you said nothing. You just listened. To the house settling around you. To the wind curling past the windows. To the steady thrum of blood still echoing faintly in your ears.
And beneath it all—
You heard memory.
It came soft at first. A shape, not a sound. The slick thud of your knees hitting the alley pavement. The scream you didn’t recognize as your own. Your brother’s blood, warm and fast, pumping between your fingers like water from a broken pipe. His mouth slack. His eyes wide.
You remembered screaming to the sky. Not to God.
Just up.
Because you knew He’d stopped listening.
And then—
He came.
Out of nothing. Out of dark.
You remembered the slow scrape of his boots on the gravel. The silhouette of him under the weak yellow glow of a flickering streetlamp. You remembered the quiet way he spoke.
"You want him to live?"
You didn’t answer with words. You just nodded, crying so hard you couldn’t breathe. And he’d knelt—right there in the blood—and laid his hand flat against your brother’s chest.
You never saw what he did. Only saw your brother’s eyes flutter. Only heard his breath return, sudden and wet.
And then he looked at you.
Not your brother.
Remmick.
He looked at you like he’d already taken something.
And he had.
Now, years later, lying in the hush of his house, your body still joined to his, you could still feel that moment thrumming beneath your skin. The moment when everything shifted. When your life became borrowed.
You looked up at him now, breathing steady, lips parted like a prayer just barely forming.
"I’ve already given you everything."
He shook his head.
"Not this."
He pressed two fingers to your chest, right over your heart.
"This is still yours."
"And you want it?"
He didn’t smile. Didn’t look away.
"I want it to keep beatin’. Forever. With mine."
You stared at him.
You thought about that alley. About your brother’s eyes opening again.
About how no one else came.
And you made your choice.
"Then take it."
Remmick stilled.
"Don’t say it unless you mean it, dove."
"I do."
His voice was barely more than a breath.
"You sure?"
You reached up, touched his face, fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw.
"I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life."
His eyes shimmered—deep red now, alive with something wild and tender.
"Then I’ll make you eternal," he whispered. "And I’ll never let the world take you from me."
He didn’t rush.
Not now. Not with this.
Remmick looked at you like you were something rare—something holy—like he couldn’t believe you’d said it, even as your voice still echoed between the walls.
Then he moved.
Not with hunger. Not with heat.
With purpose.
He sat up, kneeling beside you on the bed, and pulled the sheet slowly down your body. His eyes drank you in again, but this time there was no heat in them. Just reverence. As if you were the altar, and he the sinner who’d finally been granted absolution.
"You sure you want this?" he asked one last time, voice soft, like the hush of water in a cathedral.
You nodded, throat tight.
"I want forever."
His jaw clenched. A tremble passed through him like he’d heard those words in another life and lost them before they were ever his.
He leaned down.
His hand cupped the back of your head, the other settled flat on your chest, palm over your heart.
"Close your eyes, dove."
You did.
And then—
You felt him.
His breath. His lips. The soft, cool press of his mouth against your neck. But he didn’t bite.
Not yet.
He kissed the mark he’d already left. Then higher. Then lower. Slow. Measured. Your body melted beneath him, your hands curling into the sheets.
And then—
A whisper against your skin.
"I’ll be gentle. But you’ll remember this forever."
And he sank his fangs in.
It wasn’t like the first time.
It wasn’t lust.
It wasn’t climax.
It was rebirth.
Pain bloomed sharp and bright—but only for a heartbeat. Then the warmth flooded in. Then the cold. Then the ache. Your pulse stuttered once, then surged. It was like drowning and being pulled to the surface at once. Like everything you’d ever been burned away and something older moved in to take its place.
He held you as it happened.
Cradled you like something delicate.
His mouth sealed over the wound, drinking slow, but not to feed. To anchor you. To tether you to him.
You felt yourself go limp. The world turned strange. Light and dark bled into each other. Your breath faded. Your heartbeat fluttered like wings against glass.
And then—
It stopped.
Silence.
Stillness.
And in the space where your heart had once beat…
You heard his.
Then—
Your eyes opened.
The world looked different.
Sharper.
Brighter.
Every shadow deeper. Every color richer. The candlelight burned gold-red and alive. The scent of the night air was so thick it choked you—smoke, soil, blood, him.
Remmick hovered above you, lips stained crimson, breathing hard like he’d just returned from war.
Summary: You would guard your throne from vultures no matter the cost and so the games begins. In which Aemond Targaryen regrets making an enemy of his wife.
Aemond is a cheating hoe. No one wanted this I just really wanted to write some angst. As always your features and ethnicity is not mentioned, background is not specified but you are a highborn. After the Serpentine series I wanted something spicy.
Word count: 8.1k
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By nature you were a patient person, taking great diligence in ensuring emotions doesn't overcome your judgment. But as the hour grows late your forbearance for your husband had begun to wear thin. It nears twelve and you had been waiting for Aemonds return for well over three hours now. With every passing minute you find yourself drowning in madness as you draw a blank on where or what he was up to. Succumbing to the ill thoughts on your mind as the flickering dance and crackle of the fire floods your senses. You're tired, you're anxious and your ears are ringing yet you still sat unmoving. Why?
There was no doubt that the man in question confused you to no end, nevertheless you still made sure to act accordingly and play the part of his wife. Although you're finding it increasingly hard to upkeep the role of his good little lover when the man is hardly in your presence. It was true that your marriage with Aemond was one out of political leverage, but you still did your best to care for him. Always making sure your relationship was fostered and tended to in the hopes of something blossoming.
You had faith that he would grow fonder of you as the years went on, but with every passing day that thought was challenged. It had been a long journey but without fail you acted kind and loving towards him no matter the expense. Valuing your relationship with Aemond a great deal, you were willing to do anything for him.
Even endure his callous behaviors towards you.
It was no secret that the prince was rather displeased with your union. For a man that preached the importance of preforming duty, he was awfully bad at it. You had been wedded for almost half a year now and have yet to consummate the marriage. Not that you weren't willing to, the problem lies with your husband. It was plain to see behind closed doors that he did not take you seriously.
In his eye this marriage was a joke, you were but strangers at best due to his lack of effort. Now you know not of the origins of his distant behavior but you've tried your best to minimize them. Dragging Aemond off to accompany you on walks around the castle, asking him to join you for lunch; everyday without faltering you tried.
But to no avail, your attempts does little to dull the wall between you two. He doesn't interact with you unless it was mandatory or for show, displayed little emotions past cordial. And god forbid laying a hand on you was the end of the fucking world. Was this who Aemond Targaryen was? Cold and cynical? Deprived of all that makes a person human. Every time you looked at him he was a ghost, fading into the background slipping from your grasp. He was untouchable, invisible. His self-righteous aura creating a vortex around him.
The distance between Aemond and you had started to become apparent to the ladies in court. Everyday without fail they would voice their concerns, asking you if you were being mistreated. Of course you lie, a task that comes easy to you, easier than you thought it would since you had little ties with your husband. Though it makes you wonder if Aemond also found it easy to lie to you....
The thought gets lost on you as an intrusive sound rings through your chambers. Brows furrowing at the disturbance, why would Aemond feel the need to knock on your shared room? The train was rather absurd so it leads you into thinking that it wasn't him paying you a visit. Much to your disappointment. With confusion in your voice, you call out to the visitor.
"Come in." Anxiously bringing your palms together on your lap. Your fingers locked themselves in a manner of worry, squeezing tightly as you prepare yourself. Soon the door opens and in follows Ser Larys Strong. His pronounced way of walking evident as the cane hits the ground harshly. The sound announcing and intrusive, almost counting down the seconds before he reaches you.
"I am sorry to intrude on your private time my Lady, especially when the hour is so late but I fear this matter cannot wait till dawn." He smiles sympathetically although you do not like implications behind it. You notion for him to sit across from you, watching the scene carefully. You don't utter a word as he moves to take his place. Ser Larys's visits are always prompted.... And by the look on his face it reads that he knows something you don't... That fact slightly unnerved you...
"I thought this news would be best heard if it were from me.... From a friend..." Bullshit. Larys always had an ulterior motive, he liked cultivating favors from the court only for them to owe him in return. No doubt that he was a sick man that enjoyed manipulating others, finding power in mind games in a way that he cannot with the sword. You were far from friends but played the game together. He only viewed you so highly because you were one of the only people the didn't fall for his lures and cryptic words.
"I take it this news is not pleasant." Lifting a brow at him in question, you kept your manner strong and imposing. He swallows and nods his head briefly, averting his gaze from you to look at the floor.
"Earlier today.... Prince Aemond was caught indulging a servant girl in Harrenhal." He says the words carefully though no amount of safe keeping can withhold your anger. Larys words were vague but you understood clearly what he meant. Shaking in your seat, you calm yourself. Or at least tried to....
You were going to fucking kill him.
"Ah.... I see... Who else knows?" Your words come out strained. Tone cut and tense, implying that you were holding back an outburst as tears of anger slowly clouds your gaze. What did you honestly expect? Your mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, vision tunneling as rage began crawling up your center. For a moment your breath stills, the abyss captivating you before you snap out of it and focusing on Ser Larys once more. He says nothing as he watches the fire burn, avoiding your venomous stare.
"Just you and me." He nods slowly, finally looking at you, only to drop his gaze soon after. He was uncomfortable beyond measure... His mouth opens to say something once more but stops to take in your shape. You clutched at the chair with a murderous grip, nails digging into the stained leather. Slowly he met your unmoving eyes, taken aback by the poison swimming amongst them. Gods be good... That look never meant well. The tension was heavy and for a moment Larys feared for his own life. You were not sad nor disheartened, instead you were seething in hatred. The room fogs with something unpleasant as the walls welcomed the illness like an old friend. Such atmosphere was suffocating as he watched you shake in retribution, no doubt planning your next calculating moves.
Vengeance. That was all you wanted. Many questions plagued your mind, had you not been good enough for him? You've done all that you could to please him and yet he disrespect your name with his adultery. You honestly didn't know what to say, it wasn't like this was much of a shock to you since a part of you always had suspicions. But you dismissed those thoughts as nothing but intrusive and toxicant. Yet to hear the words out loud coming from a reputable man such as Ser Larys Strong was much different than you telling yourself. Larys was many things but he was not a liar. His words always had claim and a backbone, despite how distasteful the intentions behind them may be. You could not care less about what he wants to get out of you, what you want to know is what else he's keeping locked away. And what will it take to get him talking.
"The servant that caught them and sent for a raven was found killed under.... suspicious circumstances... I only received both letters now, of the girls retelling and of her death.... A dagger through the mouth what an awful way to go..." Larys speaks when you don't, watching the way you thought in silence. He wondered what you were thinking, for he was one of the only people that knew your true nature. You were a murderous woman, manipulative, vigilant, and vengeful... Behind those stupid smiles and shy fronts was an enchantress, turning the tides in her favor. And now an outsider trespasses on your waters. Larys knows more than anything that you were willing to guard your throne from vultures at any cost.
You didn't like coming second to anybody, and for a moment he prays for the prince...
"I understand that this must be difficult for you, but if you are ever in need... I'll be sure to be of service in this trying time..." You scoff at that, the sound reverberating through the room. There it was. The bait he dangles so tempting in front of foolish fish.
"At what cost Ser Larys, I am no fool. I know everything from you must always come at a price." Holding your chin up high, you crossed your arms and leaned back into your seat. Having calmed down a little, you plan a rainstorm of hell fire.
"Not this time... You see, this girl that had somehow managed to enthrall the prince.... She is a nuisance on my side so you can insure my allegiance is with you. As Lord of Harrenhal I make it a point to know everything and anything going on in my own castle, even if I'm not present. I can ensure you that I have eyes everywhere." You ignore the way your stomach turns at the thought of someone else captivating Aemond as you thought on his proposal. It would be quite useful to have someone with such connections on your side. Shaking your head as you corrected yourself. There were no sides nor factions, you were not at war with Aemond. Yet.
"Can you tell me the name of this girl?"
"She goes by Alys Rivers, you may know of her...." It was almost comical enough to force a laugh.
A bastard Strong... How truly ironic and cliche. It would seem that the very vendetta he had against his own nephews would be the cause of his own demise. The pain that rushed through you didn't burn anymore, instead it courses through your veins in bittersweetness, fueling your vengeance and need for revenge. You didn't care all that much about closure, instead looking for all the ways you can induce the same pain onto Aemond. You were patient to a fault, all the unwanted emotions manifesting into pettiness and spite.
To hurt Aemond Targaryen you must be precise and conniving, you couldn't afford any spill ups. In truth the stature he built of himself was great; intimidating, undying, a menace. But beneath all that you knew he was still the same little boy that got bullied for not having a dragon. Scars like that cannot be grown out of, especially when they've left such permanent imprints on him. You were not going to evoke One Eye Aemond who rides the largest dragon, but rather the young little boy he held so dearly to his heart. That was the Aemond you wanted to hurt. Not the man that gave you blank stares and barely spoke any words to you. Not the man that dares call himself your husband when he has not deserved the name. The neglected outcast freak, that was who you were going to murder.
How dare he choose her over you. Suddenly it clouds your vision. All the violence, the fire, the insecurities. Your inability to think clear, the pride and pain of being his wife. Your lust and distaste for the man that caused you such pain. It ruptures your heart. You would trade love for greed just to induce the same feelings onto him. Oh how you wanted to ruin him. Ruin her for him. By the end of it you wanted him begging at your knees, crying apologies. Who does Alys Rivers think she was to steal your husband away from you. And who does Aemond think he was to assume you wouldn't retaliate. Or perhaps he knew and simply didn't care... That was a common theme in your husband, not caring about you. He was more of a fool than you thought of if he thinks you were just going to stand for this and take it.
No. You wanted an eye for an eye. Or more plainly, a heart for a heart.
"Her existence threatens you." Speaking lowly as you projected your thoughts onto Ser Larys. You aren't the only one to have a reason to hate the aforementioned wench. You may be hazed with hatred but you are not blind. There was a reason Ser Larys chose to come to you instead of Aemond with this information. Without him you wouldn't have known anything, and surely the favor of a prince would be worth more than you could ever give him. Yet he came knocking at your door.
"I am the sole heir to my fathers title, if that bastard had somehow managed to persuade the prince then my very seat is challenged. An outsider amongst the natives. I need to ensure my status, my lady. Can I trust you on this." His words were frantic almost, his long brown hair falling over his face as he leaned in close. Ser Larys was pleading, in his own way...
"You can. Now, my friend... what will you have me do?" The smile that spread across your face was sinister as you prompted his guidance. Though it was more rhetorical, you knew what had to be done.
"Seduce Aemond. Capture his attention enough so that he begins to question his love for her." Love? Was that burned between them? Taking a deep breath to compose yourself, you thought on it more. It wasn't a bad design, far better than you stabbing a knife through Alys in front of Aemond. Only one minor flaw.
"And how shall I manage to do that!? The man can barely look at me!"
"To the unseeing eye it appears that way. Though the amount of times I've caught his gaze lingering longer than it should is great. You are a smart woman y/n, I'm sure you can figure out a way to break through his barrier."
Could it be that all this time you just hadn't noticed him looking at you? Regardless that was irrelevant as you pondered your first move. You and Larys had the advantage, Aemond doesn't know that you knew of his infidelity. And as far as you're aware your image as his good little wife was still intact, so perhaps you would play into that role more. Aemond’s betrayal made you realize that you've grown stiff as a board. It dulls you as you realize that you've come to be the very woman you pray for. Desperately lost in their marriage. Endlessly dreaming, hoping one day Aemond would come around and play pretend with you. He was taking advantage of you without you knowing it. He sees your very being as something he can twist and turn in his palm like one of his daggers.
At a certain point he was bound to get cut.
To hurt Aemond Targaryen you must hurt that little boy. It had been weeks since your night with Ser Larys and silently you had been scheming. So far you remained indifferent, trying hard to make sure you aren't faltering by acting the same. It was a hard task that you've come to dread as you knew the cold truth behind his behaviors. At day he would be with you, by night he would be deep in her. You only began to notice the missing hours in your days and curse yourself for being so foolish. You thought long and hard about how you were going to approach the situation. Dissecting your husband under a magnifying glass whilst hiding behind timid smiles. And soon enough your praying and mute jealousy had manifested into the form of a golden haired beast bearing red and gold.
Ser Tyrin Lannister...
A handsome, charming young lord that has come to pay the crown a visit... Though you saw him for what he truly was, a prideful and egotistical man that's blinded by arrogance. The perfect pawn for your game. Truthfully, you only picked him out because he beared such acute resemblance to prince Aegon. The only difference in appearance was instead of the famed silver hair his was pure gold. You hoped that your choice of companion would strike a nerve with Aemond, seeing that he's spent so much of his youth being tormented by the image of the man.
And by the way he was glaring daggers at you and Tyrin, your expectations fall true. It was easy to manipulate the Lannister with sugar coated words and flirtatious giggles, the problem lied with Aemond taking the bait. Up until this point you were basically going off theory, but now you can trust that Aemond was a possessive man.
Your laugh rings through the room as you giggle at something Tyrin whispered in your ear. The man was indeed charismatic which made talking to him easy enough. If you hadn't diluted him to nothing but a playing piece you would have found yourself actually enjoying his company. You had been acquainted for quite some time now, ever since his first arrival, and everyday without fail you were with him. Slowly but surely you had began replacing Aemond with Tyrin in your life. It was him you went on walks with, it was him you dinned with. There was no doubt that Lannisters had vanity and he was aware of it, he was aware of how his gracious gifts won you over and softened you. Or so he thought. In weeks time you had managed to accumulate a collection of gold and ruby jewelries from the man himself.
Something Aemond has not taken kindly to, seeing the way his jaw would clench everytime you adorned the treasures. At this point you had purposely made a show of it, parading in a red and gold gown with massive ruby earrings dangling from your ears. All while you showcased a brilliant ruby and gold choker around your neck. You looked more like Tyrin's wife than Aemond's and perhaps that was your goal. Though honestly your endgame gets lost on you as you're having so much fun toying with him. No doubt Aemond had begun to pick up on your absence and it was hilarious to see. His worries and insecurities must've gotten the best of him because now you can't go anywhere without him trailing behind. He was always there, watching in silence, perhaps judging you but you did not care. The fact of the matter was, whatever you were doing was working.
"If you stare any longer I'm sure a fire will start to burn." Aegon says dryly from beside his brother, looking down at his empty chalice before placing it down all together. The elder rolled his eyes at the familiar 'hmmm' that escaped Aemond as he opens his mouth to say something but he turns mute. Instead he narrowed his eyes at the sight.
Contrary to popular belief, Aegon was not a complete fucking asshole. Well... sometimes he wasn't... He sensed his brothers discomfort greatly and although he didn't want to pry, he wanted to know what laid within the inner workings of Aemond's mind. Call it care or intrigue, but he loved gossip like an old widowed wife. Fact of the matter was, Aegon Targaryen was painful self aware and it didn't take much to figure out that Tyrin Lannister was him in lions clothing. Of course Tyrin was him if he actually tried and excelled at things. His drunken habits aside, he wanted to know why his sister in law was so taken by him with golden hair....
"He looks like me..." Aegon turns to his brother only to notice him swiftly walking away at his words. He turns to the man once more, brows pulling in contempt. Maybe he should have been born a Lannister....
To say that Aemond was irritated was an understatement. It was all so ridiculous. The fact that you were throwing yourself so carelessly for a man such as that imbecile. All Lannisters were dazzling armors with nothing truly potent inside. They were blinded by shine and glimmer just as much as everyone else was from their looks. He wouldn't admit it out loud but the resemblance Ser Tyrin had to his brother was uncanny. And he wouldn't dare admit that these unbecoming feelings were derived from that fact alone. Call Aemond what you will, a bitter husband, a possessive man, but he did not like what was playing out in front of him.
Over the passing weeks you had devoted your attention to that man and him alone. From the moment you awoke you were dressed in red and gold, throughout the day you were by his side. He no longer saw you and you no longer sought for his attention. He thought it'd be nice, to finally get you off his back but everyday he grows increasingly impatient. Were you not his wife? He knows he doesn't have a proper claim over you especially with how he's been acting but he still owned his emotions. And he was allowed to feel however he wanted to. Although he doesn't speculate any infidelity from your end, mainly because you weren't the type in his eye, it was plain that you were taken by a lion. Whether you knew it or not, you were dancing with a beast and Aemond would not take such defeat.
In all honesty, he's certain you aren't fucking Tyrin. Now perhaps that was just wishful thinking fueling his denial but you weren't exactly the type. All your marriage he's known you as nothing but dull... The perfect embodiment of who his parents wanted him to marry. Kind, respectable, a push over... In his opinion you were devoted to a fault. Seeing you as nothing but mindless doll who had no other choice but to fall in line and agree with whoever owned them. Hence why when seeking companionship he purposely chose some the exact opposite of you. Alys was older by a few years and had all the experience he craved. It was no question why that he sought for her instead of you. Word around the castle was that you were thought to be too pious to succumb to sins of temptation unless duty was in order.
He hadn't meant to grow so attached to Alys but she was exhilarating. Everytime they were apart he yearned for her body. She was captivating and alluring in all senses, intoxicating him. With long brown hair and a figure that could make the gods envious, she held him with a death grip. His Alys. Aemond knew that what he had with her wasn't love but more so addiction, but he didn't care what it was just as long as he got to have more of it. The differences between you and Alys were stark to see, you were at polars end. But what drawned him to her was the fact that she was so aware of her touch. He liked women that knew how to wield a weapon, and he quite honestly couldn't picture you doing the same. They called her many names for her beauty, searing her as a witch for her dominion over man.
If he wanted an enchantress you would give it to him. You would be better than Alys in every way imaginable. If he wanted someone who can satisfy him then you would drive him into the brink of madness with your touch. You wanted to suffocate and flush out Aemond Targaryen till he was no more than a shell. It started off slow. Switching your clothing in favor of another, something more hugging and accentuating. Your old gowns so colorful and modest were now replaced with darker tones that showed off your body well. It was an odd switch but you felt more comfortable this way strangly enough.
Then you traded innocent stares for something more bidden, your once doe eyes turning siren as you realize the effects of you had. Perhaps Aemond cheating on you was a blessing in disguise. You only now realize how good it felt to be wanted. All throughout court, men and women a like would fall in line for you. They would bow if you commanded so. You looked like someone to be taken seriously and not so much like a walking virtue. Everytime you entered a room eyes would be on you, the silent respect your new aura demanded was intoxicating. You knew who you were and what you were capable of, it was time for them now to know too.
It was empowering. You felt Immortal and unchallenged. To have them speak so nervously to you, the shy stares and permanent blushes. Your new change had prompted many curiosities but what captures people so was your attitude. Cunning, sly and quick witted, all the aspects of your being that you suppressed. You had never felt this in control all your life, like the tides were moved by your will.
All your life you've been taught to be one way despite your true wishes. You painted yourself as the image of what a lady was supposed to be without understanding why you were doing it. Or who you were doing it for. Perhaps this is why the change was so liberating, because you no longer chose to hide yourself. Maybe this was who you were all along and just needed a push to embrace it. You no longer felt like you were wearing a mask and truthfully you don't think you could ever put it on again. Not when they all doted around you. Not they all craved for you. Not when you had such power over desires.
They all fell into line... all but Aemond.... but you had something special for him. For now you let his judgment cloud him. You doubt that he's picked up on your facade faltering. It was quite strange to embrace the very values your teaching went against. Sensuality, unkept emotions, temptation. Having been guided to act one way only to realize that people yearned for the other more. To switch from being subdued to domineering. You no longer let people tell you what to do and how truly inebriating it was.
〄
"You are intoxicating...."
You know not how much time has passed, only consumed on Tyrin's lips as he grasped your body all over. Laughing when his teeth grazed your neck, you threw your head back in bliss. Maybe this was what the Septa was trying to keep you away from, the overwhelming sensations of sex. It rushes through you, sending your skin on fire in it's wake. God, he knew how to please you so. Giggling into your ear as his golden locks curtain the sinful things he whispered, Tyrin's fingers expertly yanks your skirt up. You let him pin you to the bed, a stupid smile spreading across your face. If such an act was so bad then why on earth did it feel so good?
How exhilarating it was to be desired, to be wanted and fondled with care. And to think, all this time you had spent rotting away in your bed chambers waiting for Aemond. If he would not satisfy you then you would satisfy yourself, fulfillment taking the form of a rogue lover. Perhaps it was messy to set your eyes on the men of the court but maybe that's what you wanted. You like the thrill of getting caught, liked the rumors that murmured through the halls. Although you hadn't slept with anyone but Tyrin, you couldn't contain yourself from teasing the occasional lord and lady. Naturally, word got around of your effects and of you and Tyrin's speculated affairs. And not so long after, word finally traveled to your dear stupid husband. Though it wasn't until he caught you in the middle of the act did he finally take it seriously. Up until this point they were but toothless claims, not believing his tight laced wife would ever be capable enough to find her own back bone.
"Faster.... faster..." You say through half lidded eyes, blurry vision locked onto the man in between your legs. Your fingers intertwined with his golden hair as you guide his head at your will. Body heaving and grinding up against his mouth. You pull at your skirts more to get a better view of his face.
All was falling into place and you would make your first strike as footsteps approached up the hall. You were nearing ecstasy as your eyes stay trained onto the door. You had perfectly timed everything and in a manner of seconds you would land such a blow so harsh that it would shatter Aemonds views of you. His boring and dull, obedient little wife coming undone by a man that was not him. You suppress a moan as Tyrin slips his middle finger in you, fucking you in and out as his lips wrap around your swollen clit. Almost there, almost there....
Oh it was all too much yet not enough at the same time. It floods you, sending you over the edge as you desperately grasp onto the bed covers. And at the sound of the door opening you let out a series of gasps turned moans as you lock eyes with the cause of your downfall. The look on his face was satisfaction enough, but you wanted more. Eyes closing in bliss as your head falls onto the bed, a laugh so sinister rings through the room. You pull your skirt over to hide your exposed skin as you smile up at Tyrin. Drawing him close to place a long loving kiss on his lips, you nod your head out the door, whispering empty promises of later. Aemond watches the whole exchange, mouth clenched and fists balled. As the man walked past him and out the door Aemond had to physically stop himself from mauling him and setting him on fire.
There was no doubt about it, he was angry. Shaking in place much like you had in your seat weeks ago. He didn't know what these emotions were blossoming in his chest but he didn't like it. It burned in a way so violent he fears that a hole may form in his chest. He does nothing for a few moments, simply standing in place eyeing you like a predator to it's prey. You do the same, putting all your body weight on your elbow as you laid on the bed unmoving. If he expected a stream of desperate apologies to fall from your mouth then he was not going to get it. You looked at eachother with much venom and alcohol. The gratification you got coursed through you as the image he had witnessed stayed forever burned in his brain.
Good. You wanted him to remember that forever. Much like you'll remember his actions towards you for eternity. Suddenly you were angry. Angry at him, angry at his fucking Alys, angry at Ser Larys. Snarling in hate as your gaze hardens you force yourself to speak.
"Get out." The words were cold, and for a moment Aemond flinches as it echoed through the walls. He does what you command, harshly shutting the door behind him and you fall onto the bed once more.
What had you done?
You were getting even. You wouldn't be here if he hadn't have provoked you first. Truthfully, you didn't know what scared you more, the fact that you could have potentially ruined your marriage or how absolutely addicting it was to inflict pain onto him. One things for certain though, you weren't done.
Aemond didn't know what to feel. He was a mess of emotions, lashing out at anything and everything in his way. A part of him knew that this was only fair yet why did it hurt him so bad? He thought he didn't care about you, thought you were a mere pawn in this game but it appeared that all this time you were playing him. All of it is a mystery to him as he begins to think on your relationship more. What parts of you were actually real, which was really you and which was his wife? Were your affections for him true and had he hurt you so? All this time he thought you were playing a role, or maybe you were. Because the girl laying on that bed laughing like the stranger was not his wife.
No, she was a demon. A succubus getting off on his pain. All of it is so confusing, the bruises you left dragging him down into the depths. Yet why did it excite him a little... Watching you like that.... Aemond feels as though he couldn't breathe, the remaining fragments of his heart shriveled at the thought of falling victim to weakness. He would not allow this, he wouldn't allow a man like Tyrin Lannister to best him and steal you away. The sorrow he felt was akin to an old friend, the bittersweetness that plagued his soul reminded him of his youth. This was a feeling he promised himself he would never endure again. The feeling of being less than and not enough. He had failed you. He had failed you so bad that you had to go seeking for another. Now he knew that he was being a hypocrite on that but he was vulnerable.
Being vulnerable was not something Aemond Targaryen was used to.
〄
"You aren't to see him again." Aemond yelled, trailing after the girl as you entered your shared chambers. The space thankfully empty as you ignored his impending attitude. Your breath quickens as you find yourself caught in a rather unpleasant situation. It had been merely an hour since that gurly sight with Ser Tyrin Lannister, and Aemond finds himself losing all remaining composure he had left with you.
"Huh?" There was something rather vexing about your tone that proved to be daggers in Aemond's ears. The way you expressed such profound boredom and taciturn, as if this conversation was an inconvenience to you. You displayed an tired exposure that puzzled him to no end because the confrontation has yet to begin. Your slack demeanor and annoyed undertone was both riddling and infuriating to Aemond.
"Ser Tyrin Lannister, you aren't allowed to see him again!" Deciding to forgo any avoidance, Aemonds tone was cut clean. He told you how it was, and he did not care about preserving feelings when you were showing such childish behavior. You would either accept never seeing that man, or any man for that matter again, or Aemond would turn to more extreme measures.
"Well... who knew it was possible to evoke such emotions from you. And here I thought you were incapable." Aemond's eye widen in shock as you put on an uncharacteristic display of theatrics. You scoffed and silently berated him with your inflection. This was a side of you he's never seen before. It was a tiny probe that was meant to provoke him by angling into his worries in a brash and unnecessary way. Aemond didn't know whether or not you were intentionally trying to anger him, but he couldn't find it in himself to care if it was deliberate or not.
"...I beg your pardon?" His words wry and barren with any emotions, genuinely taken aback.
"Well then kneel and start begging." You turn to him sharply, backing him against the door as he looked down at you in shock, yet you don't back down.
"You can't tell me what to do. But if you wish to keep believing that you have some sort of power over me, I will try my best to be more discreet with my partners." You wave your hand at him, as if done with this conversation but he was far from finished.
"I will not have you acting like a whore y/n! You are my wife and mine alone!" Aemond did not mean to call you that but as the words slip from his lips he soon finds himself regretting it. Watching the way you hesitated for a moment, a flash of hurt gleaming on your face before turning angry. He knew men have called their wives much worse but not him. His mother had always made sure he knew how to treat women. If only she knew how that back fired...
A whore....
He thought that you were a whore......
Normally you wouldn't let such meaningless words effect you so but that was exactly it, it wasn't meaningless. Not when it came from the mouth of the person you once thought the world of. Aemond used to be everything to you, and to hear that coming from him was disheartening to no end. Yes you knew that he was just angry because you pushed him so, but that fact became irrelevant as you begin to feel claustrophobic from your emotions. You felt frail, burning with a thick blanket of insecurities and rage constricting you, like a greedy serpent, ready to prey and corrupt you whole. You felt like Alice, falling into a dark rabbit hole of anxiety and panic, despair beginning to pull you down. It was all too much, and you suddenly began to feel so small. Your once defiance now subdued and replaced with the image of a shaking girl maddened. You felt afraid... not of Aemond but of your emotions...
Compose yourself, you were not going allow such disrespect and you were not going to fall into your old ways again.
"Don't play the fool, Aemond. You started this. Quite honestly what did you think was going to happen?" You yelled firmly in his face, trying so hard to push your emotions away. But thoughts of Alys tainted your mind. He would never speak to her this way. He would never act this way around her. You let the bitterness hug and empower you. The same need to hurt him reignited.
"I am simply playing the game that you started." You were reticent but in a prolix and unnecessary way. You would not reveal that he had hurt you so. Aemond opens his mouth to say something but doesn't for a few moments.
"What prompted this change..." He sounded desperate, his words breaking as he desperately searched for an answer.
"I don't know! Maybe now I don't feel the need to hide behind a mask anymore." You say to him honestly. This need for revenge and affinity for spite and pettiness, it had always been there. Aemond just didn't look at you long enough to notice it.
"I'm tired Aemond. I'm tired of doing my best to please you only for it to not be good enough!"
It wasn't just about you or Aemond being possessive anymore, it was the fact that you had reached your end. Was it so wrong to want a partner that actually loved and cared for you? Was it so wrong to want to be loved? The more you thought the more empty and hollow you felt. You can feel your soul decaying all together as anxiety crept up on you. He didn't want you.... The little voice in your head spoke. He thinks Alys is better than you..... stop... Why do you try so bad? because I must... You don't deserve to be with him... yes I do... No you don't... The voices in your head taunted, feeling feverish and flushed, you took a step back from Aemond. Suddenly afraid to be too close to him. But it did no help to calm the mean words the whirlwind through your brain. It picked at you, in a way that the thought of Alys couldn't but funny enough it was the personification of her plaguing your mind.
He doesn't think you're good enough...
I don't think you're good enough...
He doesn't think you're good enough...
We don't think you're good enough...
It's not just her anymore, the voice that invades your head is your parents speaking to you..... Then it's the King and Queen screaming... And after that it's Aegon and Helaena laughing at you...
It's Aemond talking down to you, —it's everything, it's everyone, all at once, all-consuming, suffocating and demanding. And suddenly the ability to hear is ripped from you; it's nothing. You're forced into a pliable mass being sullied, your body isn't yours anymore. It's a vessel of flooding anxiety and negative thoughts.
"I want somebody that loves me...." You say, looking at the man with such betrayal.
Be strong....
"I want a happy life with a husband that can actually stand to be in my presence. I want children of my own to fill the hole you left." You spoke after a short minute, your voice small and fragile, pleading... Aemond watches you shake and cry from where you stand. He had done this to you...
"I have spent so long loving you but that love has never served me..." Your words were soft, a timbre of spite concealed with broken confidence. You hated this... hated how you got in your own head and ruined your own self esteem... Pain feeding off your scorched heart and the embers of your love for Aemond. It was agonizing... agonizing to watch him look at you cry like this. But perhaps he needed to see you this way.
He had hurt you so badly and the moment he finally got a taste of his own medicine he ordered you to stop. It was the consuming fear of not being enough for him that killed you so, the thought of not being able to live up to the expectations. And for Aemond to stand there and call you a whore when all you ever did was try to love him.
"Forgive me my dear wife... I did not know that you have been suffering so badly all this time. Had I known...." He softens for a moment, trying to get you to understand whilst failing to consider that you didn't need to, he did.
"But you did! You knew and you still went off in search for something I cannot give you. Had you have known would it have changed anything?" You scream in broken anger and despair.
"No..."
You never learn, hearing it in your own head was a lot different than hearing it out loud. It will never be the same, it will always be ten times worse. Aemond had just confirmed your words. Of course you knew that he thought this way but it hurt a lot more. Just like that night with Ser Larys. Your shoulders slump in defeat, frowning as tears began to prick at your eyes. Aemond takes notice of this, swiftly cupping your cheeks with his large hands and forcing you to look him.
"No, because either way you would have been discontent. I cannot give you the life that you wanted." Yet you can give it to her?
"Why not!?" You yelled with such anger and rage, ripping his hands off you. Your voice echoing through the room as you cussed the boy out. You were frustrated beyond measure and above all else heartbroken. Was it truly too much to ask for? You would lying if you said it wasn’t nice having him treat you like this. Maybe weeks ago you would've swoon at the thought of his hands caressing you. But that was then and this was now.
"I am not made for love..." You fear that you can slay Vhagar with the great efforts it takes you now to remain calm. That was his excuse? A pitiful one at that. He had you standing there.... sad and broken... and all he can come up with was that love wasn't in his nature? Pain is the perfect word to describe this sensation oppressing your chest at those words. This doesn't stop you from peering up at him in question. You felt a calling to yell at him but you couldn't, no matter how badly you wanted to you. Staying baffled, every cry dying in the back of your throat. Your visage contorting in somber at Aemonds blasphemy.
"I don't believe you!" You yell at him, pushing at his chest when he tries to hug you. You break down in his arms, collapsing onto the floor as you weep into him. Aemond desperately held you close, oh what has he done to you.... He felt a myriad of emotions wash over him. Guilt, sadness, shame... He was ashamed he pushed you to this point. So he held the woman he barely knew well enough to call his wife.
"Tell me Aemond! Does your heart belong to another? Tell me now, please and I'll stop." You didn't know what you meant by stop. Stop trying? Stop loving? But if he said the words you would end it so. Aemond looks down at you, hugging onto the portrait that was once his wife.
"No! No one has captured my heart, those who came second to you, they mean nothing. They are nothing..." He says quickly, his words ringing truthful. He didn't know what prompted this new change but he panicked at the thought of losing you.
"Prove it to me." You whispered slowly. Uttering the words in a tone so cold and firm, your gaze locks onto Aemond's. Your wide eyes morphing into something else as a small smirk pulls at your lips. Distraught gone from your face as the water flow of tears halt.
"Bring me the head of Alys Rivers."
"How do you know..." He looks at you in shock for a moment, your expression ridden of distress and replaced with something sinister.... Watching his expression carefully, you place your hands on his shoulders and leaned into his ear.
"Do it and I will be yours again." It came out as a pur, a tempting whisper urging him, and Aemond found himself liking the way it sounded. That was Aemond's cord. He was as possessive as he was jealous. Much like you, he didn't like being second to anyone, but would that be enough. Turning your head to meet his gaze, it would be so easy to kiss you but he keeps a firm hold on your waist.
"If not then I will take it myself." Nodding your head briefly, you remove his arms from around you. Standing up, you walk over to your shared bed, wiping away the rogue tears before sitting down. Aemond's brows furrowed in confusion, you were much more composed now and hidden behind your eyes was a sense of coldness.
"It appears that I have much to learn about you my lovely wife. But If it will please you then as you wish." Aemond stands soon after you, nodding his head as he planned to make amends.
"You're willing to kill her just like that?" Turning your head to him slightly, you questioned where his loyalty lied.
"I told you she means nothing to me... Did you think otherwise?" His sly expression displayed a certain vainglory that caused you to turn away. So maybe you had thought otherwise but your insecurities had to come from somewhere.
"If you're lying to me Aemond I will have your other eye." Threatening may not be the answer but you liked the hesitancy it triggered from him.
"I suppose this is my fault.... you don't trust me." Nodding his head as he walked slow steps towards you, Aemond kneels down in front of the bed and takes your hands in his.
"You have given me every reason not to trust you." With a stiff lip, you turn from him.
"I know... But let me make it right." Guiding your chin with his fingers to make you look at him, you noticed a hint of regret and shame swimming in his eye.
"The road to forgiveness will not be easy." You tell him firm.
"I know... my love." You ignore the butterflies that awoke from that title and watch as he rose to grab his riding coat. And so it begins...
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Autho's Note:
Let me know if you guys want more! There's more to this story but I chopped it up into two parts because I wasn't done and I wanted to have something out for you guys. I swear to god I drop fics unannounce then dissappear for months lmao.
tae wanting to test out his pain kink on you… so during sex he’ll like smack you or sum idkkkk i’m so bad at describing 😂😂😞
tags: face slapping, choking, biting
~
You've always felt that Taehyung had a sadistic side of him that he doesn't show. Your hunch was right when he suggested trying out a couple of new things in bed.
He started off by biting your skin. Not the cute little lovebites or those nips that felt like ants – no. Taehyung used his teeth to sink in deep into your skin like a vampire. He wanted to see those bite marks on you, make them last for hours and hours so that you'll be reminded of who you belong to.
Taehyung loves the way you squirm and writhe whenever he inflicts some sort of pain. It drives him nuts to see that expression on your face, and that you trust him enough to go to heightened experiences you've never felt before.
"Do it." You encourage him.
"But... are you a hundred percent sure—"
"Just fucking do it, Tae."
If you say so.
The first smack on your face was sharp enough for you to emit a loud squeal, a stinging sensation burning into your skin. Taehyung's eyes widen, not expecting to feel his cock throb from a single hit inside of you.
"Oh fuck," he mumbles, he pummels his dick deeper inside of your tight pussy, hearing the wet, lewd noises coming out of it. "You want more?"
"Uh-huh," you bite your lip, getting turned on as well.
He scoffs, one hand enclosing around your neck, squeezing the sides to choke you, while his other hand lands another firm slap on your face. "Ow, s-shit!" Your pussy further soaks his entire length, giving him the power to pound you harder with ease.
Your cheeks were now red, blood rushing to your face as you stare up at him with weary eyes. He loves to see you like this; ruined, used, and submissive.
"Does it feel good?" you ask breathlessly with his hand still choking you, attempting to smile despite how his cock was continuously drilling your pussy. It was obvious that he was getting off on this, but you wanted to hear him say it.
"Yes, fuck yes," Taehyung's eyes roll back to his head, talented hips thrusting in and out as long strokes of his cock allows his tip to nudge your g-spot.
"Hit me again."
He does just that. Slapping your face with all his strength. You release a loud cry.
"Again," you gasp.
"Fucking hell, baby," he slaps your face again, harder, "you like this too, don't you?"
In fact, his slaps were helping you reach your climax.
"Fuuuuck," you whimper, your hand flying down to rub your needy clit, "again. Do it again, please. Oh, please, please, please! I'm gonna cum!"
Taehyung growls, removing his hand from your throat to then push three of his long fingers inside of your mouth. He slaps you once more, his hand coming in contact with your sensitive face.
A mixture of curse words, moans, and groans fills the air as Taehyung feels you cum around his cock. "Baby, baby, you're clenching down on me so tight," he leans down to bite on your neck, making you shiver. "Good girl, baby. My good little painslut."
~
please check the request status before sending an ask! <3 just a reminder that all drabbles are not edited, so I apologize for any mistakes.
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