summary: he likes you enough not to eat you—and maybe that's enough to call it love.
(or: a jennifer's body au)
💋 wc: 20.4k
💋 a/n: this is officially my longest one-shot to date, clocking in at a cool 20.4k words B) bc apparently I have absolutely zero self-control when it comes to Incubus Cook!! meant to upload this on king’s birthday two days ago but I wasn't entirely satisfied with what I had at the time, hence the increased word count lol title from the song Alien Boy by Oliver Tree, also big thanks to @iamyourwayout for once again designing the banners!! hope you guys like the format, trying something a little different c:
💋 warnings: dead dove: do not eat, cannibalism, blood and gore, graphic violence, murder (lots of it), body horror, supernatural horror, demonic possession, vivid descriptions of dismemberment and mutilation, oral sex (f!receiving), vaginal sex, breeding kink, biting/marking, predator/prey dynamic, possessiveness, strength kink, rough sex, wall sex, floor sex, counter sex, inhuman stamina, aftercare, dirty talk, light choking, monsterfucking, mutual obsession, non-linear narrative, black comedy, tongue-in-cheek horror, canon-typical fuckery (skins edition), jack o’connell as a sex demon you do know
likes, comments, and reblogs always appreciated, please enjoy!!
Masterlist
Now
The first sensation you register upon waking is stickiness.
Not warmth, not comfort, not even pain. Just that primal, visceral wrongness—skin slick with sweat and something thicker, heavier, clinging between your thighs and drying into the crooks of your knees. Your lips are chapped. Your throat is raw. Your stomach aches like you were punched from the inside out. And your lungs forget how to breathe.
You jolt upright—or try to. Everything hurts. Your limbs feel heavy, distant, like they belong to someone else. Your back sticks to the sheets with a grotesque, peeling sound, and something inside you pulses as you move—deep and bruised and full in a way that makes your body flinch.
There’s a smear of blood across your collarbone. A constellation of fingerprints on your hips. Your thighs are mottled in purpled crescents, as if you were clutched too hard by hands that didn't know how to hold, only how to take.
You’re naked. The sheets are twisted beneath you like you were thrown into bed, not placed there. A pillow lies discarded on the floor, next to what looks like a torn-off button and something blackened and crispy—burnt paper, maybe? It smells like a match was lit and never put out. It smells like sex and fire. And blood.
“You’re awake.”
The voice comes from the corner of the room—croaky, half-asleep, low and lazy in that familiar Midlands accent that used to make your chest flutter. Now it feels like it’s scraping along your spine. You turn your head too fast. You feel it all the way down to your core.
Cook is slouched in the armchair across from the bed. Bare-chested. Blood-speckled. One leg propped on the windowsill like he owns the fucking sky. His tracksuit bottoms are unzipped halfway. A half-burned cigarette dangles from his fingers. And he’s watching you like a wolf would watch a rabbit after it’s already snapped the neck and is deciding whether to chew now or savor it.
His mouth is pink and raw, split in one corner. His eyes are dark, rimmed in something shadowy—sleep deprivation or something else. He doesn’t blink.
He smiles, slow and wide.
“Didn’t think you’d get up yet. Took it like a fuckin’ champ though, didn’t ya?”
You can’t answer. You can barely swallow. You’re dry everywhere except where you’re not. Every breath feels like dragging broken glass down your throat. Your eyes sting. Your legs tremble just from shifting an inch. There’s a coppery taste behind your teeth like you’ve been biting your own tongue in your sleep. Like something clawed its way down your throat while you weren’t looking.
“You alright?” he asks, too casual. “You’re still breathing, so…that’s good.”
There’s something off about him. More than usual. His skin is too flushed, sweat-damp, and not just from sex. His pupils are blown wide, eating the color in his eyes. There’s a sticky streak down his chest—dried red that isn't yours. Not entirely. And in the dull light coming through the cracked blinds, you can see the faint shimmer of something under his skin. Not quite veins. Not quite human.
And still—your thighs clench. Some sick, shameful part of you wants him to come closer. Even now. Especially now. Because there’s a ringing in your ears and a throb between your legs and this hole inside you that still feels stretched open in the shape of him.
You whisper, croaky: “What happened?”
He leans forward, cigarette bouncing between his lips. He doesn’t smoke it. Just chews on the filter like a man trying to keep his mouth busy with something other than you.
“You don’t remember?” He grins. “Fuckin’ hell. That good, was it?”
You blink, trying to piece together anything. There were flashes—flesh, firelight, the bite of your own nails in his biceps. Your legs over his shoulders. His voice growling in your ear: “Take it. That’s it, love. So fuckin’ sweet for me.”
And teeth. Sharp ones. Too sharp.
“You… didn’t…” you try to say, but your voice dies out.
He raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t what? Hurt ya? Eat ya? Leave ya drained in a ditch?”
He laughs. Then doesn’t. The air stills.
“I didn’t,” he says, lower now. “Could’ve.”
He gets up. Walks toward you, slow and unhurried like he knows you’re not going anywhere. He’s barefoot. Blood on one ankle. One of his hands trails along the wall as he moves, fingers dragging across the plaster like he’s reminding himself what solid ground feels like.
You don’t move. You can’t. He crouches next to the bed. Elbows on the mattress. Eyes on your face.
“Could’ve taken everything from you,” he murmurs. “Could’ve sucked you dry. Fucked you hollow. Made you beg for more even as you died with my name in your mouth.”
He leans in. You smell him. Ash. Sweat. Sex. Blood. Something older. “But I didn’t,” he whispers. “You know why?”
You stare at him.
“’Cause I like you,” he says, soft and mean and terrifying in its sincerity. “Like, properly. That fucked-up, ruin-me, wanna-keep-you-on-a-leash kinda like.”
His mouth presses to your cheek. Not a kiss. Just contact. His breath is scalding. You flinch. “You tasted so fucking good,” he whispers.
You shut your eyes. And suddenly, you remember. You remember the way his tongue traced the lines of your stomach, the way his voice changed—warped around your name, like he was tasting something sacred. The way he hovered over you like he couldn’t decide whether to fuck you or devour you whole.
You remember saying yes. You remember screaming his name. You remember coming so hard you blacked out. And now he’s here. Watching. Waiting. Hungry. But you’re still alive. And maybe that’s worse.
You keep your eyes closed like that might somehow put space between you. It doesn’t. If anything, it makes the room feel smaller. Hotter. Like he’s taking up all the oxygen just by being here. You can feel the heat radiating off his skin—warmer than it should be, bordering on feverish. The scent of him is stronger now, like sweat and iron and something scorched. Like lust filtered through brimstone.
His fingers brush your chin. Just a tap. But it makes your whole body jolt. "Don’t go disappearing on me now," he says.
You open your eyes. He’s still crouched beside the bed, shirtless and barefoot, eyes tracking every twitch in your face. His hand stays near your jaw, fingers relaxed but ready. His mouth is parted just slightly, the corner still cracked from god-knows-what, and he’s looking at you like he’s trying to decide if he wants to fuck you again or sink his teeth into your neck just to see what happens.
"Tell me what you remember."
You hesitate. Because you do remember. Not all of it. Not yet. But enough. Enough to know it wasn’t just sex. Enough to know it wasn’t normal. You remember the heat first. Like a fever, but lower. Like something curled up in your gut and started purring. You remember the way his eyes changed—gone black, pupils swallowing the blue. You remember how he groaned when he pushed inside you, like he’d been starving for centuries and just got a taste of the divine.
You also remember thinking: “This should feel wrong.”
It didn’t. It felt perfect. You don’t answer him right away. So he climbs onto the bed. Not like a person. Not the way people move when they’re trying not to crowd you or scare you or cross a line. He moves like something that knows it already owns you. Knees on either side of your legs. Hands planted beside your head. His body hovers above yours, lean and pale and scraped raw at the edges. There are scratches on his arms that weren’t there before. One of them is still bleeding.
He’s looking down at you like a lion does right before it goes for the throat. “I said,” he murmurs, “tell me what you remember.”
You swallow. “You didn’t stop,” you whisper. “I told you to stop and you…didn’t.”
His expression flickers. But not with guilt. With something closer to disappointment.
“That’s not true,” he says. “You said—‘don’t stop.’”
Your breath catches. He’s right. God, he’s right. You said it more than once. Said it while your nails raked his back. Said it while his mouth was between your legs. Said it with your thighs locked around his waist like you were trying to pull him deeper, trying to fuse your body to his and disappear inside the bottomless chasm of his appetite.
You remember now. Him licking into you like he was starving. His voice, low and reverent: “Gonna fuckin’ ruin you, love. Let me.”
The way he laughed when you came. The way he groaned when you begged for more. Your cheeks flush so hot it makes your eyes sting. He sees it. Of course he does. He smirks—sharp and slow—and leans closer, his mouth just hovering over yours.
“See?” he says. “Told you. You were beggin’.”
You turn your head away. His mouth follows. Doesn’t kiss. Just hovers. You feel his breath skate across your skin. Warm. Damp. Electric.
“You liked it,” he whispers. “Liked the way I touched you. Liked the way I took you.”
You close your eyes. “I don’t know what you are,” you say, voice small.
He laughs. Really laughs. That low, mean, shit-eating laugh you used to hear in school hallways, after he got away with something he absolutely shouldn’t have.
“You’ll figure it out.”
You open your eyes again. His face is right there. His pupils are still blown. There’s blood drying in the corner of his mouth. And when you look at him like this—this close, this raw, this fucking wrong—you realize something that makes your chest squeeze tight:
He hasn’t kissed you. Not once. You’ve had him inside you. You’ve sobbed his name. You let him ruin you last night. But he still hasn’t kissed you. He notices your stare. Tilts his head.
“What?”
“You didn’t kiss me,” you say.
He grins. Crooked. Unfair. “Didn’t want to.”
Your face falls before you can stop it.
But then he adds: “Didn’t trust myself.”
Your breath stutters, "what does that mean?”
He leans in, freckled nose brushing yours.
“Means I could’ve fucked the soul outta you just by kissing you.” His voice is lower now, rougher. “Means you’re the only thing I’ve ever wanted to taste that bad. Means if I’d kissed you, I wouldn’t’ve stopped until there was nothin’ left.”
You make a sound. Not quite a gasp. Not quite a moan. He hears it. And fuck, the look on his face. Like he’s going to devour you just for making that sound.
“Say it,” he whispers. “Say you want me to.”
Your lips part. Your body sings screams. And then, before you can even make the decision—
He pulls away.
“Nah,” he mutters. “Not yet.”
He rolls off you and sits at the edge of the bed like nothing happened. Lights a cigarette. Offers you the first drag like this is just another morning after some dumb party.
You stare at him, still naked, still ruined, still bleeding a little between your thighs. And he grins at you with that blood-slick mouth and says—
“You’re gonna let me fuck you again, yeah?”
He asks like it’s rhetorical. Like it’s obvious. Like your body hasn’t already answered for you—stretched and leaking and bruised into shape.
You don’t respond. You just stare at his back. The curve of his spine. The flex of his shoulder blades. The way his hand hangs loose, cigarette pinched between his fingers like an afterthought. His knuckles are stained—dried red, crusted over. Not yours. Or not just yours. You can see now there’s blood under his nails.
And your gut curls because you don’t know where he was before he crawled back into bed this morning. Or who he was inside.
Something shivers through you. Not cold—your skin’s too hot, feverish. But inside, beneath your ribs, you feel a flicker of something sick and soft and stupid. Something that tastes like fear. The ache between your legs is deepening now, shifting from soreness to pressure—like your body’s waking up and remembering everything it shouldn’t.
You try to sit up again. Slower this time. The sheet falls off your chest. He turns his head immediately—eyes flicking down, mouth twitching.
“Fuckin’ hell.”
It’s not even lust, not really. It’s worse. It’s worship. Like he’s looking at a shrine. Like your tits have hymns written across them.
You yank the sheet back up. “Don’t.”
He just grins, doesn’t look away.
“Don’t what? You were the one moanin’ for it last night like a proper slag.”
Your breath catches. Your thighs squeeze instinctively. There’s still slick between them—his—and the movement pushes it higher. Sticky. Shameful. Sweet.
You feel your face flush. “You fed,” you whisper.
That gets his attention. Slowly, he turns to face you. One knee bent up on the mattress. He flicks ash onto the hardwood and tilts his head at you like you’re a riddle he wants to fuck open.
“You remember that?”
“I…I felt it.”
You did.
It didn’t feel like blood being drained or your soul getting ripped out. It felt like every nerve in your body got dragged to the surface and kissed raw. It felt like your spine arched and your mouth opened and something left you in waves. Not pain. Not death. Something gentler. Deeper. It felt like he pulled out pieces of you you didn’t know you were hiding.
And he moaned when it happened. Like your name on his tongue was the only thing that could keep him tethered to this world.
“You didn’t take all of it,” you say, voice hoarse.
“Didn’t want to.”
“Why not?”
He pauses. Then, like it’s the simplest answer in the world—
“Didn’t want you gone yet.”
Your stomach flips. Not from fear. Not exactly. From how calm he says it. Like if he had wanted to kill you, he would’ve. But he didn’t. So he didn’t. That’s it.
And that means you’re alive because he chose you. Not because you fought. Not because you screamed. Not because he showed mercy. You’re breathing because Cook fucking wanted you to be.
That should terrify you. And maybe it does. But not nearly as much as it should. You swing your legs over the side of the bed, breath caught shallow in your throat.
Your thighs protest. Your hips ache. You feel him all over you, in you still. When your feet touch the ground, your knees buckle slightly, and he laughs—low and smug and fond.
“Jesus. Fucked you that good, did I?”
You don’t dignify that with a response. You just grab the nearest hoodie—his, oversized and still smelling like weed and sweat and whatever supernatural rot is growing under his skin—and pull it over your head.
It barely covers you. Your panties are still missing. You don’t ask. You don’t want to know what he did with them. You limp toward the bathroom. You need water. Soap. Maybe holy water.
“Y’look good like that,” he calls after you. “Wrecked. Mine.”
You freeze in the hallway. Something shudders in your chest. You can still feel the echo of his mouth between your legs. His voice in your ear. That low, filthy praise.
“My sweet little thing. You were made for me, weren’t ya?”
You brace yourself on the bathroom counter. The mirror’s streaked, cracked near the top. You wipe a hand across the glass. And see yourself.
Bare thighs marked with bruises. Lips swollen. Hair tangled like you’ve been dragged through a thunderstorm. There’s a bite mark on your neck. Your inner thighs are slick and tender. Your eyes are glassy, wide, bruised at the edges.
You look like you’ve been fucked and fed on. You look like you liked it. Behind you, Cook’s reflection appears in the doorway. He doesn’t say anything. Just watches you watch yourself. Then, very softly—
“Want me to kiss you now?”
The question hits you like a dropped match in a dry forest. Your heart stutters. Your hands grip the counter tighter. In the mirror, you see him behind you—shirtless, barefoot, still bleeding a little from the knuckles, eyes gleaming under the flickering lightbulb.
You don’t answer. Can’t. Because the air feels different now—heavier. Dense with heat and history and something else. Something pulling. His voice has weight to it, like it’s reaching inside you and dragging your ribs apart.
You watch as he steps forward. Slow. Controlled. Not like a boy. Not even like a man. Like a thing that’s tasted too much of you to go back to pretending it’s human.
“It’s not like fucking,” he murmurs. “It’s worse.”
He’s behind you now, body barely grazing yours. You can feel the heat radiating off him, feel his breath when he leans in—not touching, but so close your skin knows exactly where he is.
“Kissing’s real, innit. You don’t kiss someone unless it means something.”
He lifts a hand. Doesn’t place it on you—just lets it hover beside your cheek, fingers twitching like he’s still deciding if he’s allowed.
“You want it?”
You nod before your brain catches up. And the second you do, it’s like something in him snaps.
He presses his palm to your lower stomach—flat, possessive, warm—and drags you back into his chest. His other hand comes up to your throat, not choking, just resting. Measuring your pulse.
“Still breathing,” he whispers. “Good girl.”
Then his mouth finds the side of your neck. Not kissing. Just there.
“Look at you.”
His voice is thick now. A little ruined. You don’t need the mirror to see what he sees—you feel it. The hoodie hanging off one shoulder. The bite on your neck. The bruise blooming between your legs. Your pulse hammering under his hand.
“You ever been kissed like this before?”
You try to answer. But he turns your head with gentle fingers on your chin—tilts it until your mouth parts on instinct—and then he kisses you. And it’s not gentle. It’s not soft. It’s not slow. It’s hunger, weaponized.
His lips are hot, plush, a little cracked. His mouth opens over yours like he’s breathing you in. Like this is the thing he’s been waiting to do since the second he crawled out of hell and into your bed. He moans low against your tongue like the taste of you makes him ache. And your knees go out beneath you, just a little, just enough for him to press you harder against the sink.
Your fingers find his hips. His back. You cling like you're drowning.
His tongue licks into your mouth like it’s claiming you. Like it wants to make you taste yourself on him. Like it wants to make you forget your name. And for a second, it works. You lose time. You lose everything but this.
The heat. The wet press of his mouth. His hand tightening on your throat just slightly—just enough to make you feel the edge of panic. His other hand slides up your hoodie, palm dragging over your stomach, your ribs, the underside of your breast.
He groans into your mouth when you whimper.
“You are mine,” he pants, “say it. Say it or I’ll stop.”
You gasp against his mouth.
“Yours.”
“Louder.”
“Yours.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you. His pupils are all black now, like a shark. He looks feral. Beautiful. Starved.
“Fuckin’ right you are.”
He kisses you again—harder now, sloppier—and when his teeth catch your bottom lip, he sucks until he tastes blood. Doesn’t apologize. Just moans like it feeds him. You let him take it. All of it.
When he finally pulls away, your lips are swollen and spit-slick, your eyes glassy. You’re panting. Shaking. You feel like you’ve been touched in places you didn’t know existed. You’re still wearing his hoodie. Still nothing else. He looks at you like he just took a bite out of God.
“That’s what it’s like when I kiss someone,” he says, voice shredded. “Now imagine what it’ll feel like when I really feed.”
You’re too stunned to respond. He just smiles. Steps away. And says, over his shoulder—
“Next time, don’t wear anything. Saves us both the trouble.”
Then
You weren’t expecting anyone.
It’s past one in the morning, your room is lit only by the blue light of your laptop, and you’re barefoot in the kitchen, wearing an oversized sweater and boxers, eating cereal straight out of the box because the milk in your mini fridge went sour two days ago and you haven’t bothered replacing it.
The knock comes at the back door—not the front, not your phone, not the buzzer, but the old paint-chipped door that leads from the kitchen into the shitty fenced-in alley behind your block. That’s what makes you freeze. No one knocks back there.
And definitely not this late.
Three sharp, rhythmic taps.
You swallow dry cheerios and move toward it slowly. Every hair on your body is already standing up. You know who it is before you even reach for the handle.
Of course it’s him.
You and Cook have history.
Not dating, not exactly. Not friends either, not in the normal sense. He’s the one who crashes in your bed after nights out, the one who whispered shit to you while pretending to be asleep, the one who almost kissed you once and didn’t. You’ve screamed at each other in car parks. Shared joints, secrets, drinks. But you’ve never crossed that line. Not really. Not until now.
You’ve known him too long, and you’ve let him get too close, and even now, something in you is always hoping he’ll show up—even when you know better.
You open the door.
Cook is standing there in the dark, hunched slightly, breathing hard like he’s just run a mile. His hoodie is zipped all the way up, but it’s dirty—streaked with something you can’t identify in the low light. His hair’s damp, jaw tight, and his eyes…his eyes don’t look like they used to.
He’s not bleeding. But he looks wrecked.
“Hiya,” he says, voice hoarse, like he hasn’t spoken in hours.
“You’re soaked,” you say before your brain catches up.
“Rain,” he lies.
“It’s not raining.”
He huffs something like a laugh. Doesn’t explain. Doesn’t move. Just stands there with his shoulders up around his ears, eyes too wide, like his skin doesn’t fit right anymore.
“Can I come in?” he asks, quieter now.
You hesitate. Your mouth opens. Then closes again. Then—stupid, stupid—you step aside.
Cook brushes past you like he belongs there. Like it’s still last term and you’re still letting him in every other night. He smells like sweat and smoke and something...wrong. Not rot. Not quite blood. Something closer to iron and ozone—like metal left outside in a thunderstorm.
He walks straight into your kitchen and scans the space like he doesn’t remember it, even though he’s been here a hundred times. And then, without asking, he opens your fridge.
You blink.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“Starving,” he mutters.
He bends low, rummaging through the small fridge like an animal, muttering under his breath. You watch, stunned, as he shoves aside leftover takeaway containers, a jar of mustard, a half-empty energy drink—and then grabs a sealed packet of raw mince.
Your stomach drops.
“No,” you say instinctively. “No—Cook—don’t—”
But he’s already tearing it open with his teeth.
The plastic rips with a wet sound. The smell hits you immediately—cold and bloody and raw. The meat had been sitting in your fridge for at least two days. It’s still pink, still damp with that weird sticky moisture meat has when it’s fresh but not clean.
He peels the plastic back, palms the whole cold mass in one hand—and bites into it. A chunk tears off. He chews. Swallows. Moans.
You cover your mouth.
“What the fuck, Cook—what the fuck is wrong with you?!”
He doesn’t answer. He’s too busy licking raw cow blood off his fingers. The meat is cold, and he’s eating it like it’s perfect. Like it’s better than anything you’ve ever given him. His eyes flutter closed for a second, lashes twitching, and you see his throat work as he swallows another mouthful. His teeth are pink with it. His lips are slick.
“Fuck, that’s good,” he mutters, jaw working. “God, I needed that. I needed—fuck.”
You back up until your spine hits the counter.
“That’s raw,” you whisper.
“Yeah?”
He looks up, grinning now. His tongue swipes along his bottom lip, chasing blood. “S’not a problem.”
You stare.
He shrugs and takes another bite, chewing slower now, savoring it. His eyes stay locked on yours the whole time. There’s something wrong with the way he moves—too fluid, too casual, like his body’s being piloted by instinct instead of thought.
“It’s cold,” you say.
“Don’t matter,” he replies. “Feels warm goin’ down.”
You don’t respond. You can’t. You’re frozen there in your own kitchen while the boy you used to wish would kiss you behind clubs is now standing under your shitty overhead light, barehanded, shirt-stained, eating raw mince like it’s a Michelin-star meal.
And he’s enjoying it. Too much.
“You ever eat something so good it makes your skin burn?” he asks, voice low and ragged. “Like—it hits you in the spine? Makes your blood go hot?”
You stare at the wet meat clinging to his fingers. The pink froth at the corner of his mouth. His pupils are too big. His jaw’s twitching.
He drops what’s left of the meat onto your counter. Wipes his hands on the hem of his hoodie. Then he looks at you and smiles—slow, lazy, like he didn’t just scare you half to death.
“Don’t worry, love. Didn’t come here for you. You’re not dinner.”
A beat.
“Not yet, anyway.”
Your fridge door is still open. The little light buzzes inside it, throwing sterile illumination across your cramped student kitchen: the warped laminate counter, the dented microwave, the tea towels stained with last week’s bolognese. The air smells like raw blood and plastic packaging. Cook is licking his thumb, casual as anything, like he hasn’t just unwrapped your dinner and tore it apart like a starved wolf.
You haven’t moved. Your back’s still pressed to the counter. Your fingers are cold and clenched too tight against the wood.
“You alright, love?”
His voice slices through the silence like a blade—too light, too calm, too him. But something in the way he says it makes you want to sob. He’s not supposed to call you that while he’s wiping blood on your kitchen towel.
He’s not supposed to look at you like this. All loose limbs and blown pupils and barely-suppressed tremors. He looks sated and starving at the same time, and that contradiction is burning itself into you.
“You ate raw meat,” you say numbly. “Out of my fridge.”
“Yeah.”
“Like it was a fucking sandwich.”
He shrugs. “It helped.”
“Helped what?”
He leans back against the opposite counter, hands braced behind him, that same stupid half-smile on his mouth—except it’s not stupid anymore. It’s cruel. Not intentionally, maybe, but in the way he doesn’t care what this looks like. What it’s doing to you. His lips are still shiny.
“I’ve been…off,” he says, eyes flicking upward. “Wired. Empty. Since it happened.”
You don’t ask what it is. You already know.
“This made it better,” he adds, voice lower now. “Not fixed. But…close.”
He breathes out, like it was sex. Like he just came. And your stomach flips, because somewhere in you, some fucked-up lizard part of your brain, wants to ask: "Do I make you feel like that?"
You push that thought so far down you taste blood.
“You need to leave.”
You say it too soft. It comes out too tired. Too breathless. He hears the crack in it. And it kills you that he smiles.
“I’m not gonna hurt you.”
He takes a step closer. You flinch. He stops, holds his hands up like he’s harmless. One of his fingers is still red beneath the nail.
“I swear. I just…I didn’t know where else to go.”
“So you came here to eat raw meat and stare at me?”
He licks his teeth. Not on purpose—reflex.
“No,” he says slowly. “Came here ‘cause you’re the only thing that still feels right.”
The words hit you square in the chest. You hate how they land. You hate that part of you wants to believe them.
He drops into one of the rickety chairs at your kitchen table, the one with the wonky leg, and leans back like this is some post-night-out crash visit. Like he’s going to roll a cigarette next and ask what you’re doing tomorrow.
He doesn’t look like someone who just walked away from something violent. But he smells like it.
And whatever just happened to him? Whatever he's running from? It's still on him. Clinging to his skin. Lingering in the meat juice drying on your floor.
You move to close the fridge, finally. Slowly. The suction noise sounds obscene in the silence. He watches you the whole time. Doesn’t blink.
“You’re shaking.”
You don’t answer.
“Come here.”
“No.”
“Just sit down, love. You look like you’re about to pass out.”
“I’m not sitting anywhere near you while you’ve got raw cow blood on your shirt.”
He sighs. Rolls his neck like he’s tired of this game already.
“Alright.”
He pulls off the hoodie. And underneath—he’s shirtless. You don’t mean to stare, not outright. But it’s impossible not to.
His torso is smeared with drying blood, yes, but more than that—it looks tight. Like the skin is stretched too thin. Veins sharp beneath the surface. Like something inside him is trying to burn its way out.
There are marks on him—slashes across his side, a bruise blooming over his ribs, visible even through the ink of his cross tattoo. None of it looks fresh, but none of it looks like it healed clean either. Like his body doesn’t quite know how to be human anymore.
“Better?” he asks, tossing the hoodie onto the table.
You can’t look at him.
“Cook, you need to go to a hospital or—”
“Nah.” He scratches the back of his neck. “They won’t know what to do with me.”
“And I do?”
“Didn’t come for help,” he says. “Came ‘cause I wanted to see you.”
You want to yell. You want to scream. You want to shake him by the shoulders and ask where the fuck your Cook went—the boy who made jokes in your bed and gave you his chips when you were hungover and never looked at you like you were made of glass and heat and something edible.
Instead, you say—
“Why now?”
He looks at you like he doesn’t understand the question.
“Why tonight? You said you didn’t come here for me.”
A pause. His jaw clenches.
“I didn’t want to come for you.”
You stare.
“But I did.”
The room feels too quiet now. No chewing. No fridge hum. Just Cook at your table, shirtless, streaked with blood, his eyes fixed on you with something between boredom and hunger.
You haven’t moved from the counter. You don’t want to sit. You don’t want to run. You want—
God, you don’t even know what you want.
“If you’re not going to leave,” you say finally, voice brittle, “then talk.”
He raises an eyebrow. “About what?”
“About what the fuck is going on with you.”
“I told you—”
“You didn’t tell me anything.”
He leans back in the chair. The wood creaks under him.
“You want the story, then?”
“I want the truth.”
A beat.
Then he says, casually: “They tried to kill me.”
You blink. He shrugs.
“Thought it’d be funny, I guess. Or maybe they thought it’d work.”
“Who?”
“Does it matter?”
It does. But you don’t press.
“They took me out to the woods. You know the spot—by the train tracks. Said it was a ritual. A trade. Whatever.”
His voice is dry, like he’s telling you about a shit night out. But his hands flex on the table. Something behind his eyes flickers, fast and ugly.
“They had candles. Music. Fuckin’ robes, even.”
You stare.
“You’re serious.”
“Dead serious.”
He flashes you a grin. It doesn’t stick.
“At one point, one of ‘em asked if I was a virgin.”
You blink again.
A virgin? Cook?
Cook?
“So I said, ‘Yeah, sure, mate. Never even seen a tit before.’”
He smirks a little, shakes his head.
“Didn’t think much of it. Thought it was just part of the dumb script.”
He snorts under his breath.
“Guess that’s what they needed though. A virgin.”
He’s quiet for a moment, eyes far away.
“Shame they picked the wrong guy, innit?”
“You didn’t tell them?”
“Hell no.”
His eyes flick to you.
“What, you think I’m gonna announce to a bunch of limp-dick indie boys that I lost it in the back of someone’s mum’s Ford Focus when I was sixteen and half-drunk on corner shop vodka?”
He grins.
“They didn’t deserve that detail.”
You don’t laugh. You can’t.
“So…what did they do?”
“Cut me,” he says. “Right here.”
He taps his sternum.
“Thought it’d work. Thought I’d just die and make ‘em famous.”
“And did you?”
He leans forward, voice colder now.
“Nah. Something else happened.”
You don’t breathe.
“It filled me up. Cold and hot at the same time. Like it was chewing through me from the inside out.”
A pause.
“Then it left me standing.”
“And they left thinking you were dead.”
He nods.
“Didn’t check. Didn’t care. Ran off giggling like they’d just secured a record deal.”
You sit slowly, heart pounding.
“What…are you now?”
“Don’t know.”
“But you came back.”
He looks down at his own hands.
“Yeah.”
“Different.”
“Yeah.”
“Wrong.”
“Yeah.”
His eyes flick to yours, dark and burning.
“Feels good, though.”
The silence that follows is longer than it should be. He watches you like he’s waiting for something. A scream. A slap. A sob. But you just sit there.
The weight of everything pressing in—his words, the blood on his hoodie, the half-eaten meat on your counter, the sharp, animal scent of him filling your nose every time you breathe.
And then you say the one thing you shouldn’t: “You can stay.”
His eyebrows flick upward.
“Yeah?”
“Just for tonight.”
“Course. Just for tonight.”
He doesn’t thank you. He just stands. Stretches. Cracks his neck like he’s shedding something. And as he walks past you toward the bedroom, you feel the heat trailing behind him—that unnatural warmth he carries now like a second skin.
At the doorframe, he turns back. His eyes are darker than they were an hour ago.
“You’re not scared of me yet.”
“I am.”
“Nah.” He smiles. “You’re curious.”
And then he disappears into the dark, barefoot and bloodstained, and you’re left in your kitchen with the fridge still cracked open and a bloody tea towel in the sink.
Then
They find her just after dawn.
Jogger. Mid-thirties. Not from campus—someone local, someone early, someone unlucky. He thinks it’s roadkill at first. Then he sees the leg. The foot. Bare. Twisted at the ankle like a broken doll.
By the time the cops get there, the body’s been out for hours. The frost hasn’t preserved her. If anything, it’s made her look worse—like she’s been sculpted in wax and left under a heat lamp. Her skin is pale and blotchy, already discolored, marbled with bruises in shades of purple that don't belong to the living.
And her face—
You don’t mean to look. You don’t mean to stare. But someone posts a blurry photo in the uni group chat before the police can lock the scene down. One second you’re brushing your teeth, and the next, you’re staring at a screenshot of a girl’s face frozen in orgasm.
Her mouth is open. Her eyes are wide. Her lips are dark with blood. And her throat is—
Gone.
Ripped, not sliced. Jagged. Messy. Like something with teeth and hands and hunger tore into her and didn’t stop until it hit bone. There’s blood splashed up her jaw, smeared across her cheek like a lover’s kiss.
It doesn’t look like a murder. It looks like a mauling. You drop your phone. You don’t pick it back up.
The girl’s name was Evie or Ellie or something else soft and sweet and forgettable. Second year. Creative writing. Lived in halls by the quad. You never met her. But you know her now, because you can’t stop seeing her.
Her mouth. Her eyes. Her hands frozen in fists beside her hips like she fought at the last second—fought hard—but not soon enough.
You wrap your arms around yourself and try not to throw up. And then you think of him. Cook left your flat at some point around 5 a.m. Didn’t say goodbye. Didn’t climb into your bed. Just sat on the floor for a while, bare-chested and quiet, staring at the wall like he could see through it.
You thought he fell asleep. But when you woke up, he was gone. Your bloody tea towel was still in the sink. Your kitchen still smelled like raw meat.
And now—now you know why.
💋
You see him six hours later on campus, standing in the middle of the common green like it's just another Tuesday.
The sun hits him like it knows what he’s done and doesn’t care. He’s...glowing. Skin flushed. Eyes bright. A lazy, satisfied sway in his shoulders like he just got fucked or fed or both. His hair’s a mess, pushed back like he’s been sweating. His hoodie’s clean—different than the one he wore to your place, but you’d recognize that grin anywhere.
It’s the grin of a man who’s full. And you know. You know.
“Oi, babe!”
He sees you. Your stomach knots.
He walks over—hands in his pockets, shoulders loose, mouth tugging into that crooked, happy curve that makes your skin crawl now. He looks good. Too good. Like he stepped out of a music video and not a murder scene.
“Miss me?”
You can’t speak. You stare at him, and all you can see is the way that girl’s mouth hung open. The way her throat was ripped out. The way her legs were parted, bare, like she’d been—
No.
You shove the thought down. You can’t think that.
“You alright?” he asks, mock-concerned. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
He leans closer. Drops his voice. “Or maybe just someone who’s made one.”
You flinch. He laughs. And something in you snaps.
“You killed her.”
You say it soft. Almost a whisper. Not a question. He tilts his head. Eyes gleaming.
“Who?”
“Don’t.”
He smiles again. Something dark and radiant.
“You think I did that?”
“I know you did.”
He hums. Looks up at the sky like he’s thinking it over.
“Well,” he says, “she screamed so pretty, didn’t she?”
Your knees nearly give out.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Cook—”
“No,” he says, stepping closer. “Not Jesus. Something older.”
His voice is low and silken now, threading through your bones.
“You should’ve heard her, though. It was like music. She was begging—proper sobbing—right at the end. And when I touched her—”
“Shut up.”
“—when I tasted her—”
“Shut the fuck up.”
You push him.
Hard.
He barely rocks back. Just grins wider.
“What?” he murmurs. “Jealous?”
You don’t run. You should. You want to. Every nerve in your body is screaming at you to get away from him—to turn around and walk until your legs give out.
But you don’t. You just stand there, fists clenched, heart pounding, with his words echoing in your skull like a gunshot:
"Jealous?"
Like this is some joke. Like it's a game. Like you're meant to be turned on. And worst of all—you are. Not completely. Not consciously. But there’s something wrong in your blood now, and it’s crawling under your skin, whispering: He didn’t kill you.
He chose you.
Cook watches you with a predator’s patience. His eyes flick over your face, your throat, your shaking hands.
“You're really upset, huh?”
You glare. “You tore her apart.”
He shrugs, "didn’t mean to, not at first. But she smelled like…like cinnamon and sin, y’know?”
“Stop.”
“I touched her neck,” he continues, as if you hadn’t spoken, “just to feel her pulse, and it was like—fuck. Like standing in front of a fire after bein’ locked outside.”
His smile drops, just a little. “The thing inside me—it woke up. Just like that.”
You back up a step.
“And then what?”
“Then I let go," his voice softens, "and it was beautiful.”
He moves closer. You don’t stop him.
“You don’t know what it’s like,” he murmurs. “Feeding.”
“I don’t want to.”
“You should.”
He leans in. You feel the warmth of him—unnatural, pulsing off his skin like a fever. His mouth is close to your ear now, but he doesn’t touch you.
“It’s not about killing. It’s about feeling. About burning so good you think you might cry.”
You clench your jaw.
“You did kill her.”
“Yeah.”
He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t flinch.
“She screamed. She begged. And when I came inside her—”
“Cook—”
“—when I fed,” he says instead, “I felt whole. Just for a second. Just for a breath.”
You shake your head, voice brittle.
“And me? You stayed in my flat. You crawled into my kitchen covered in blood and didn’t touch me.”
“Didn’t need to.”
You blink. “What?”
His expression shifts. There’s something like worship in it.
“You filled me without it.”
A beat.
“Didn’t even have to fuck you.”
“So you just…left? And killed her instead?”
He looks at you like it’s obvious.
“You taste like control. Like keeping it together. Like breathing.”
Another step forward.
“She tasted like chaos. Like fire. Like letting go.”
Your chest tightens.
“And now?”
His eyes flash.
“Now I’m starving again.”
You don’t say anything for a long time. You just stand there, staring at him. Your insides feel bruised. Not physically—but like your soul’s been shaken hard enough to rattle.
He doesn’t move. Not like he used to—bouncing, restless, always shifting from one foot to the other like his own skin didn’t fit. Now he’s still. Measured. Patient in a way that makes him scarier.
You whisper: “You’re not supposed to want to be close to me.”
“Why not?”
“Because you killed someone, Cook.”
His mouth twitches—like the name still matters when it comes from you. Like it still means him.
“Yeah,” he says. “I did.”
“So why the fuck are you standing here looking at me like that?”
He takes a breath, slow and shallow, like he’s trying not to startle you.
“Because I haven’t touched you since.”
“So?”
“So I want to.”
That shouldn't make your stomach twist. It shouldn't make your mouth go dry. But it does.
“You want to what?” you ask, low.
“Touch you. Just—”
His fingers flex at his sides.
“Not to hurt. Not to feed.”
A pause.
“Just to feel you.”
That word sits in the air like smoke. Feel. Like you’re a person. Not prey. Not a vessel for hunger or heat. And that’s the worst part—because for all the blood, all the horror, all the death—
That’s the thing you can’t make sense of. He’s not asking to fuck you. He’s not asking to feed. He just wants your presence. He wants you close. Like it’ll make him less monstrous.
And some fucked-up, buried part of you wants to give him that.
Wants to reach for him and see if he still feels like the boy who used to fall asleep on your shoulder after all-night parties. The boy who never kissed you, but always looked like he might.
You step back, "no.”
His jaw ticks. He nods.
“Alright.”
You stand there, frozen. Then: “You’re lying.”
He blinks. “You don’t think I can stop myself?”
“I think you won’t. I think you’re pretending.”
He steps forward. Not enough to touch. But enough to fill your vision.
“You think I’m bluffing, love?”
“I think you’re starving.”
He laughs. But it’s quiet. Sad, even.
“I am.”
His voice drops to a whisper.
“But not for your blood.”
Silence again. And then, softer than before—
“Can I?”
You don’t answer right away. Your hands are shaking.
He notices. And waits. So you nod. Just once. He steps close. Careful. Slow.
You feel the heat first—too much, like he’s burning under the skin. But his touch, when it comes, is gentle. Almost reverent.
He raises one hand and sets it—barely—against your ribs.
You flinch. Not from fear. From how good it feels. From how wrong it is that this feels like comfort.
His palm rests flat over your side. You can feel the rise and fall of your breath. The trembling beat of your heart. His fingers curl, just slightly. Not possessive. Not hungry.
Just present.
“There you are,” he whispers.
Your eyes sting. And that’s when you understand: This is worse than fucking. Worse than feeding. Worse than dying.
This is intimacy.
And that’s what monsters crave the most.
Then
It’s past midnight.
The woods are damp with October rot, and someone’s playing a Bluetooth speaker loud enough to cover the sound of nerves.
Cook is laughing.
It sounds wrong out here—too loud, too alive. He’s tied to something that looks like an altar but is probably just an old concrete base from a collapsed shed, moss-covered and cracked. His wrists are bound with nylon cord, tight enough to bruise. He smells sweat and dirt and cheap aftershave and fear.
Not his.
Theirs.
“This is mental,” he says, grinning at the sky. “You lot are actually doing this?”
The lead singer—Dan or Dave or whatever—looks at him with wide, jittery eyes and forces a smile.
“Just a little ritual. Symbolic.”
“You brought a fucking knife, mate.”
“It’s part of the aesthetic.”
Cook snorts.
“What’s next, you sacrifice a goat and cut a demo?”
No one laughs.
There are six of them, all in black robes, an unnatural silence settling over then despite the music one of them is playing through their fucking iphone speaker. They’ve arranged candles in a crude circle around the slab. The flames flicker wildly in the wind. Someone’s dropped a bag of salt that’s already half-soaked into the dirt.
They don’t look like killers. They look like boys in a band who care more about fame and fortune than humanity and morals. And right now, that means him.
“Why me, then?” Cook asks, wincing as the ropes pull tight when he shifts. “Why not a fan? Or a groupie? Or one of your own? Why the charming lad with a six pack?”
The drummer mutters, “We needed someone…unattached.”
Cook laughs again.
“You’re saying I’ve got no mates?”
“No family,” the guitarist adds.
A pause.
Cook’s grin fades, just a bit. It's not like they know that, not explicitly, but something about him must scream fatherless behavior.
Brutal.
“Right.”
They go quiet for a while after that. The fire crackles. A breeze cuts through the clearing. One of the candles goes out and no one relights it. They’re all sweating, even though the air’s chilly.
“Alright,” the bassist says finally, disrupting the momentary hush that had befallen the group, “let’s just…let’s do it.”
The leader opens a worn, leather-bound notebook. Pages soaked with old rain, edges warped. He starts reading. It’s in Latin. Of course it's in fucking Latin.
Cook tunes it out. He’s staring at the stars when someone steps forward and asks: “Are you a virgin?”
He barks a laugh. Can’t help it. “What?”
“It’s part of the…we just have to know.”
“Yeah, mate,” he says dryly. “Pure as snow. Never seen a pair o’ tits in me life.”
They accept it. They believe him.
(Idiots.)
No one questions it. No one stops.
The first cut is shallow. But it bleeds. Fast.
They drag the blade across his chest—just under the collarbones. A line of heat and red and sting. Cook hisses.
“Fucking hell. Thought this was supposed to be symbolic.”
The second cut goes deeper. Right over the heart. His body jerks. One of them throws up behind a tree.
Then everything changes.
The wind stops. The flames stretch upward like something’s breathing in. The shadows start to bend. And Cook—
Cook feels something move. Not outside.
Inside.
Like something just opened its eyes behind his ribs. He stops laughing. He tries to speak. He can’t. His tongue refuses to work.
The light goes out of the clearing—and then floods back in, wrong, like the moon was being manipulated by something else, something supernatural.
And the thing inside him smiles. Not with his mouth. With his blood.
The knife sinks in. Clean. No hesitation this time. It enters just below the sternum, angled up, and he can hear the way it slides between ribs. Not like in movies. No dramatic gasp. Just a wet, shuddering sound and a twitch in Cook’s legs.
He doesn’t scream. He exhales. Soft. Confused. Like he wasn’t expecting it to hurt quite like that. Blood bubbles at his lips. He blinks. His head lolls back against the stone. For a second—just one second—he looks young.
Then it all goes quiet. No wind. No birds. No breath. Just six boys standing around a bleeding body in the woods, their mouths still open from the last chant, their eyes wide and trembling.
They look at each other. One of them starts crying.
“Is he—”
“Shut up.”
“Is he fucking dead?!”
“Just—leave it. Let’s go.”
“We have to—shouldn’t we check—”
“He’s dead. It worked. We did it.”
“Oh my God.”
“We did it.”
“We fucking did it.”
They leave him there.
They run, stumbling through the brush, tripping over roots and gravel, not looking back. Laughing, screaming, sobbing—all of it in a mess of sound swallowed by the trees. And for a moment, everything is still. Just a body. Just blood. Just Cook, cooling on a slab in the dark. Then—
The light bends. Not from above. Not from fire. From under him. Like something in the dirt has started to glow. Or breathe. Or bloom.
His fingers twitch. Once. Then again. Like they’re remembering they belong to a body. Like something’s checking the fit. And inside his chest, where the blade punched through, the blood doesn’t flow—
It flares. Glows. For a second, it looks like someone lit a match inside his ribs. Then his eyes snap open. Black. No whites. No blue. Not human. Just void.
Cook doesn’t gasp. Doesn’t scream. He smiles. He sits up slowly. His chest is still bleeding. His shirt soaked through. His skin glows faintly in the candlelight—too much, like he’s been polished, lacquered, preserved.
He breathes in.
And everything changes.
The cold retreats from the clearing. The blood on the altar smokes. The grass at the edge of the circle wilts like it knows what just happened here.
And the thing in Cook’s skin? It stretches. Rolls its neck. Licks blood from its own mouth. And laughs.
He walks out of the woods barefoot. No shoes, no jacket, blood dried in a starburst across his chest like a second mouth. The rope burns on his wrists are gone—healed—but the memory of them still clings to his skin like ash.
The air tastes different now. Sharper. Brighter. Every breath is like biting into a live wire. The wind hums against his teeth. The world is louder.
He can hear the streetlights buzzing. The hum of car engines five blocks away. He can smell metal. Sweat. Cheap perfume. Burned toast.
He can smell her.
She’s just a girl.
Not one of the band. Not part of the plan. Just walking alone, backpack slung over one shoulder, earbuds in, jacket too thin for the night air.
She doesn’t see him. She feels him. She turns, mid-step, eyes wide before she even spots the blood.
“Jesus—”
Too late.
He’s already there.
She barely gets a breath in before he grabs her—one hand on her jaw, the other at her waist—and slams her into the alley wall.
The impact cracks. Not the brick. Her.
A rib, maybe. Something important. She chokes on a scream. And then he opens his mouth. Really opens it. Not in surprise. Not in anger.
It unhinges.
A wet, ugly click as his jaw stretches further than it should—too far. Bone doesn’t make room for this. This is not human. The skin along his cheeks pulls like rubber. His tongue elongates, rippling down his throat. His teeth—already sharp—shift, layer, multiply.
The girl’s eyes go wild. She screams. And he bites. It’s not clean. He doesn’t drink. He feasts.
His mouth clamps onto her throat, and the sound is horrible—a deep, wet suction, the pop of tendons snapping, the crunch of bone splitting beneath pressure. Her blood hits the wall in an arc, bright and steaming. Her legs kick. One foot bangs against the dumpster beside them. Her fists thud weakly into his chest.
And then he pulls back with a ragged tear. Half her neck comes with him. A gaping hollow pours red down her front, over her jacket, her jeans, into the street.
She’s twitching, gurgling, her mouth working like she’s trying to ask why. He presses a kiss to what’s left of her jaw. Her body goes still.
When it’s over?
His mouth snaps shut with a wet, echoing clack. The skin of his face slithers back into place. His jawline resets. His lips smear crimson, glistening.
He moans low in his throat, like the high is almost too much. His eyes burn. And he’s beautiful. Wrong. Bloody. Glowing. But beautiful.
He lays her body down beneath the flickering streetlight. Like a gift. Or a warning. And he walks away barefoot through the blood.
Now
You don't sleep much anymore.
You tell your friends it's anxiety about coursework, looming deadlines, and too much caffeine in your bloodstream—but that's a polite lie. A necessary lie. One you tell while trying not to meet anyone’s eyes too closely, afraid they'll see what's really there: the thin cracks spreading slowly beneath your surface, the way your skin feels different now, like it doesn't quite belong to you anymore.
You used to sleep just fine. You used to feel normal, at least as normal as you could pretend to be in a university filled with thousands of equally exhausted, equally over-caffeinated students. But now sleep comes in small, fitful snatches—little dreams that twist into something that feels too real to brush off in the morning.
Dreams of him. Dreams of teeth. Dreams of heat so sharp it makes you shudder awake, your pulse racing in your throat.
You blink the memory away, fingertips drifting unconsciously to your neck as you hurry across campus. It’s crowded out here, bodies pressing too close together, conversations louder than they should be. Even though the sun is hidden behind grey, drifting clouds, you feel overheated and suffocated.
Everyone smells too human. Too warm. You didn’t notice things like this before Cook touched you, before he pressed his mouth against your throat, before you willingly—eagerly—allowed him to pull something from you, something that left you breathless and weak and strange.
You swallow hard, forcing yourself to move faster, trying to ignore how your senses seem sharper now, the colors too vibrant, sounds too loud, everything overwhelming.
He did something to you. He took something—or maybe he left something behind. Either way, you're different now. And it's unsettling how much you're starting to realize you don't completely hate it.
Your phone buzzes in your pocket, and you hesitate briefly before pulling it out. You know it won’t be Cook—he hasn’t messaged you today—but your heart skips anyway. You’re almost disappointed to see it's just another news alert from the local paper:
SECOND VICTIM FOUND: Police Investigating Pattern of Violent Animal Attacks
A shiver moves down your spine. You click the link again, even though you’ve already read the article twice today. It's the same words each time, almost committed to memory now:
Severe wounds consistent with predation. Unnatural mutilation. Missing blood. Authorities advise caution until the animal responsible can be captured.
They haven't released the victim’s name yet, but the details line up neatly with the girl Cook first took. The girl he used to sate whatever hunger first awakened inside of him. You imagine the alley, dark and filthy, the moment he pressed her into the bricks and unhinged his mouth. You wonder if she felt something similar to what you did. You wonder if she wanted him in that moment, even just a little bit, even if it was only terror wrapped in confusion.
You force your phone back into your pocket and close your eyes for a moment, breathing deep to stop the spinning thoughts.
Cook had confessed it plainly to you after he fed. He hadn't tried to hide it. He'd told you exactly what he'd done, exactly what he needed, exactly what he was. He didn’t lie to you, not even then, his eyes dark and sincere and terrifyingly human as he traced his fingertips along your jaw.
"I won’t take everything," he'd whispered, mouth brushing your skin softly. "Just a little. Just enough. And I won’t hurt you. Not unless you ask."
You hadn't asked him to stop. You hadn't asked him to be gentle. You'd only begged him to stay.
And now, days later, you're still breathing. Walking. Functioning—barely. But the ache remains, gnawing gently beneath your ribs. The subtle but impossible-to-ignore hunger that refuses to fade. You feel hollow, like he scooped something vital out of you, leaving a delicate emptiness that nothing else can fill.
You told yourself this wasn't dangerous. That you could handle him. But now, as you hurry across campus with the taste of smoke and his touch still lingering on your tongue, you're beginning to wonder if you were terribly, dangerously wrong.
You're starting to wonder if he’s made you into something just a little less human, too.
💋
You try to make it through the rest of the day like a normal person.
You grab a coffee from the union café—burnt, bitter, wrong. The student barista looks you over like she thinks you’ve been crying. Maybe you have. Maybe your body’s still processing the shock of your blood being syphoned like boxed wine. You tip her anyway. You don’t know why.
You sit outside, trying to drink it. The taste curls your lip. Your stomach twists. You’ve always liked strong coffee. Black. Cheap. Harsh. But now? Now everything tastes off.
Or maybe it's you that’s off. Like your blood chemistry has shifted. Like you’re not calibrated to the same human scale anymore.
There’s a table of girls next to you talking about Ellie's murder. They don’t know it’s a murder, not officially. But that doesn’t stop them.
“Did you see the picture they pulled from Snapchat? I swear she looked…like she came first.”
“What the fuck?”
“I’m serious! Her mouth was all open—like she didn’t know if she was scared or into it.”
“That’s disgusting.”
They laugh. Not kind laughter. Nervous, brittle, sharp around the edges. The kind of laughter that lives just on the edge of screaming.
You stare down at your hands. They’re clean. They shouldn’t feel this clean. The coffee grows cold in your hands. You haven’t taken more than two sips.
You toss it in the bin and walk without knowing where you’re going. Your brain isn’t clicking into place properly anymore. Everything’s misted over with a fog of sensation and memory and static.
You pass two people kissing near the English department entrance and have to look away—not because it’s gross, but because you want it too much.
Not the kissing. The closeness. The heat. The permission to touch and be touched without someone feeding from you like your body’s a sugar high.
But it wasn’t just taking, was it? He didn’t just consume you. He looked at you like you were sacred. He said your name like it was salvation. He kissed you like it meant something. And now you feel hollow and glowing in equal measure. Like you’ve been blessed. Or ruined. Or both.
You're halfway across campus when your phone buzzes again. This time, it is him.
COOK: "u taste so sweet"
COOK: "thinking bout ur mouth"
COOK: "x"
You stop walking. You don’t respond. But your hands shake as you lock your phone. Your mouth is dry. You’re not sure if it’s fear.
Or thirst.
Your flat is too quiet when you get back. The overhead light hums faintly, and the floor creaks under your feet the way it always has, but it still feels…foreign. Like it’s not your space anymore. Like someone rearranged your atoms while you were gone.
You kick off your shoes and stand there for a second, staring at the fridge. There’s a blood smear on the handle. You never cleaned it. Part of you wanted to. The other part wanted to leave it there. Like a bruise. Like a claim.
You open the fridge. It's nearly empty—leftover takeaway, an apple, a can of Red Bull, a single raw steak wrapped in butcher paper. Not the same one. A new one.
He left it. You don’t remember buying it. You know you didn’t. Your throat goes tight. You shut the door too hard, and the sound echoes through the small kitchen like a gunshot. You brace your hands on the counter. Focus on the tile pattern. Breathe. You can’t fall apart. You won’t.
Your reflection in the hallway mirror catches your eye. You stop. Look closer. You don’t look different, not exactly—but there’s something off. A tension in your shoulders that wasn’t there before. A shine in your eyes that looks too bright. Too fixed.
You tug down the collar of your shirt and study the skin of your neck. Still smooth. Still soft. No scars. No bruising. No real evidence of what he did to you. But you remember the heat. The pressure. The sharp, slow ache that bled through your nerves like sugar turning bitter.
It felt like drowning. It felt like floating. It felt like he was inside you, deeper than fingers or cock or tongue—like something of him stayed behind and refused to let go.
You think: Did he take something? But the real question, the one that scrapes the back of your teeth—
Later, lying on the couch in an oversized hoodie, you try to focus on a show you’ve already seen before. Something easy. Trashy. Comfort TV.
Did he leave something?
💋
It doesn’t work. Every laugh track feels dissonant. Every face too sharp. Every commercial for laundry detergent or lip gloss or sandwiches feels like it’s from a world you don’t live in anymore.
Your leg bounces restlessly. You keep checking your phone. Keep not texting him. Your body feels like a bottle with the cork wedged too tight. Pressure. Everywhere.
You touch your lips with your fingers, then your throat. It doesn’t hurt. But it doesn’t feel human either.
There’s a sound in the hall. Your head jerks toward the door. You don’t move. You wait. Your fingers curl into the fabric of your hoodie. You don’t say his name. But you think it—so loud you wonder if he hears it.
You last maybe twenty minutes on the couch.
You flip through four different apps, scroll aimlessly through a group chat you haven’t contributed to in three days, tap through an Instagram story from a girl you met during first-year orientation and haven’t seen since. Her photo is a coffee cup and a new haircut captioned “change is good.”
You roll your eyes.
You check the door again. Still closed. Still locked. You haven’t breathed right since you came home.
There’s an itch in your throat. In your chest. Like a swallowed word that wants to claw its way out.
You tuck your legs up under yourself, phone in hand. The screen dims. You wake it again just to have something glowing in your palm. Something alive.
And then it buzzes.
COOK: “u looked hot when u were mad at me”
COOK: “wish u’d yell more”
COOK: “not that i don’t like u soft too x”
Your stomach turns. Not in disgust. In recognition.
This is what he does. The way he disarms you with half-compliments, sharp with implication. The way he walks into your bloodstream without asking.
He’s not texting like someone who fed from you. He’s texting like someone who owns you.
You stare at the messages for a long time, thumb hovering, not sure if you want to scream or moan or throw your phone across the room. You type. Delete. Type again. Set the phone down. Pick it back up.
YOU: “where are you”
sent
No response. Not right away.
You pull your hoodie tighter. The one you wore the night he touched you. It still smells faintly of blood and citrus shampoo—yours, not his. He doesn’t smell like people do. He smells like heat. Like metal. Like wet earth and smoke.
You press your face into the collar and shut your eyes. You shouldn’t miss him. But your body doesn’t care about what it should.
Your body remembers his mouth. His weight on top of you. His voice against your neck telling you he wouldn’t take too much. And now? Now you ache. Dull and slow and low in your belly. You think about touching yourself. You don’t. Instead, your phone buzzes again.
COOK: “open your window”
YOU: “why”
COOK: “just do it”
COOK: “pls. x”
Your hands feel cold as you stand. You cross to the window on muscle memory alone, not thinking too hard, not wanting to admit how quickly you obey. You unlock it. Push it open.
The night air is cool and damp. It smells like asphalt and something sweeter underneath—honeysuckle, maybe. Or blood.
You wait. Nothing. No footsteps. No voice. Just a breeze that curls over your skin and makes your spine tighten. Then your phone again:
COOK: “look in the mirror”
You freeze. Slowly, you turn. Your hallway mirror is just visible from where you stand. And in it? You see yourself. And behind you—
Not a shadow. Not a ghost. Him.
You don’t scream. You don’t move. You just stare into the mirror, watching his reflection—looser in his posture. He doesn’t look surprised to be seen. If anything, he looks amused.
He tilts his head. Grins like he’s been watching you longer than you’ve known he was there. Then he speaks—voice low, intimate, and somehow still careless: “Told you to open it.”
You turn around slowly.
He’s leaning against the inside of your bedroom door now, like he’s always belonged there. Like you left the window open for him, and he just took the invitation.
There’s dirt on his hands. A few smudges on the hem of his hoodie—your hoodie, you realize belatedly. The one he must’ve taken the last time he left. It looks better on him. You hate that.
His hair’s tousled, eyes too bright in the dim light, cheeks flushed like he’s been laughing or hunting. You can’t tell which.
“I did,” you respond, before pivoting to the most pressing question, “how long were you standing there?”
He shrugs.
“Long enough.”
That grin again. He doesn’t move toward you, but he doesn’t have to. His presence warms the room unnaturally. Your skin prickles under your hoodie. He watches the way your breath shifts, like he can see your pulse beating just under your jaw.
“You gonna tell me to leave?” he asks after a beat. “Or are we past all that?”
You don’t answer. Not because you don’t want to. Because you don’t know. Because you’re standing in your own bedroom and feel like you’re the one trespassing. Like he’s the one rooted here, and you’re the ghost.
He steps closer—just one step. You don’t flinch. But he notices the way your fingers twitch, and his smile softens into something meaner.
“Still scared of me?” he asks, voice a little lower now. “After everything?”
“No,” you say, too fast.
His eyebrow arches. “Didn’t think so.”
You fold your arms, mostly to stop your hands from shaking. His eyes flick down your body, then back up to your face, and you feel every inch of skin he doesn’t touch.
“I should hate you,” you say. It comes out raw.
“Yeah,” he says. “You should.”
He doesn’t sound sorry. You hate that he doesn’t sound sorry. You hate how much you need him to come closer. You hate how much you’d let him.
“What do you want?” you ask, finally.
He looks at you for a long time. Then, softly: “You.”
The air goes still. You feel your chest rise. Your throat dry. Your stomach twist. “You already had me.”
“Not like that. But I think you and I both know that, yeah?”
You don't ask what he means. You know. And it terrifies you. Because he’s not talking about sex. Not entirely. He’s talking about wanting you, completely. The way something consumes, not just craves. The way fire wants oxygen. The way hunger wants heat. The way monsters want the things that make them feel almost human.
He doesn’t close the space immediately. Instead, he watches you—eyes dark, a slow burn behind them, like he’s savoring every moment before the inevitable happens. His smile never fades, that arrogant, cocky curve of his lips that tells you he knows exactly what you need and how much you’ll give to get it.
And you’re too tired to fight it. Too tired to do anything but stare back at him and feel the thrum of something dangerous creeping up your spine, pooling low in your belly.
It’s like he’s always been this close. Like you’ve been walking around in the same room without seeing him, without acknowledging how much you need this proximity, this warmth, this tension.
Finally, he takes a step forward. And you don’t back away. Instead, you hold your ground—your body’s too far gone to move. And you let him get closer, closer, until you can feel the heat of him without touching.
You almost feel him in your chest—the gravity of him pulling you into orbit. He’s moving slow, taking his time, because he knows you won’t stop him. And you won’t.
“You didn’t answer me,” he says, his voice low. Almost a growl, just for you. He stands a few inches away now, close enough that you can smell the dirt under his nails, the scent of blood that’s still faint in his hair. You swallow. His breath smells like fire. Like nicotine.
“What are you doing here?” you ask, and your voice shakes because you know that he wants you but you don't know what all that entails. You almost wish you didn’t ask, because the answer is already written in his eyes.
He doesn’t answer, not with words. Instead, he moves his hand up to your neck—gently, like he’s been waiting for permission, and when your breath hitches, he gives you a slow, sadistic smile. His fingers brush over the sensitive skin, making your pulse spike beneath his touch.
“I’m not sure you want to know, sweetheart,” he murmurs. "But you need to understand something."
You breathe harder, the space between you so charged you can almost taste it. You don’t pull away, not when his thumb presses just slightly harder against the side of your throat, the same place he fed from.
“I want you,” he says. And it’s a promise, not a question. “And that means you’re gonna have to deal with me.”
You shudder, not from fear, but from something else. Something you’ve been trying not to name. The word dangerous doesn’t quite fit. Neither does wrong. It’s hunger, need, and desire wrapped up in skin and sweat, like a drug you’ve been craving without realizing.
He leans in, just a little. Enough that you feel his breath against your cheek, his lips so close you could kiss him if you wanted to. He doesn’t kiss you, though. He never does what you expect. Instead, he runs his tongue along the line of his lips—slow, deliberate—and you watch, entranced, as he looks at you like you’re the next thing he’s about to devour.
“You don't gotta be scared of me anymore,” he says, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “You know you don’t have to be.”
You open your mouth, but no words come out. It’s like he’s siphoning your voice away. You try to breathe, try to calm yourself, but it’s all too much. His presence, his touch, the way everything about him seems to stake ownership of you.
You want to pull back, to tell him to stop, but your body betrays you. Cook reaches up again, and this time, his fingers slide beneath the fabric of your hoodie, brushing against the soft skin of your stomach.
You flinch.
But he smirks, like he’s won something—like he knows exactly what he’s doing. He pulls you closer, his lips just hovering over your ear. You feel the warmth of his body against yours, and it’s almost too much to bear.
“You’ve been starving for this, haven’t you?” he breathes.
You close your eyes, breathing hard.
“Tell me you don’t want it,” he dares, fingers tracing the edge of your jaw.
You don’t answer. You can’t. Not when your appetite is so loud, so deafening, that you can’t remember what it felt like to be without it. You finally meet his gaze, forcing your voice to steady as you whisper the question you’ve been afraid to ask since all this started: “Why me?”
It comes out smaller than you intended. Fragile. Like it could crack open and spill everything inside you onto the floor to canal between the tile grout.
Cook pauses—actually pauses, his fingers still pressed lightly beneath your jaw. You watch his expression shift subtly, something complicated passing briefly over his eyes before it’s replaced by his usual cocky, self-assured mask. But you saw it.
He leans back slightly, watching you carefully, studying you like he can’t quite believe you don’t know the answer already.
You speak again before he can, your voice softer this time, the admission more painful: “You’ve slept with like half of Bristol at this point, Cook. You could have anyone—fuck, you have had almost everyone. But me—you’d never even tried to kiss me. Not once.”
You pause, swallowing the ache in your throat. “Well. Except for that one time.”
The memory rushes forward before you can stop it, clear and sharp as glass, slicing open the old wound you’ve spent months trying to ignore.
It had been late at night—months ago, before any of this.
You and Cook, stumbling back to his flat after too many drinks. His laughter bright in your ears, his body running hot and close to yours as you leaned on each other, stumbling into walls and each other’s arms. You remember feeling brave—too brave—your heart beating so loud you thought he’d hear it, as you found yourself pressed back against his front door, Cook’s eyes heavy-lidded and fixed on your mouth.
You’d been certain then—so fucking certain—that this was finally your moment. That all those lingering glances and too-long touches meant something real. You leaned in first, heart racing, eyelids fluttering shut as you felt his breath ghosting your lips—
—and he’d pulled away.
Not harshly. Not cruelly. Just gently enough to shatter you. His eyes filled with something soft, almost sorry, as he murmured quietly, too kindly: “We shouldn’t.”
You’d felt the rejection burn through your chest, humiliation creeping hot and fast across your face. But you hadn’t cried, hadn’t argued, hadn’t even acknowledged what had happened. You’d simply nodded, silent, numb. You’d buried your feelings so deeply you thought they’d suffocate under the weight of it all. Because having Cook’s friendship had felt safer—less painful—than losing him altogether.
So you convinced yourself that he’d never seen you that way, never wanted you like that. You convinced yourself you could live with it. And now here he is, standing before you, looking at you like he wants to take you apart, piece by piece, and make you watch him do it.
His voice breaks through your memories, pulling you harshly back to the present: “I wanted you that night,” he says quietly, his voice rougher than before, losing some of its cocky edge. “More than I wanted anyone.”
You stare at him, chest aching, disbelief written plainly across your face. “Then why didn’t you?” you whisper. “Why not me?”
He sighs softly, palm cradling your face, thumb sweeping across your cheekbone, the gesture unexpectedly tender. It makes something deep inside you hurt even more.
“Because you’re not like them,” he says simply, eyes boring into yours, honest in a way that terrifies you. “You’re the only thing I was scared I might fuck up. And trust me, sweetheart—I would’ve fucked it up.”
You feel something twist sharply in your chest, painfully aware of how your body still leans instinctively towards his touch, even as your mind reels from his confession.
Cook moves closer again, his eyes never leaving yours, his voice dipping lower as he continues: “But it’s different now. I’m different now.”
His fingertips skim along the side of your throat, brushing dangerously close to the place he’d bitten, the place he’d fed from. The skin there tingles beneath his touch, like it remembers the press of his teeth and craves it again.
“I’m not gonna run this time,” he murmurs, voice thick with promise, with hunger, with need. “And I won’t let you, either.”
His eyes are dark and bottomless, and you see the truth in them—a truth you don’t think you’re ready for, but can’t deny any longer. Cook’s voice is barely audible, but it echoes through you like thunder: “I told you. I want you.”
Your breath trembles as you stare back at him, feeling yourself slowly, inevitably falling. Because you want him, too. And this time, you both know you won’t be able to stop.
You’re still trying to catch your breath when he steps back. Not far. Just enough that the air returns to your lungs in staggered, fractured little pieces. You feel like you’ve been struck—like the earth shifted a few inches sideways under your feet and no one else noticed.
Cook’s staring at you, that maddeningly unreadable expression on his face again. A flash of something underneath. Guilt, maybe. Hunger, still. Something sharp and heavy and unresolved.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a lighter. Shitty little zippo. Beat up, edges worn down from years of use. You recognize it—it’s his. Always fidgeting with it, flicking it open and closed. Always playing with fire.
You give him a look. "Gonna light up in my flat?"
But he doesn’t answer. He flicks the wheel. A flame bursts to life, small and defiant. And then, eyes locked on yours, he sticks out his tongue. Your brow furrows.
"What the fuck are you—"
The flame touches him. Licks the curve of his tongue. You expect the hiss of seared flesh, the flinch, the instinct to yank away—
—but there’s nothing. Nothing except the slow, lazy drag of heat across pink muscle. His tongue doesn’t burn. Doesn’t blister. Doesn’t even turn red. It just glows.
His tongue pulses slightly with the heat, not in pain but in something else. Like it’s soaking it in. Like he’s tasting it. The flame dies as he snaps the lighter closed and lets his tongue roll back into his mouth. He swallows. Wipes the corner of his lips with the back of his hand.
"Neat party trick, innit? Figured I'd show ya in case you were still under the impression I'm a regular bloke.”
You don’t laugh. You can’t. Your heart is fluttering behind your ribs like a caged bird as you whisper, “no one’s ever accused you of being normal."
He snorts at that. "Cheers. Really warmin’ up to the support here."
But there’s something in his eyes. Something wilder. Something that crackles. Your voice is quieter when you speak again.
"You said you came back for me."
"No, I said I was claimin’ you." His voice drops. "S’not the same thing."
You blink at him.
He steps in, crowding your space again, and it should scare you—should at least make you backpedal—but all you feel is the burn of his presence, like every cell in your body is suddenly awake.
"You know what I am now, don’t ya?" he asks, low and rough.
You nod. Because you do. Sorta. He might be undead or demonic or the goddamn devil himself, all you do know is that you don't care—not really. Because, underneath it all it's still Cook. Still your James. He lifts your hand to his mouth like it’s breakable and sacred, presses a kiss to your knuckles, then to the heel of your palm.
"I’m starvin’, sweetheart. Always have been. Just didn’t know what for ‘til you.”
His mouth drags across your wrist. He breathes you in like you’re something divine. "Could eat you whole if you let me. But I won’t. Cos I like you. That’s fucked, innit?"
He smirks, but it’s crooked. Feral. "Might be a monster, yeah. But even monsters get sweet on someone sometimes."
He looks up at you through the pretty curl of his lashes, his eyes those familiar blue you've long since fallen for. Warm. Comforting. "And I’m sweet on you. So you’re properly fucked now, aren’t ya?"
Your whole body shudders. Cook grins wider, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. "Don’t worry, love. I’ll make it worth your while."
You don’t know if that’s a promise or a threat. Maybe both. Whatever it is—it’s working. You should tell him to leave. You should back away, slam the door shut on all of this—window in this case—the blood, the hunger, the things that curl like smoke behind his eyes. But you don’t. You can’t.
Because you’re already reaching for him.
Your fingers fist in the front of his shirt—soft cotton gone threadbare in places—and he lets you yank him forward without protest, lets you drag him in like gravity’s pulling both of you to the same center.
He kisses you like he’s starving again. Except this time, there’s no hesitation, no teasing restraint. His mouth is hot and open, tongue greedy, lips catching on yours with a messy, slick desperation that tastes like danger. His hands are already under your shirt—warm palms dragging up your stomach, over your ribs, rough thumbs brushing the undercurve of your breasts.
“Still just as sweet,” he groans, pulling back just far enough to speak before diving back in. “Sweet little thing lettin’ a monster between her legs. You really that gone for me?”
You whimper—actually whimper—and that earns you a grin against your mouth, sharp and delighted. He spins you toward your counter, hands rough on your hips, and you feel the heat of his body press in behind you. Your knees almost buckle.
“Gonna let me wreck it again, yeah?” His voice is low, sing-song dirty. “Been thinkin’ about it for fuckin’ ages. Wankin’ to the thought of you cryin’ on my cock all over again—an’ you weren’t even mine yet.”
He grinds against you, teeth grazing your neck, tongue following the scrape with something almost tender. You feel the metal of his belt buckle press into the small of your back as he rocks his hips.
“M’gonna ruin this cunt,” he mutters, more to himself than you. “Split you open proper. You’ll thank me for it.”
His shirt’s off now—he peels it over his head in one smooth pull—and for a second, you can’t breathe. You've seen it all before but there's a certain clarity now. You feel the sensation of being present with him, of being connected to this moment, and you realize that this time, it’s not fragmented, not dreamlike. It’s real.
You can’t focus on anything else. Your body aches for him in ways you didn’t understand before.
“Like what ya see?” he asks, rhetorical, noticing your gaze. Good, cuz you'll be seein’ a lot of me while I fuck the thoughts outta your head.”
Your sleep shorts are off before you realize it—Cook’s hands are skilled, pulling them off in one fluid motion. When he sees your underwear, he groans low, a sound you feel deep in your bones.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he murmurs, fingers brushing the hem. “Little lacy number? Fuckin’ knew I'd be comin’ back for ya, didn't ya sweetheart?”
He sinks to his knees. And when his mouth finds the inside of your thigh, you forget your own name.
His fingers hook into the elastic of your waistband, sliding them down and off, and you feel the cool air rush over your skin as he parts your legs. The way he looks at you is almost predatory, but there’s something more in it this time. Something that speaks to the hunger inside him and how much it wants you.
You shiver when his breath fans across your bare cunt, the warmth of it making you ache for more. But he doesn’t touch you, not yet. He’s too good at keeping you waiting, teasing you with just his gaze, his lips barely brushing the flesh of your inner thigh.
“You’re a fuckin’ treat,” he says, eyes never leaving yours. “Never thought I’d get to ruin you like this.”
You’re soaked—completely soaked—and your body shudders as he takes his time, his fingers lightly tracing the line of your slit before dipping in just enough to tease you, his fingertips grazing the edges, making your breath hitch.
You can’t help the soft gasp that escapes you. His eyes flash with a wicked smirk.
“Fuck, you’re so wet for me already,” he whispers, voice rough. “Good girl. Let me have another taste.”
You arch toward him instinctively, your hands finding purchase in his hair, pulling him closer. Your legs tremble as he presses his tongue flat against you, the heat of him making your whole body pulse with need.
He works you slowly, expertly, pulling noises from your mouth you never thought you’d make. You’re embarrassingly close, so quickly, but you don’t want him to stop. The feeling is insatiable.
“You taste like heaven,” he mutters, mouth pressed to you as he swirls his tongue in maddening circles around your clit, making you ache even more. His fingers slide in, stretching you as his mouth follows, sucking you with a hungry, possessive intensity that makes your legs shake.
“Fuckin’ finally get to taste you proper,” he mutters. “None of that half-asleep, half-gone shite. Want you present this time, yeah? Wanna hear you scream.”
His tongue is hot and wet and relentless, flattening over your cunt in one long, greedy lick that leaves your legs shaking. He groans the second he gets a proper taste—deep and filthy, like he’s swallowing you whole—and presses in again, harder.
“Fuckin’ always knew you’d taste like this,” he growls against your clit. “Knew it the second I had my fingers in you that night. Fuckin’ honey-slick, tight little cunt. Bet you’ve been dreamin’ of this just like I have.”
He doesn’t tease. Doesn’t build up slow. He consumes you. Tongue slick and practiced, nose bumping your clit as he locks his arms around your thighs and eats you out like a man starved. You choke on a gasp, nearly fold forward, gripping the counter just to stay upright.
“That’s it. Fuckin’ take it. Ride my face, pretty girl,” he slurs, already rutting his hips into the air behind him like he can’t stand not being inside you. “Didn’t fuckin’ forget how you tasted. Couldn’t. Lived off that memory like a fuckin’ addict.”
Your thighs tremble, and you can feel it building—fast and furious, the orgasm chasing up your spine like a freight train. He must feel it too because he moans into your cunt, fingers digging deeper into your thighs, keeping you right there.
“That’s my girl,” he breathes, lips glossy and pink. “C’mon. Give it to me. Let me feel you lose it on my fuckin’ tongue.”
You do. You shatter, hips jerking, a strangled moan caught in your throat as your body locks up around the rhythm of his mouth. He doesn’t stop—not even as your cunt spasms against him, not even as your knees go weak.
He keeps going. You’re still shaking when he lifts his head, mouth glistening, pupils blown wide and black as the night sky.
“Look at you,” he pants, lips dragging against the inside of your thigh. “Already fuckin’ wrecked and I haven’t even given you cock yet.”
You gasp—try to move, to close your legs from the overwhelming ache—but Cook just laughs, low and sharp, and holds you open like it’s nothing. Like you weigh nothing.
His hands are everywhere—palming your thighs, dragging you down to the floor with him in one effortless pull until you’re flat on your back on the tile, legs spread. You barely blink and he’s climbing over you, licking his fingers clean like you’re dessert.
Then he grips your hips and pulls you up into his lap—like you're his property.
“Don’t fuckin’ squirm,” he growls. “You gave yourself to me, remember? M’gonna take my time now. Make this tight little cunt remember who it belongs to.”
You whimper, your voice caught somewhere between panic and lust. He’s already between your thighs again, fingers rough and greedy, spreading you open, baring you to him. Then—he lifts you.
His strength is terrifying. Effortless. He’s holding your entire body weight with his hands under your thighs, spreading you wide, lining you up with his now exposed cock as he kneels over you like a creature from myth—something wicked and carved from smoke and sin, here to fuck the soul out of you and then some.
“Gonna take it,” he mutters, almost reverent. “All of it. Gonna let me back in that pretty little body? Gonna let me own it this time?”
You nod, barely able to form words.
He growls. “Say it.”
“Yes—fuck—yes, please,” you gasp, clawing at his back. “I want it—want you—”
“That’s my fuckin’ girl.”
He sinks in all at once.
Your scream echoes off the kitchen walls as his cock stretches you open in one brutal thrust, no warning, no easing in—just depth. Pressure. Heat. Pain that borders on pleasure, so intense you can barely breathe.
Cook hisses through his teeth, forehead pressed to yours.
“Tight little fuckin’ thing,” he snarls. “Still squeezin’ me like a vice—like this cunt was made for me.”
You claw at his shoulders. He grins. Starts to move. His mouth drops to your throat, hot and open as he licks along your pulse, and for one split second you think he might be stalling. That he’s trying to be good. To hold back. But then you feel it—his hips jerk, his breath catches, and the next second he’s sinking his teeth in. Not careful this time.
You cry out, the sting sharp and raw—but it bleeds straight into the pleasure. Your body clenches around him like it can’t tell the difference between pain and want, and maybe it doesn’t. Not with him. Not like this.
He groans into your skin, mouth sealing tight around the bite as he sucks deep, your blood surging into him in thick, hot pulses that make his whole body shake. You feel it—how much he needs it, how fucked and desperate he is for it. Like it’s the only thing that’s ever fed him properly. And somehow, that makes it worse.
His cock drives up into you harder, deeper, like feeding from you turned something loose inside him. His control's gone. He’s fucking you like he’s gone feral—slamming you into the wall, your legs locked around his waist, head tipped back to give him everything.
You’re moaning, breathless, boneless—every drag of his tongue, every filthy thrust dragging you closer to the edge. It’s not even words coming out of your mouth anymore. Just sounds. Just need.
He finally pulls back from your throat, his mouth slick and red, lips shining with it—and the look in his eyes is unhinged. “Mine,” he pants. “Mine now, yeah? Say it.”
You don’t even hesitate. “Yours—fuck, I’m yours.”
And that’s all it takes. He slams into you once, twice, and then you’re coming—hard—your orgasm crashing through you like your body’s trying to tear itself apart around him. He groans loud and low, hips grinding deep, and you feel it—his cock twitching inside you, his whole body curling around yours as he finishes with a ragged “Fuck, yes—fuckin’ take it.”
He doesn’t pull out. He doesn’t stop. Because now that he’s marked you—now that he’s tasted you, fed from you, cum inside you—he’s not letting go. Not for anything.
You’re still trembling when he finally slows down. Muscles twitching, brain fried, every nerve ending still lit up and buzzing like static.
He doesn’t pull out right away. Just stays there—buried deep—his hands splayed over your hips like he’s anchoring himself to you, keeping you both from unraveling entirely. His breath is hot and heavy against your throat, lips brushing the raw skin where his bite is already bruising up dark and pretty. Then, slowly—deliberately—he shifts back.
You flinch, oversensitive, aching, and Cook exhales a wicked little laugh under his breath as he watches his cum drip between your thighs.
“Well, fuck me,” he mutters, voice all cocky delight and post-orgasm smugness. “Didn’t know I could paint, but that’s a proper masterpiece.”
You swat at his shoulder weakly. “You’re disgusting.”
“Not denyin’ it.” He grins down at you, eyes flashing as he leans in and drags his mouth over your jaw, playful now, affectionate. “But I’m yours, yeah? So I reckon you’ve got shit taste, sweetheart.”
You should probably tell him to shut up. Instead, you melt under his touch—his hands ghosting down your sides, his fingers dipping low to trace where he just was, possessive even now. You shudder again, the sensation sharp, and he stills—just for a second—before glancing up at you with something more serious in his gaze.
“…You alright?”
You nod, hazy and ruined. “Just…sore.”
His brow furrows, lips pressing against your shoulder. “Sore’s good,” he says, half-joking. “Means I did it right.”
Then, quieter—lower—he adds: “But I’ll kiss it better anyway.”
He scoops you up effortlessly, wiry arms under your thighs, chest to chest, the cold floor long forgotten. You feel the muscles in him coil and flex with every movement, inhuman strength thrumming just under the skin. Not a tremor of strain as he walks—like carrying you, spent and shaking and slick with him, is effortless.
The backs of your knees hook around his hips without thinking. You're still clinging to him. Still open from him. Everything throbbing, stretched and raw and glowing in the places he touched like you’ve been rewired by it.
The room is quiet. Too quiet. Just the sound of his breathing behind your ear, and yours, still ragged. His voice breaks the silence, low and smug. “If I’d known you were gonna let me fuck you stupid on the kitchen floor, I’d have skipped the window theatrics.”
You groan. “Shut up.”
“You love me like this.” He’s smirking—you can hear it. “Ruin your little knickers and your GPA in one go, yeah? Got girls dreamin’ about me, and here you are, lettin’ the monster spit you open on the tile like a good little sacrificial virgin—”
“I’m not a virgin,” you mutter, face flushed.
“No,” he agrees. “definitely not anymore.”
He kicks your bedroom door open and the creak of it echoes. Your sheets are rumpled. Your lamp’s still on. You left the window cracked. The air smells like candle wax, sweat, blood, and smoke.
He lays you down gently—too gently. The same hands that left bruises on your hips, nail marks from where they bit into your thighs, are now tugging the blanket up to your ribs like he didn’t just fuck the soul out of you on the linoleum.
“Cook—” you start, but he cuts you off with a kiss. Slow. Warm. Almost soft. You can still taste yourself on his lips.
“I’m stayin’,” he says into your mouth. “Just for tonight.”
His voice has that same gravity it always does—like when he tells lies he wants you to believe. But this time, there’s no teasing. No grin. Just something else in his eyes. Something greedy. Something...forever.
You shift, wince. Everything aches. His hand brushes your hair back from your forehead, then cups your cheek, thumb dragging under your eye.
“You gonna let me feed again?”
The question makes your stomach flip. You remember the first time. How it felt. How you floated. How he looked after—like he'd just found God.
Your fingers ghost over the bite on your throat. Still tender. Still bleeding faintly. The skin pulses. “…Will it hurt?”
Cook shrugs. “Dunno. Maybe.” He grins. “Think of it as a hickey with teeth.”
You don’t answer. You just tilt your head. He takes it as permission. You feel his breath first—hot against your neck. Then lips, tongue, and finally, teeth. They sink in slower this time. He’s not as far gone. But the pain is still sharp. Real. Enough to make your toes curl and your back arch off the mattress.
And then—the rush.
It’s indescribable. Like you’re burning from the inside out. Like someone turned your blood to fire and your nerves to raw wire and every thought you’ve ever had just blinked out and went dark. You gasp. Clutch at him. Your thighs clamp around his waist. He groans against your neck, the sound raw, starved.
“Fuck, you’re good,” he mutters, voice muffled. “You’re so fuckin’ good, baby. Taste like sin and sugar, it's fuckin’ addictin’—”
He sucks harder. You cry out. The pleasure starts to twist again, building.
You’re not sure if you cum. Not really. It’s too much. All of it. There’s no end or beginning, just waves of sensation—his body pressed over yours, the burn of his bite, the way he fuckin’ moans when he swallows your pain like it’s dessert.
And then, finally, it’s over. You’re breathless. Boneless. Floating again. Everything hums. You blink up at him. Cook is staring at you. There’s blood on his lips. And something new in his eyes. Not hunger. Not lust. Claim.
“I left a mark this time,” he says, thumbing the raw dental imprint with pride. “Real one. Won’t fade.”
You frown, dazed. “You said you didn’t know if it would hurt.”
He grins. “Didn’t say I didn’t mean it to.”
You should feel angry. You should feel used. But all you feel is…full. Hollowed out and filled back up with him. You don’t know where you end and he begins. You roll over, face half-buried in your pillow. “You’re such a dick.”
He laughs. “Yeah,” he agrees. “But I’m your dick, now.”
You groan. He crawls in behind you. Doesn’t ask. Just wraps his arms around you like he belongs there. You don’t sleep. He doesn’t either.
He watches the moonlight on your skin, teeth dragging his lower lip, eyes on the mark he branded into your flesh, your soul. You should be scared. But you’re already his.
And monsters always get what they want.
Then
Your first week at Roundview felt like showing up midway through a wild party—everyone already drunk, already dancing, already knowing each other's secrets. You were the newbie.
Transferred in from somewhere no one cared to ask about and you weren’t exactly keen to share. You floated through classes like a ghost, unfamiliar hallways and loud-mouthed cliques bleeding together, too much all at once. People looked at you, sure, but no one saw you.
Except Cook. He saw everything.
You noticed him on day two. He’d been propped up in the back of media studies with his feet on the desk, arm draped over the chair beside him like he was right at home.
He had this grin—mischievous, wolfish—that made you feel like you’d already done something wrong even if you were just walking by. He didn’t speak to you. Not then. Just watched you like he was reading ahead in a book only he had a copy to.
Then on day four, he spoke. Not in class—never that easy. It was in the stairwell between the music wing and the roof, where you’d gone to escape the thrum of too many voices.
He’d been there already, leaned against the railing, smoking and humming something under his breath. You startled him when you opened the door. Or, at least, you thought you had. But then he smirked and said: "’Bout time. Thought you’d never find the good spots."
Like you were expected. Like he’d been expecting you. You didn’t ask what he meant. Just scowled and muttered something about not meaning to interrupt. But he only chuckled. "Interruptin’ who, sweetheart? I’m the only one up here, and I was gettin’ bored."
That became a sort of pattern. Every day after lunch, you’d find your way back up there. Sometimes he was already waiting. Other times he’d show up after you, feigning surprise like he hadn’t planned it. You didn’t talk much at first—just sat in silence. But Cook had a way of making silence feel like a shared secret, not an awkward one.
It was the end of your first week when he finally got you to take a cigarette. The sun was starting to set, bleeding through the smog of a late autumn sky. Everything looked golden, even the cracked concrete and broken satellite dish discarded on the edge of the roof. Cook was already there, of course. Smoking and sprawled out like the delinquent he is.
“Look who’s come crawlin’ back,” he drawled when you emerged. “Can’t stay away from me, can ya?”
You rolled your eyes. “It’s quiet up here.”
He smirked. “Yeah. Until you show up.”
You took your usual spot—two milk crates over—and stared out at the horizon. He watched you for a minute. Then, without a word, he held out a cigarette, pinched between his fingers.
“Don’t look at it like it’s gonna bite you,” he teased. “It’s just a smoke. Can’t get you pregnant.”
You huffed a laugh despite yourself. It was hard not to laugh around him. Like trying not to breathe. You took it, fingers brushing his. It wasn’t the first time you’d touched, but it felt different today. The contact lingered, electricity threading up your spine. He reached into his pocket for his lighter, flicked it once, then leaned in—close enough you could see the shimmer of amber in his eyes.
The flame flared. You leaned forward, bringing the cigarette to your lips. He held the lighter up, let it hover just long enough that you felt the heat.
“There she goes,” he murmured. “Almost makes you look cool.”
You didn’t cough. You were proud of that. Even if it felt like fire crawling up your throat.
He tilted his head, watching you inhale. “Didn’t think you’d say yes.”
“Didn’t think you knew any words with more than one syllable.”
“Oof.” He clutched his chest like you’d wounded him. “She’s got claws. Don’t tempt me, sweetheart, I like a bit of scratchin’.”
You rolled your eyes again, turning your face toward the sunset to hide the blush. You were never quite sure if he meant half the things he said. But you wanted to believe he did.
There was a lull. You let the silence settle again, breathing smoke, heart pounding harder than it should’ve been. You could feel him beside you—warm, present, real. He didn’t lean close, not yet. But it felt like he could. He broke the quiet first. “You ever do this back where you’re from?”
The way he said it, you knew it wasn’t about smoking. It was about you. Where you came from. Who you were before. “No,” you said. “Not really.”
He smirked. “Didn’t think so.” Then, after a beat, he turned to you, that grin back in full force.
“You shoulda just kissed me when you had the chance.”
Your stomach dropped. You stared at him, wide-eyed. “What?”
Cook shrugged. “Y’know. That day in chem. You looked like you wanted to. Thought you might’ve, if I leaned in first.”
He said it so casually, like it meant nothing. Like it hadn’t just tilted your whole fucking world off its axis. You didn’t answer. Just looked away, cheeks burning, heart in your throat.
He didn’t push. Just laughed again, soft and smug. “You’re cute when you’re flustered.”
You flicked the ash off your cigarette. “You’re annoying when you’re breathing.”
“Oh baby, don’t threaten me with a good time.”
You never kissed that day. He never tried. You never asked why. Maybe it was timing. Maybe it was fear. Maybe he was waiting for something you hadn’t figured out yet.
But you never forgot that rooftop. The heat of his hand. The phantasmal whisper of his mouth, almost brushing your cheek. The way he looked at you like he already knew how your story ended. You didn’t know then what he would become.
But something inside you already recognized the monster when he was still a man. You just didn’t know how much you were ready to let him in.
Now
It's been three months.
Three months since it all began. Since Cook branded your soul with his teeth and the attacks stopped.
That’s what they’re saying, anyway. Whispers around town, posted flyers, articles in the local paper. The local PD ruled the string of grisly deaths as animal in nature, claimed the worst of it passed months ago, that whatever rabid thing had been stalking the streets, the alleys, the woods, must’ve moved on—perhaps wandered too far out past the city limits and never came back.
Maybe it died. Maybe it was hunted. Maybe it was just done. There’s never been an official explanation, of course. No real answers. No smoking gun. No proof. Just…silence. Quiet after the storm. A town too eager to forget the way it screamed. You know the truth.
Cook stopped feeding here. That’s all it was. Not out of guilt. Not out of mercy. But necessity. The bodies were piling too high, and even a town this good at looking the other way can’t ignore a mountain of corpses. So he took your advice—or maybe it was more of a plea, the kind only half-whispered and soaked in sweat when he was still inside you—and he moved his hunting grounds elsewhere. A few towns over. A different coast. You didn’t ask. You didn’t want to know. He always comes back to you anyway.
And now, with things quiet again, the town is pretending nothing ever happened. They’ve slapped a coat of paint over every bloodstain, scrubbed the sidewalks clean, patched up every scar with community vigils and police statements and concerned school counselors. They’ve made it palatable. Neat. Contained.
There’s even a benefit concert. For the victims, they say. For the survivors. For the grieving families. A fundraiser to raise awareness, promote safety, honor the lives lost. You nearly choke when you read the flyer: SYCHOPHANT VALENTINE, it says in thick, ugly block print. Live at the Avalon. Tickets $25. All proceeds go to the Predator Peace Project.
Sycophant Valentine. The band that sacrificed Cook. They tied him up, shoved him in the back of their van, and bled him out in the middle of the woods under a full moon. All for fame. All for a shot at something bigger than themselves. They left his body in a ditch and never looked back.
And now they’re here. Back in town. Playing a fucking charity event in honor of the deaths they caused. Cook doesn’t say much when you show him the flyer. Just hums under his breath and mutters something about poetic justice. But there’s a look in his eyes that makes your stomach twist—a slow, simmering sort of voraciousness. Not the kind he shows when he wants you. The other kind. The kind that paints your walls red.
You’ve seen it before. And this time, you don’t beg him to stop. You help him plan.
You bought the tickets under a fake name. Two VIP passes. No questions asked. Cook laughed when you showed him the envelope, the way his name was spelled wrong on the laminated badge. “James Cooke.” With an e. Fancy.
He held it between two fingers like he's holding Wonka's last golden ticket. “Gotta say, sweetheart, I always pictured my revenge lookin’ a bit rougher than an all-access wristband.”
You told him the rest would be rough enough. He’s been careful since that night in your room. Since you invited the monster in and let him stay. The feeding is still irregular, but he doesn’t lose himself anymore. Not with you. Not like before.
You know what he is now. He knows you’re not scared. That changed things.You’d started planning this the day after the concert announcement. He didn’t even need to ask why. Just looked at you with that slow, crooked grin like he was proud. Like it turned him on that you were just as sick with it as he was.
“You gonna help me kill six lads, sweetheart?” he asked. “Thought I was the monster in this story.”
“You are,” you said. “But I’m your monster now.”
💋
It’s all happening at the local community center—rebranded The Wild Hearts Pavilion for the benefit night, complete with stage lights, a merch booth, and punch that definitely had something in it.
You’re dressed to kill. Literally. Something short, tight, sheer enough to show bruises from nights ago when Cook got too hungry, too possessive. He left them where he wanted them. Thighs, hips, throat.
You’ve never felt more marked. Or more his. You loiter near the back hallway during their set, the one that leads to the green room. You can feel him somewhere nearby—Cook doesn’t blend well, but he knows how to vanish when he wants to. He's watching. Waiting.
Let them see you, he said earlier. Let them follow. I’ll do the rest. And oh, they see you.
The drummer’s the first to take notice, eyes raking down your legs like you’re just another backstage fling to scratch off the post-show list. The others follow suit like dogs catching a scent.
You catch the guitarist’s eye—recognize him from that press photo with the sacrificial dagger tucked behind his amp like a stage prop. You smile. Bite your lip. That’s all it takes.
Five minutes later, the show ends. The band is sweaty, buzzing, drunk off their own success. Six walking punchlines to a bad joke about fame, eyeliner, and fragile egos. You barely have to try—they come sniffing around you like dogs in heat.
The drummer's the first one to talk, of course. Always the drummer.
"VIP pass, huh?" he says, voice thick with sweat and residual post-concert adrenaline. "That mean you're all-access too, doll face? Or just front row with a view?"
You smirk. Don’t answer. Just glance at his laminated badge like you’re impressed. His ego does the rest. The lead singer steps in next, sunglasses still on like it’s not 9 PM and indoors. "You a fan, yeah? You look like a real fan. Wanna prove it?"
He eyes your body like it’s already been unwrapped. "Groupie slut look suits you, babe. Got that whole I’m not like the other girls thing goin’ for you. We like that."
"She’s got three holes," the bassist chimes in, slurring a little. "Two hands. We can rotate."
You almost gag—but you smile instead. Coy. Sweet. You twirl your VIP badge around your finger like you’re considering it. Let them think you’re stupid. That you’re game. Let them fall for it.
“Green room’s this way,” you purr, giving them a little wink as you trail your fingers along the hallway wall. “You boys want your…reward, yeah?”
They follow like sheep to slaughter, already pawing at you before the door even shuts. One of them tries to slap your ass. Another reaches to cup your breast. You dodge just enough to keep it playful. Lead them deeper.
They barely notice the lights flickering. Don’t hear the shift in the air. Don’t smell the bloodlust that’s just begun to bloom.
Then the door clicks shut. The lock turns. And Cook steps out of the shadowed corner with a smile so wide and predatory it could split his face in half, his voice steeped in venom and sadistic glee as he asks—
“You cunts ready for your encore?”
The guys scream—but not out of fear, not at first, first they laugh. Think it’s a prank. The lead singer—Dan or Dave or whatever—even holds his hands up like whoa man, chill, drunk swagger faltering only slightly, the chain he's wearing swinging with the movement.
“Yo what the fuck is this, a bit? Some horrorcore—”
Cook’s jaw unhinges with a wet, cracking pop. It splits too far, wider than any human mouth should go, fangs slick and glistening in the dim light, saliva stretching like webbing between rows of serrated, shark-like teeth sharp enough to shred. His neck tendons bulge. His spine contorts.
And then? He moves.
The first one doesn’t even get a full scream out. Cook lunges—inhumanly fast, all blur and sinew and snap. He grabs the guitarist by the waist and rips him clean in half, top and bottom peeling apart with a sickening wet crack like splitting a chicken carcass at Sunday roast.
His spine snaps like a wishbone, intestines spilling out in glistening, red ropes as a result. The man’s upper body twitches once, mouth still trying to speak through a throat now pouring foam and blood.
It hits the others an instant too late.
Panic. Screaming. Scrambling.
The drummer bolts for the mirror-lined vanity, slips on blood, and Cook’s already there—slamming his face through the glass. The mirror explodes with the force, shards embedding in cheek, jaw, eye socket. He tries to scream, but it comes out a wet gurgle, teeth dangling by nerve threads. Cook leans in real close, blood running down his own chin like juice from a ripe plum.
“Didn’t catch that, mate. Mind speakin’ up?”
CRUUUNCH.
He drives the man's face down again. And again. And again. Until there’s nothing left but pulp.
Two more charge him, panicked and stupid, trying to fight him like he’s just some bloke in a bad mood or in a drug-fueled rage. Cook just laughs. Grabs them both by the heads and slams their skulls together so hard it echoes like a rifle shot. One drops instantly. The other stumbles—until Cook picks him up by the throat and throws him into a wall with enough force to leave a dent.
That’s four.
Another tries to crawl away. Of course. There's always one that crawls. Hands slipping in blood, sobbing like a child. He’s halfway to the door before Cook casually strides over and stomps down on his back with one foot.
His spine splits down the middle. A wet, meaty crack like a tree branch giving out. The guy pisses himself. Gasps. Goes still.
That’s five.
The sixth one’s hiding.
Coward. You spot him cowering under the table, trying not to make a sound, hands clasped in prayer like he’s calling on a God that doesn’t show up here anymore.
Cook crouches low. Smiles under the table like a shark smelling iron. “Oi,” he whispers. “Prayin’? Tha’s cute.”
He grabs the man’s ankle and yanks him out, nails clawing at the floorboards so hard his nails break and bleed. The guy thrashes, grabs a mic stand—jabs it blindly—
It hits Cook in the gut. He barely flinches. Instead, he wrenches the mic stand from the guy’s hand and impales him with it—blunt end first, driving it slow through stomach, guts, ribcage, up until it tears out of his mouth like a metal flower blooming from his face.
“Bit pitchy,” Cook mutters. “But good effort.”
Blood hits the ceiling. Hits you. Hot. Wet. Metallic.
You don’t wince.
They beg. They cry. They try to offer deals, babbling about producers and record labels and you don’t have to do this, man—
Cook just grins, lips pulled back to show fangs dripping red.
“Don’t look at her,” he growls, voice animal, throat soaked in someone else’s blood. Then, to the lead singer, who’s trying to crawl away without a lower jaw: “She’s not the one you owe.”
And with that, he rips the jaw off what’s left of the frontman’s head. The tendons snap with a noise like snapping celery. The singer makes a wet choking noise and collapses.
When it’s done, the room is soaked. Walls dripping. The overhead lights splattered. Steam rising off the piles of offal in the cold air. Limbs twitching. Stomachs and chest cavities peeled and cracked open like rotten fruit.
And Cook? Cook is standing in the middle of it all. Shirtless. Heaving. Blood-slick and shaking. Nothing human left in the shape of him except maybe the smirk—slanted, feral, proud. His chest rises and falls quick. He licks blood from his knuckles, slow. Then he looks at you. Grins.
"Fuckin' hell," he says, voice low and thrilled, like he just won a prizefight or got off on stage. “Did ya see that? Fuckin’ told ya I’d make it rough.”
You nod—barely. Your brain hasn’t caught up to your body yet. You’re flushed, hot, throbbing with adrenaline. There’s blood smeared across your chest, your cheek, but all you can focus on is the way Cook’s looking at you. Like he wants to devour you next.
He crosses the room in three long strides, trainers splashing through the mess, and grabs your face in both bloodstained hands. He kisses you hard—filthy, wet, all tongue and teeth and heat. His mouth tastes like copper and nicotine and something darker still.
You moan into it. Can’t help it. Can’t stop. His hand slides under your shirt, palm hot and greedy, squeezing your tit, thumb brushing over your hard nipple, smearing blood across every inch of skin he touches. He groans when you grind against him, the bulge in his jeans already thick and heavy and hard.
"God, you're fuckin' soaked already," he mutters against your lips, voice rough and reverent. “Covered in blood and still gaggin’ for cock. My girl.”
You gasp when he rocks against you. When his hand slides down, fingers ghosting over the waistband of your skirt like a promise.
"Later," he pants, biting at your jaw. "M'gonna fuck the life outta you later. Gonna bend you over somethin’ sturdy, fuck you so good you forget your own name. But not here. Not in this shithole.”
You both pause at the same time. Sirens. Distant at first—just a low wail somewhere out in the city. But they’re getting louder. Closer. Cook pulls back, pupils still wild, chest heaving. "Time to leg it, yeah?"
You nod. He takes your hand—blood-slick fingers interlocking with yours—and together, you slip out the back stairwell, footsteps thudding on metal, the scent of iron still thick in the air.
Upstairs, the crowd is still screaming. Chanting for an encore. For a band that’s not coming back. For a frontman whose jaw is currently decorating the green room floor like some avant-garde art piece—too bold, too provocative, too grotesque for even the edgiest gallery.
They cheer louder, drunk on cheap beer and collective delusion, vibrating with secondhand ecstasy. Stomping their feet, flashing their tits, throwing devil horns like they’re conjuring something dark and primal.
(They are. Just a little late.)
Someone starts a chant—One more song! One more song!—and it spreads like wildfire. Their fans, the sycophants, the thirsty little Valentines, all screaming for a corpse to rise. The floor beneath them is sticky with bass spills and blood they haven’t noticed yet.
Backstage, there’s nothing left but ruin. The smell of iron and offal still thick in the air, a smear of arterial red streaking across the vanity like war paint. Ripped limbs dangle from equipment racks. One mic stand is embedded clean through a body. A chunk of scalp clings to a cracked cymbal.
Cook doesn’t look back. He’s still grinning, though. Shirtless and blood-drenched, hair matted, knuckles split and slick. He looks like he just walked out of a baptismal font filled with viscera, and you’re not sure whether to kiss him again or drop to your knees.
(You’ll do both. Later.)
He loops an arm around your shoulders, casual as anything. “Encore’s been canceled,” he says, deadpan. “Think the drummer lost his head.”
You snort. You can’t help it. He kisses your cheek, playful and still a little wild. “Don’t worry, babe,” he adds with a wink, “I’ve got plenty of rhythm.”
Sirens wail in the distance—sharp, fast, urgent. The kind of sound that means someone’s finally noticed.
Too late.
He takes your hand, lacing his bloody fingers through yours like it’s date night. You’re sticky with it—his blood, theirs, maybe yours—but it doesn’t matter. You’re both humming with leftover violence, the kind of adrenaline that tastes like sugar and gasoline in your throat.
You slip through the back stairwell. No one sees you. No one stops you.
The alley’s cool and quiet, moonlight catching on broken glass and empty bottles, the night curving open around you like a secret. Cook glances up at the sky like he’s looking for something. Or someone. The air smells like sweat and rot and spring rain.
You turn once, just once, looking back over your shoulder at the venue doors. At the neon sign still flickering like a weak pulse. At the crowd that’s still begging, still howling for an encore that isn’t coming.
And then you vanish.
No one sees the trail of bloody footprints you leave behind, drying into the pavement like some unholy pilgrimage and you can't help but smile to yourself because Sycophant Valentine got everything they wanted. fame, fortune—and a closed-casket funeral.
Okay guys, not like I forgot I gotta write the sequel to The Glass Cage or anything, but GOD I’m so obsessed with these blond/ginger fine-ass men rn that I need to crank out some mini-fics about them (right after I drop Part 3). Is it just me, or is this, like, a whole specific type?
synopsis. you live on a farm with your father and two younger brothers on the outskirts of north carolina, just bordering the treeline. the days become rough as a wolf keeps returning to eat at your family’s livestock. not until you finally give chase to rid the farm of it’s nuisance do you realise the trees have eyes.
tags. mentions of religion and racism, you have a tragic backstory, brief talk of the klan…, remmick is a manipulative conniving dictator, implied to be woc reader but anyone can read, strangers to almost lovers, lovers if he wasn’t out to get you, open ending, vampire/human, slowburn, haunting, kinda spicy, definitely tension present, takes place a few months before the movie’s set, mindfuck cus i love psychological thriller
you wake with a start. your eyes are locked onto the morning sun’s intrusion through your bedroom window and your ears are chiming with the rooster’s wake up call. sitting up, you revert your stare to the pooling fabric of your nightgown in your lap.
for the last few months, you’ve been plagued with a recurring dream. at first, you barely remembered the events but as time went on you were able to put the broken pieces together.
it was not really a dream. more of a memory you’ve tried to block out and ignore despite it’s numerous hauntings during the nights. those piercing blue eyes that become veiled by scarlet once concealed in the shadows. you are consistently bedevilled by the way they glowed as if to taunt you, a reminder that he’ll come back.
during the depths of night, the same terrible memory of you being chased down the long, sandy road connecting daddy’s farm and the town is repeated the same way you’d rewind a filmstrip. white men on horseback hunting you down like a predator would their prey during the final hour of dusk.
your calves burned with every desperate step. breath tore through your throat in ragged bursts—panting wasn’t enough anymore. the adrenaline that had carried you this far had curdled into exhaustion, and the sight of the barn, distant and flickering on the horizon, loosened your limbs with false relief.
that’s when they got you.
the sun dipped behind the farmhouse like it was retreating, and the world went dim. shadows spilled across the ground, swallowing the path ahead. you didn’t hear the horse until it was already too close—hooves silent, like they rode on smoke. then a sharp jerk at your collar, and you were dragged backwards with unnatural speed.
you didn’t scream. just a yelp, strangled in your throat. the last thing you saw was white—horse, shirt, teeth—and then the ground. you hit it hard, skull cracking against a rock that jutted from the gravel like it had been waiting for you.
everything went dark.
when you came to, the sky was full of stars. too many, too bright—like they’d drawn closer in your absence. the air was thick, like it was holding its breath. you sat up slowly, head swimming, hands slick with grit and something warm.
no horse. no white riders. no sound.
just the road, and a trail.
thick red, glistening in the starlight, smeared back toward the treeline. not a splash. a drag. something had been taken, or something had crawled.
and then—you saw them.
it was thick. dark. a smear of red leading from where you lay into the woods, like something had been dragged. you followed it with your eyes until they met something else.
a pair of eyes. concealed in the trees. motionless.
they didn’t blink. they didn’t move. just watched. and you—broken, dazed, bleeding—you didn’t move either.
some things weren’t meant to be chased. some things you don’t call by name. and whatever it was waiting in those trees, it wasn’t finished with you yet.
even now as you get up from your bed, you still cannot remember your saviour’s exact features. just that pair of unsettlingly observant eyes. there’s more to the dream, to the memory but you cannot bring yourself to remember it no matter how hard you try.
as the day goes on, you eventually forget about the dream due to your duties on the farm. collect eggs from the chicken coops, let the cows out onto the field, shave the sheep for wool. your daddy took care of the more gruesome things like killing the livestock for meat. your brothers were still too young to have any real job on the farm so they played with and fed the horses.
recently, a wolf–that’s what your daddy suspected–had been sneaking in and out to pick at the lambs. it’s had you and your daddy on your toes for the last week. so far, it’s gotten ahold of two lambs and fatally injured a cow but you’ll be damned if you let it get ahold of another one.
you remember when it first started happening. you went into the barn to feed the animals just to find a lamb with it’s neck shredded and drained. it was seperated from the rest of the sheep, curled in the middle of the barn floor in a pile of hay. you could’ve mistaken it for escaping it’s pen and falling asleep if it hadn’t had a torn neck. you had called for your daddy and he advised you to be on the look out from now on. since then, it had outsmarted you twice more.
nighttime befell when you noticed a stir in the undergrowth. you were doing a final round of the coops and pens to make sure they were bolted tight when you caught the faint rustling of a stealth attempt just in your midst. the sunset cast sharp shadows on your back and onto the wooden door as you closed the large entrance to the barn. your eyes squinted, trying to decipher if it really was the so called wolf or just the evening breeze shifting the leaves.
there was a tense silence between you and mother nature. your body froze in wait as you stared at the base of the treeline. adrenaline flooded your veins while you began to call to whatever was hiding in the bushes.
as your teeth clicked, the beast emerged just like you suspected. it stalked forward, sniffing the fence. it was good luck that your brother was close by, walking a horse into the stables.
“leroy! go get daddy!” you shouted, voice sharp, eyes never leaving the wolf.
it stood just shy of the chicken coop, lit by the swinging lantern in your grip—eyes like coals, breath fogging in the thick heat of the night.
with slow, practiced fingers, you slipped the lantern onto your belt, the glow casting long, twitching shadows, and unhooked the shotgun from your shoulder. you leveled it. breathed in. fired.
the shot sang past its head, nicked its ear. the beast yelped, spun, and vanished—over the fence and into the snarled underbrush without a backward glance.
far behind you, the screen door slammed open hard enough to rattle its hinges. “what the hell you doin’?” daddy barked, storming down the porch. “chase after it, goddamnit!”
“it’s too dark!” you called, hoping that would be enough.
but he just waved a calloused hand, like darkness was a thing you could slap away. “you got a light, don’tcha? use it, girl!”
the lantern swayed against your hip like a pendulum, casting gold over the shotgun’s barrel. you stood there, breath caught in your throat, listening to the rustle of leaves where the wolf had gone. you didn’t want to follow—but you knew better than to let something like that slip away. not out here. not again.
so you broke into a sprint, hopping over the fence and chasing the beast that stole from your farm.
the lantern repeatedly swung between the air and your thigh as you ran between trees and over fallen logs. you could see the pathway ahead, the moon breaking through the trees and giving you a clear visage of what was ahead.
you’d chased the sound—rustling, footsteps that aren’t heavy enough to be a dead giveaway but just enough so that they could be heard. at first, it had seemed like an ordinary cat and mouse game, the kind of game you and your peers would play around the schoolhouse. but this animal was not playing an ordinary game of cat and mouse. you realize that now.
you’d gathered your skirt high with your free hand, breath sharp in your chest. the ground was uneven, soft in places, snagging your boots and your hem. once, you thought you saw it—a flash of dark fur between the underbrush. you pressed forward. but as you turned sharply around a stump half-hidden in dead grass, something yanked at your side with a sudden hiss of tearing fabric.
you staggered. when you looked down, a long strip of blue had been torn clean from the lower part of your skirt. it dangled for a second, caught on the bark behind you, before the wind—or something else—pulled it loose and carried it into the dark. you didn’t go after it. you only stood there, hand pressed to the frayed edge, chilled by how deliberate it had felt.
you’re not sure when the game turned into something else—something other, colder. but it had. and now, with every sound swallowed by the night, you understood you were no longer meant to be the cat.
animals have instincts. they play more survival ‘games’ than you ever had to. it’s part of their dna to survive.
it moved too fast. too clever. it had led you deeper than you intended, into a section of the woods you don’t remember walking through during the day, past groves of gnarled hawthorns and skeletal ash trees that creak as if whispering to one another.
you shouldn’t be out here.
the trees murmur it, their bare limbs tapping against one another like brittle fingers. the wind pulls at your shawl and hair, cold and sly, as though trying to tug you backward. as if to convince you to immediately turn back home. but you walk on, boots slick with mud, heart thudding like hooves in your chest.
your chest rose and fell when you stopped at a small, thin ravine. the drop itself was barely a few inches but the water was waist high. the nighttime chill wouldn’t mix well with damp clothing.
you glance down. the water is black—a reflection of the above. not wide, but fast. too fast that if you were to jump it would not guarantee your safety. especially in the dark. the stones gleam like teeth beneath the surface.
you sigh, clutching the shotgun in your palms and looking around. the trees happened to close in and block the shine of the moonlight except for one single ray, enclosing you in near darkness. you weren’t afraid of the dark, you figured you had other things to be wary of.
like what’s inside the woods itself. the woods aren’t meant to be this silent.
you sway with unease, surveying your surroundings. it was too dark.
at this time, you’d realised that the fire in the lantern had been knocked out during the sprint. you put your shotgun back over your shoulder before rustling in your pockets for a lighter.
“there we go..” you murmur, flicking it a few times infront of you until it stays alight.
“i’s a lil’ late for someone like you to be out here so late, don’cha think?” a voice says from the other side of the ravine. the suddenness startles you, making you almost drop the lighter. your fumble to catch it causes the flame to lick at your palm. hissing, you close the metal lid of the lighter and hold your hand in pain.
“dear lord,” you whisper, squeezing your hand and backing away from the revine ledge.
“sorry, i ain’t mean to frighten ya, ‘was genuine curiosity,” the owner of the voice stepped into the light, revealing a white man with a toothy grin. he stared at you like he was examining you. it gave you the creeps. he’s mainly standing in the shadows across the gap. perfectly still. taller than you, albeit not by very much. pale-skinned. dressed in suspenders and a loose shirt. his shoes are polished even in the dirt. his hair is dark, sticking onto his forehead. you can’t tell his age, but something about him feels ancient.
“you one of them?” you squint, your left hand holding the gun for a sick sense of comfort. the man tilts his head, “one of who?”
you swallow, “the klan.”
you are almost surprised by the expression of shock and almost offense that explodes onto the man’s features. his eyebrows raise with his hands, “ma’am, i can assure you that i believe in equal rights between all people.”
you scoff like you don’t believe it, but you freed the gun of your grip nonetheless, “okay.”
“i’m glad we have no problems,” the man smiles but your brows furrow. the river rushed, exchanged for the silence that followed. your eyes drifted over him. he wasn’t dressed in anything fancy and his appearance wasn’t anything you hadn’t seen before but there was something about him that caught your eye.
“we met before?” you ask, eyes glinting with curiosity. the stranger laughs, “why don’cha answer my question first?”
your chest drops with a breath you didn’t know you were holding. you stammer, “sorry, what was the question?”
“what’re ya doing out here so late?” he asks once more. your boot toes the dirt beneath you, “huntin’ is all.”
he raises an eyebrow, amused more than skeptical. “at this time?”
you nod, though it feels flimsy now. “damned mutt keeps eating at the livestock n’ it caught my eye this evenin’. dark thing. fast. had me and my daddy on our toes a lot this week.”
he tilts his head, like he’s testing the truth of you. “and you figure it’ll lie at ya feet if you started chasing it?”
you swallow, “my daddy sent me after it, told me to track it down before it gets brave.”
“n’ how’s that workin’ out f’r ya?” the stranger mocks with a grin. you swallow. the woods press in close, too silent now. not a single cricket. not even wind. just the rushing water from the revine below.
“clearly outsmarted me,” you exhale, putting your hand on your hip and squeezing it out of nervous habit, “it’s a clever wolf.”
that gets a gleam in his eye,“clever’s dangerous.”
you nod, glancing behind you at the narrow path that wound you here. you’d barely seen it in the dark, half-choked with brambles and vines. “yeah. that’s why I brought this.” you lift your shotgun slightly—not in threat, just to show. a gesture.
he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t even look at the gun.
“what about you?” you ask, trying to keep your tone light. “you got a reason to be out here, or you just like loiterin’ in places folks try to avoid?”
he smirks, not answering right away. “maybe i live out here. y’ever think of that?”
you chuckle. “in the trees?”
“could do.”
a silence passes between you, thin as frost and twice as cold. you watch each other in the gloom. he’s still half-shrouded by shadow, leaning against a tree like he belongs to it—like it grew around him and he just never left. his suspenders are dark and long, damp at the hem, and his boots don’t make a sound when he shifts his stance.
“what’s your name?” you ask, heart drumming a little harder now. you’re not sure if you’re curious or just stalling.
“people ‘round here don’t ask names when they meet strangers in the dark,” he says, voice smooth but taut, like a wire stretched too tight. “you learn things ya can’t forget.”
“maybe I wanna remember,” you say, trying to hold his gaze.
he leans his head slightly, amused. “do ya now?”
your jaw tightens. “depends.”
“on what?”
“on wha’cha are.”
that gets him. the smile fades, just a flicker, and he studies you like you just said something in a language he hasn’t heard in a long time.
“ya ask a lotta questions for someone with a gun in their hands,” he murmurs, stepping closer. you raise the shotgun just slightly—not to aim, just to make the distance clear. he doesn’t flinch.
“i ask when things don’t line up,” you say, “like how i’ve lived out here my whole life and never seen you ‘til now. or how there’s not a single sound in these woods since you showed up.”
he grins, wide again, but not kind. its cold and holds secrets, “maybe ya ain’t listenin’ right.”
you bite your lip. something scurries up your spine like vermin, something you don’t want to name. “maybe i don’t wanna hear what’s out there.”
he steps closer still. just one more pace before he’s out of the moonlight, but it steals your breath. his eyes are strange—too dark, like a dormant volcano that threatens to leak red for the first time in one hundred thousand years. you feel like if you look too long, you’ll erupt with it.
“then why’d ya come out here?” he asks, voice low, like the hush before a storm. you hesitate, eyes tracing the shifting shadows. “i already told ya why.”
he nods, slow and deliberate, like he’s weighing your words against something heavier. “alright. i’ll believe ya… for now.”
you scoff, but it comes out softer than you intended. “what’s that supposed to mean?”
he doesn’t answer. just pushes off the tree without a sound, as if the forest itself makes way for him. the air changes—cooler, stiller—as he lifts his face toward the canopy, the trees arching like they want to listen.
“ah, ah,” you call, pointing at him. “you said you’d answer my question.”
he glances at you over his shoulder, and there’s a flicker in his eyes—something unreadable, almost curious.
“we could be acquaintances,” he says carefully, “or maybe ya like talkin’ up strange men in the woods.”
your frown deepens. “that’s not an answer.”
“no,” he agrees, voice low as a secret. “but it’s true.”
something in his gaze catches the light, and for a second, you’re not sure if it’s a glint of mischief—or something else entirely.
he goes to walk off again, swaying merrily from side to side like the night belongs to him, like nothing in the world could ever touch him.
“and i don’t even get your name?” you call out, half-marveling, half-exasperated. for someone so wrapped in mystery, he still manages to come off rude.
he stops. turns one last time.
and somehow, you know—it’s the last time he’ll respond. the certainty hits you like static in the air, a charge that zips across your skin and settles deep in your bones.
“sweetheart,” he says, eyes trailing over you with a lazy kind of mischief. a smirk crawls onto his face like it’s always been there, waiting. “you know it.”
your brows pull tight. confusion blooms. before you can shape the question forming behind your teeth, he cuts in—like he’s pulled it straight from your head.
“take a dip into your mind tonight,” he says, voice low and distant, like it’s already drifting away. “you’ll remember it.”
and then—it’s there. right at the edge.
your lips part. they quiver. you bite down to stop the habit you’ve never managed to break.
“damn it,” you whisper.
it’s right there. you can feel it pressing against your tongue. but somehow, you still can’t speak it.
you watch him vanish, slipping between the trees like the forest opened just for him. like he expects you to follow.
he never says it—but the way he walks, the ease in his stride, the smirk half-thrown over his shoulder—it all says you will.
but you don’t.
you’re more than happy to deflate his ego. so you turn on your heel and make your way home, the night thick and humming around you.
when you reach the porch, your daddy’s already waiting, arms crossed, lantern glowing at his feet like a tame fire.
“you didn’t get it,” he says—not accusing, just certain. like he already knew.
you nod. no use pretending otherwise.
“i lost track of it,” you admit, quiet.
he studies you a moment, then sighs. it’s not disappointment you hear—just the tired kind of knowing that comes from a life lived close to danger.
“you were brave tonight,” he says finally, voice rough with something close to pride. “braver than most.”
then, with a nod, he picks up the lantern and waves you off.
“go on. get some sleep.”
and just like that, it’s over. no lecture. no second thought.
but as you climb the stairs to your room, you can’t shake the feeling that nothing’s really over. not yet.
sleep doesn’t come easy, but when it does, it swallows you whole.
you’re standing in the woods again, only this time it’s not foggy—it’s still. unnaturally so. no wind, no crickets, no sound at all. even your breath feels like it’s being swallowed by the trees.
ahead, something glows—a slow, golden flicker, like candlelight caught in water.
you move toward it, barefoot again, leaves slick under your feet. the light leads you, and somehow, you know it’s him. he’s waiting. he always is.
you find him by a half-dead oak, one hand resting on the trunk like he’s listening to something in the bark.
“you came,” he murmurs, not turning.
“i didn’t mean to,” you say, though you’re not sure if that’s true.
he smiles without looking, and then—finally—he turns to face you.
“y’know my name yet?”
his voice is soft, almost kind, but something behind it scratches at the edge of your mind, like claws against wood. you shake your head, “tell me.”
he steps closer. close enough that you see the stars in his eyes—but they aren’t reflections. they’re inside him. burning.
he leans in, mouth near your ear. and he says his name.
the sound of it splits something in you. not pain, not quite. more like a door opening in a place you didn’t know you had. it echoes. it settles.
you try to repeat it—but your lips won’t move. your throat won’t open. something inside you resists, like speaking it would let him inside for real.
“there it is,” he whispers, brushing a finger down your jaw, to your neckline. “just don’t forget it again.”
you jolt awake, cold sweat clinging to your skin.
his name pulses in your mind, louder than your heartbeat, as clear as if you’d just heard it again—and you replay it on your lips, it feels right. feels good. remmick..
you sit up. the farmhouse is quiet. too quiet. no wind through the rafters, no cluck of hens, no groan of the wood beneath your father’s boots. the silence feels stretched. unnatural.
the dream has left you dazed. his face, the stranger’s—remmick’s—is imprinted behind your eyes like a thumb pressed into soft earth. his voice had called to you—not with urgency, but with strange familiarity. like he’d known you longer than you’d known yourself. like you’d promised something.
you go to the window.
outside, the fields ripple under low morning mist, and the corn stalks stand tall but motionless. the barn’s doors are open. not wide, but just a sliver, like they were curious enough to peek. a jagged piece of blue cloth—the fabric that’d been torn last night—flutters from the fence post by the coop. it's knotted tight, as if someone had left it there for you.
you dress slow, careful. the house groans once, somewhere behind the walls, and then settles again. you don’t call out for your daddy. not yet. something about the air makes you feel like if you speak too loud, you’ll break it.
on the porch, the world smells damp and sweet, like rain that hasn’t fallen. a crow watches you from the clothesline, head tilted. you give it a nod like you’re greeting a neighbor, and it caws back, once, like it understands.
you go to the barn first. always best to check the odd things before the expected ones. the cloth flaps lazily when you pass it. the barn doors creak when you pull them open, revealing dust hanging thick in beams of light. nothing is out of place. not really. but the hay has been arranged into a spiral—wide and looping, like something moved through it, not walked. slid.
you step inside anyway. your boots crunch soft over the hay, and the spiral breaks under you. there’s no fear. just that deep feeling you get when you know you’re part of something, but you don’t know what yet. like a play you walked into halfway through, and everyone else already knows their lines.
in the corner of the barn is a chair you don’t remember putting there. an old rocker. you’ve never seen it before, but it doesn’t feel unfamiliar. when you reach out to touch it, there’s warmth still in the wood.
daddy’s voice finally calls from the field.
you leave the barn without looking back, and you don’t tell him about the hay spiral or the warm chair. you just listen as he complains about the cows not coming in for feed, and the fence posts shifting again overnight. the dirt smells too rich, he says. too sweet. like sugar rotting.
the whole day is like that. small things. a second plate set out at breakfast though you swore you didn’t do it. a mirror in the hallway catching someone behind you that isn’t there when you turn. the wind blowing your name once, low and fond, when no one else is near.
you walk the edge of the fields after supper, watching the sky go pink behind the trees. there’s movement between the rows—subtle, almost like someone walking beside you just out of sight. but you don’t look. not tonight. it doesn’t feel threatening. just… familiar.
that night, the dream comes back.
he is there again, just where you left him. standing in the woods, shirt open at the throat, lantern glow behind him. “you remembered,” he says. like he knows.
“that’s alright,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “there’s still time.”
when you wake, the blue cloth is fluttering outside your open bedroom window. the knot so neat it looks deliberate, like a ribbon on a gift. your hand trembles slightly when you hang out of the window to untie it. the fabric is soft, finer than anything you own. it smells faintly of smoke and cedar and something else, like remmick added his own scent to it.
you don’t tell your brothers or your daddy.
he’s already at the edge of the pasture, trying to coax the cattle back toward the barn. they’ve taken to lingering near the woods, eyes wide and wary. he curses under his breath as one bull shakes its head and turns away, refusing to come.
you stand at the back steps and watch the tree line.
you don’t know what you’re waiting for, but your heart seems to. it beats a little faster when a shadow shifts behind the branches. nothing emerges. nothing moves, really. but the stillness feels full, like the pause before someone speaks your name.
at dusk, the sky bruises violet and gold. you walk the perimeter of the fields again, pretending to look for signs of broken fence or paw prints. instead, your hand drifts to the red cloth in your pocket. your thumb brushes it like a worry stone.
when the night falls, you wait.
you leave your window open. just a crack.
the dream doesn’t come.
instead, it’s the tapping that wakes you. soft. rhythmic. like someone gently drumming their fingers on the glass. when you sit up, the room is silver with the moonlight that breaks through the thinness of your curtain. the tapping stops.
you move to the window, slipping your hand between the hanging fabric toward the latch. your heart sinks the moment you see it—a shadowed hand, reaching for yours from the other side of the glass. your breath catches. instinct yanks your hand back, but the shadow doesn’t move. it lingers there, pressed against the pane, too still to be real, too solid not to be.
you stand frozen, heart pounding so loud it muffles the quiet.
finally, once the panic settles into something like courage, you part the curtain.
the shadow is gone.
but just beyond the yard, near the edge of the barn, a figure stands—motionless, watching. not approaching. not retreating. just waiting in the dark, exactly where the lantern light can’t reach.
he doesn’t wave. doesn’t speak. but you know it’s him. remmick. same silhouette. same impossible stillness, like the air around him holds its breath. your own breath fogs the glass.
he waits. for you. he waits for you.
you pull your shawl around your shoulders and slip outside barefoot. the earth is cold, damp. you don’t call to him. you just walk.
as you get closer, you realize he’s not standing in shadow—he is the shadow. moonlight should strike his face, but it doesn’t. it bends around him like it’s shy. only his eyes catch the light, glinting like something not quite human.
“you came,” remmick says, like it surprises him, though something in his eyes suggests he expected nothing less. like he’s been waiting—patiently, deliberately—every night since the first, and would’ve kept waiting, too, just to prove that you would return eventually.
you nod, uncertain, and remmick smiles as if you’ve confirmed something important without realizing it.
“you remembered something,” he says, voice like low thunder, warm and unsettling. “even if you’d rather forget.”
“your name,” you whisper, but the word thickens in your throat. it doesn’t rise. it sinks—heavy and warm—curling behind your ribs like a secret you’re ashamed to know.
his smile deepens, indulgent, knowing. “it’ll come,” he says. “when it needs to. you ain’t need’ta force what already belongs to you.”
you flinch slightly as his gaze shifts, sharp and cold, to the trees behind you.
“the land’s wakin’ up,” he murmurs. “things buried never stay buried long. not here.”
“who are you?” you ask, though the question feels small now, almost childish.
he steps closer, slow, deliberate. the air turns cool—not biting, but intrusive. it slips under your skin like water seeping through cracks. you shiver, but he watches you with quiet satisfaction, as if your discomfort proves something to him.
“a memory,” he says softly, “a promise you made when you thought no one was listening. a consequence you invited.”
you shake your head, instinct tightening your chest. “you’re real.”
he studies you, tilting his head like a curious animal. “yes,” he says, “and no. i’m whatever plagues you.”
his hand lifts—gentle, too gentle—and he brushes a strand of hair from your cheek. his touch is cool, precise, and lingers just long enough to leave something behind: a tremor, a question, a pull.
“you believe in fate?” he asks, voice low, coaxing. like he already knows your answer and wants to hear you say it wrong.
you don’t speak.
his smile returns, quieter now. almost pitying. “you will.”
you step back. the stars seem brighter now, like they’re watching. the barn behind him groans once, the sound old and wet, like wood remembering water.
you don’t see him leave.
you turn around, heart thudding, and walk back to the house.
the morning comes quiet.
you wake with the feeling that something is watching you, but when you open your eyes, there’s only the ceiling above. no shadow at the window, no whisper in your ear. still, your chest is tight like it hasn’t stopped bracing.
you get up slower than usual. your limbs feel like they’ve been moving in your sleep. your feet are dusty, though you could swear you never left the bed.
in the mirror, your face looks the same. but your eyes… they look like you’ve seen something you shouldn’t have.
downstairs, the kitchen is hushed. even the old house seems uncertain how to greet the day. the stove clicks when you light it, and the kettle moans like something waking from a bad dream. you drink your tea standing, watching the trees through the window over the sink.
they move too much for a wind this mild.
the blue fabric is in your pocket. it hadn’t been there when you went to bed, but it’s here now—creased and stained with something that isn’t quite dirt. you smooth it out on the table, trace the threads with your finger. they look newer than they should, like they were stitched last night.
like someone left it for you.
you try the chores anyway. the chickens are uneasy. they don’t peck at your boots like they usually do. they cluster near the fence and watch the treeline, like they expect something to come crawling out.
the barn’s doors are closed now. they weren’t, last night.
you stand outside them for a long time, hand on the latch. you expect the air to be heavy again, or that strange chill to slide down your back like a breath. but it’s just quiet.
too quiet.
inside, everything’s in its place. the tools haven’t moved. the hay is dry. there’s no sign of the figure you saw near the fence. and yet—there’s a smell. faint. metallic. sweet in a way that doesn’t belong in a barn. like rust and roses.
you don’t linger.
back at the house, you find yourself staring at the window where the hand had touched the glass. it should be smudged, but the pane is spotless. cleaner than it’s been in months. you touch the same spot. the glass is cool, colder than the room around it.
dinner time is no different at first. the clatter of forks against chipped ceramic fills the silence. stew’s gone lukewarm in your bowl, but you’ve barely touched it. every now and then, the wood of the chair creaks beneath your shifting weight, and you can feel their eyes on you—watching too long between bites.
“you alright?” leroy asks first. his voice is casual, but his brow’s tight. you glance up, startled by the sound more than the question.
“i’m fine,” you lie, offering a short smile. it doesn’t reach your eyes.
“you been sleepwalkin’ again?” daniel mutters, not looking at you. his spoon scrapes the bowl. “saw the back door open this morning.”
you stiffen. the knot in your stomach pulls tighter.
“door was just unlatched,” you say, “must’ve been the wind.”
daddy lays his fork down slow. “girl, ain’t been wind strong enough to blow open that door since last spring. and your boots were wet this mornin’, tracked mud right through the back hall.”
you blink. you don’t remember putting boots on. you don’t remember walking, either—not really. just the barn. his voice. the candlelight stretching like fingers across the walls.
“you ain’t said a word all day,” leroy notes, “been starin’ at nothin’. mutterin’, too.”
“you’re all lookin’ at me like i’ve grown a second head,” you snap, sharper than you mean to. your heart’s racing, your chest too tight. “i just didn’t sleep well.
“that’s more than no sleep,” daniel analyses, voice low. “you been actin’ strange. and the animals been actin’ strange, too.”
“enough,” daddy demands, but his tone isn’t scolding. it’s quiet. concerned. like he’s been thinking the same thing.
you press your palms flat to the table, trying to steady yourself. the grain of the wood feels unfamiliar. everything does. even the way your family’s looking at you—too still, too measured.
“why’re y’all askin’ me like i did somethin’ wrong?” you ask, eyes glassy.
“we didn’t say that,” your daddy frowns. but something shifts in the room. daniel won’t meet your eyes. leroy’s stopped eating. daddy’s hand is still on his fork, but he hasn’t picked it back up. you can feel the sweat gathering at the back of your neck.
they’re watching you. not like family. not anymore.
they look at you like you’re a reflection in water—familiar in shape, but something’s gone warped beneath the surface. leroy’s jaw is tight. daniel won’t stop glancing your way, then glancing off again. daddy’s fork hangs in his hand like he’s forgotten what to do with it.
the candle flickers once, casting long shadows that stretch over their faces and make them look like someone else entirely.
outside the window, a figure slips past. silent. too smooth. just a smear of shadow. you go still, eyes locked on the glass. no one else reacts. like they didn’t see it. or like they did—and don’t want you to know.
your chair scrapes the floor as you stand. it sounds too loud in the quiet.
“i’m goin’ to bed,” you announce, no one stops you. just three nods.
that night, you light a candle before you go to bed. not the usual lamp, but a tall, white taper that you found tucked in the bottom of the drawer. you don’t remember putting it there.
as the flame flickers, you think about what he said.
a memory. a promise. a consequence.
you whisper the name again, just to try it. you repeat it until it’s all your tongue feels comfortable saying. like a comfort.
outside, a fox screams in the woods. or maybe it’s something else.
you don’t sleep. not really.
you lay with your eyes open, staring at the ceiling while the candle burns down, and the red fabric curls like it's trying to remember what it used to be.
just after midnight, the barn door creaks open again.
you hear it from your bed. and this time, you don’t move.
the sheets snap in the midday wind, pale ghosts dancing between the trees. you pin them to the line with fingers gone stiff from the morning chill, shoulders hunched against it. the scent of soap and woodsmoke clings to the fabric. behind you, boots crunch slow through the patchy grass.
“ain’t dryin’ proper if you bunch ’em up like that,” your daddy says gently.
you don’t look back, “they’ll catch the wind.”
he stops beside you, arms crossed. for a moment, neither of you speak. the wind hums low. a crow calls out once from the trees.
“i know you’re still grievin’,” he says after a stretch. “and i know that’s... partially my fault.”
you pause mid-pin, fingers caught in the act. his voice sounds older than it used to.
“she loved ya,” you say quietly, “and ya loved her.”
“yeah,” he breaths, “and it got her killed.”
the words fall heavy. you move to the next sheet without answering.
“life ain’t been easy for you. or your brothers. not since we came back here. i know that. know what folks say. what they whisper. ‘bout a white man an’ a coloured woman.”
you glance at him then. his jaw is set, weathered. the gray in his beard wasn’t always there.
“we hear it, too,” you say, “we always did.”
he nods. “you were just little when it all happened. but even then, you knew what people looked like when they hated quiet.”
the sheet in your hands slips, and you catch it by instinct. your throat feels tight.
“you think it changed me?” you ask. “mama’s death?”
his gaze doesn’t flinch. “it had to.”
a gust of wind lifts the edge of a shirt on the line. it flaps like a flag, the sleeve brushing your arm.
“you’re different now,” he says. “quiet. faraway. and lately... you’ve been lookin’ like her. when she was scared but wouldn’t say so.”
you swallow hard. “i’m not scared.”
he studies you a long moment. “then what are you?”
you don’t answer. you can’t. not with how your dreams feel like they’re bleeding into the day. not with how you wake up with dirt under your nails and your name whispering back at you in a voice that doesn’t belong to anyone you know—but feels like home.
“if there’s somethin’ you need to tell me,” he says low, “now’s the time. before it gets too deep to dig out.”
you turn your face toward the trees, where the edge of the woods lies waiting
“not yet,” you sigh.
and he doesn’t press you. he just helps hang the last of the laundry, quiet as the sky.
you wake before midnight, but not in the way waking should feel.
it’s that in-between space again—eyes half-lidded, body moving before your mind catches up. your feet know where they’re going. your nightdress brushes against your shins, it sticks to your body, damp with sweat. your fingers twitch open and closed like you’re still holding onto something you can’t see.
the air is thick, humming low like the world hasn’t quite started turning yet.
then you hear him.
not a voice, not clearly. but something rides the wind—soft, drawn out, curling around your ear like smoke. not words, but a shape your soul remembers. something that tugs at you like thread pulled taut.
you don’t stop to put on boots. don’t think to grab a lantern or a gun.
you pass the tree line, where the woods lean in close like old men with secrets. they remember you. they creak and hush, and still you move deeper.
the stream lies just ahead. you don’t need to see it—you feel its presence in your bones. that place where you first saw him, where he first looked at you like he’d known you across lifetimes.
your feet find the slick stones at the water’s edge without stumbling. the current murmurs softly, swollen from last night’s rain, but not fierce. it parts before you, like it knows to let you through.
you cross, the chill biting into your skin. your breath hitches, but you don’t turn back. can’t.
the ravine is shallow here, but the banks rise high and steep as you climb the other side. bramble and brush tug at your soaking nightdress. a loose thread catches on a branch, rips free—white cloth fluttering like a flag left behind. more fabric that this section of wood wants from you.
and still, you follow the sound.
he’s closer now. not behind you. not ahead. just... around. in the trees. in the mist coiling through the undergrowth. the sky above is a hard, dark blue, and you swear the moon lingers too long, watching.
when you reach the clearing, your breath leaves you at the same time that your eyes fall from their rolled back positions in your skull.
he stands beneath a split tree, backlit by silver light. unmoving. not waiting—expecting. your bare feet pause in the moss, but your body leans forward.
“you called me,” you murmur, though you don’t remember opening your mouth. his head tilts.
“ya heard me,” he replies, like it was never in question. his voice is different here—fuller, warmer, yet it chills every part of you it touches. he doesn’t come closer. he doesn’t need to.
“i ain’t mean to come,” you say, though the words sound hollow, like you already know they aren’t true.
“but ya did,” he says. “‘cause ya always do. even when you try not to.”
your fingers twitch at your sides. your heart beats faster now, like it knows it shouldn’t be here. like it remembers something your mind has buried too deep.
“d’ya know why?” remmick asks, like he was finally getting the answer he’s been waiting for…! but you shake your head. he smiles—sad, or amused, or both.
“you will,” he says. the wind stirs. the trees sigh. the sky twinkles as he offers his hand. you take it, shivering from the coldness of his palm.
none of you speak when he turns, just gives a glance over his shoulder, to make sure you’re really there in his hold.
barefoot, breath fogging in the chill before dawn, you trail behind him into the woods with your hand still gripping his. your nightdress clings damp around your legs, torn slightly at the hem where brambles caught you. the ground beneath your feet is soft, moss giving under each step like the earth itself is breathing. it cushions your bare feet.
remmick moves without sound.
no twigs snap under his boots. no rustle from his coat. he walks like he’s always belonged here, but not like he’s part of it. no. there’s something in the way he walks—like he could leave whenever he pleased. like he never intended to stay.
the path curves past a shallow river, down into the belly of the forest where the trees grow taller and closer together. it’s there you see the shack.
not run-down, not quite forgotten, but something older than it should be. wood silvered with time. windows small and round like eyes. smoke curls gently from the chimney, thin and pale.
he doesn’t knock. just opens the door and steps inside.
you linger on the threshold. you don’t know why your heart pounds the way it does—like the bones of this place remember something your body forgot. still, your hand finds the frame, and then you’re inside.
the scent of pine resin and ash wraps around you. herbs hang in bundles from the rafters, casting twisted shadows on the walls courtesy of the many candles. books are stacked in quiet towers. glass jars filled with dark things line the shelves. it smells like memory. like quiet.
you glance around the room—definitely a living room, though worn thin with time—and your eyes catch on a banjo hanging from two rusted hooks above an old rifle mounted on the wall.
you nod toward it, amusement tugging at your lips. “didn’t know you were the musical type.”
remmick follows your gaze. “oh, that? yeah. i like to play when the mood’s right.”
you tilt your head, smirking. “what about the rifle? you strum that too?”
he huffs a quiet laugh, one brow raised. “got jokes, huh?”
you grin, wide and unrepentant.
he shakes his head, chuckling as he steps aside to let you pass. “go on, then. before i show you what a real duet sounds like.”
his smile lingers, and for a brief moment, so does yours.
you take the chair remmick motions to—an old rocker with worn fabric. he moves slowly, not because he’s tired, but because he doesn’t need to rush. everything he does feels intentional. like time obeys him, not the other way around.
“you don’t look surprised to see me,” you chuckle softly.
remmick gives a faint shrug. “you always find me, one way or another.”
a gasp slips accidentally from your throat. your first conversation from a month ago flashes across your mind.
“we met before?”
“we could be acquaintances,” he says carefully, “or maybe ya like talkin’ up strange men in the woods.”
“we’ve met before.”
“in pieces,” he admits cryptically. “in dreams. in other places… but you know where we’ve met before.”
“how long have you been here?”
he glances toward the trees beyond the window. “not long.”
“before that?”
a small smile touches his lips. “everywhere else.”
you don’t know what that means. the kettle hisses over the fire, and he pours the tea without looking at it. hands you a chipped mug without asking if you want it.
“why me?” you ask.
“because you came,” he says, settling into the chair across from you. “that’s all it ever takes.”
you shake your head. “i don’t remember choosing to.”
“doesn’t mean you didn’t.” he leans forward. “some things in us reach out, even when we don’t know why.”
you sip the tea. it’s bitter and grounding, full of something you can’t name. it spreads warmth into your chest.
“you’re not like them,” you say, reffering to hunters and poachers, “not like the others in the woods.”
his eyes glint with something unreadable. “no. i’m not.”
“you’re not bound to this place.”
“nothing holds me,” he says quietly. “not the land. not death. not even time, if i don’t let it.”
you set your cup down. “then why stay?”
his gaze doesn’t waver. “because you’re here.”
a silence falls between you, long and soft.
you study the lines of his face. pale, like moonlight under skin. beautiful, but in a way that feels wrong if you look too long. a beauty sharpened by grief or hunger—something left unfinished.
“i’ve dreamed of you,” you whisper, like if admitting it too loud would offend him.
“you always do.”
“do you dream of me?”
remmick’s lips twitch, not quite a smile. “you’re harder to forget.”
outside, a crow cries. the sound stretches over the treetops and fades.
“you’ve always followed me,” he says, standing. “for a long time. y’don’t remember now, but ya will soon.”
he walks to the window, pushes it open. wind creeps in around the frame.
“they’re stirring again,” he warns, voice lower now. “them old things. nuisances beneath the roots.”
remmick speaks like he’s telling a story, like he’s reading to a child.
“who are they?”
“nothing you need to worry over. not now, or ever.”
he turns back to you, crossing the room with that quiet grace, like he could vanish at any moment.
“stay here, just until the sun’s high,” he pleads, “you’ll be safer here for now.”
you hesitate. “and if i stay longer?”
his smile is slow. “then you’ll start to remember more than jus’ my name.”
you swallow hard, the room suddenly warmer despite the fire having long died to embers. he steps closer, bending down to level with you, quiet as the hush between tree branches, and your breath catches before you even realize you’ve stopped breathing.
his hand lifts, careful, deliberate, fingers brushing along your jaw, cold at first—like creekwater in early spring—but gentling into warmth the longer he lingers. your skin hums beneath his touch, like it remembers him even if your mind won’t say how.
“y’still don’t know,” he murmurs, “but those bones do.”
he leans in slow enough for you to turn away. but you don’t.
his mouth finds yours, soft at first—testing—then deeper, like he’s waited years for you to let him back in. something stirs in your chest, blooming heat behind your ribs, like you’ve kissed him before beneath a hundred moons, in lifetimes neither of you ever got to finish.
when he pulls back, barely, your forehead rests against his.
“doesn’t feel like the first time,” you whisper.
“that’s because it ain’t,” he says, and you believe him.
his breath mingles with yours—cool and steady, unlike the wild rhythm hammering behind your ribs. for a moment, you say nothing. just let the silence cradle you both while your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, grounding yourself in the solidity of him.
his other hand moves to the small of your back, not possessive, but certain. like he knows where you fit best. like he’s done this before, maybe many times, and every version of you always leaned into him just the same.
the air is thick with something unsaid. your pulse flutters like the wings of a moth brushing too close to flame, and you wonder—absurdly, truthfully—if he feels it too.
remmick presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth this time, softer than the last, like he’s memorizing the shape of you piece by piece. “you used to meet me at the edge of the trees,” he murmurs against your cheek. “you’d wear a red ribbon. always that same one.”
your heart stutters. you don’t remember a red ribbon. but the color flares bright in your mind, sudden and warm.
“how do you know that?” you whisper.
his smile is faint, almost sorrowful. “because you gave it to me.”
he pulls back just enough to look at you, searching your face. “i could show you,” he says. “what you’ve forgotten.”
you nod before you can talk yourself out of it. your body answers for you. your memory might be shrouded in fog, but your soul has already started to clear the path.
his lips return to yours—firmer now, more familiar. this time, when his mouth parts yours, you open to him like you’ve done it before. like instinct. there’s no awkwardness, no hesitation. just the steady burn of something old being remembered.
the warmth of the kiss lingers as he leans back and smiles, “you want a song with that too?”
it sounds like hes joking, but you both know that if you asked, he’d do it.
you open your eyes, eyelashes fluttering as the effects of the kiss wears off. you smile, “i’d like that.”
the fire in remmick’s hearth is low, casting gold and amber against the rough-hewn walls of the cabin. you’ve curled yourself into one of the old wool blankets he keeps stacked near the door, still half-dressed from the day, hair mussed, skin kissed by sleep. he sits by the flames, banjo propped against his thigh, tuning it in that careful, distracted way of his—like the motion brings him comfort.
then, without warning, his thumb strikes the strings in a gentle rhythm. slow at first, almost hesitant. and then he begins to sing:
“oh, the summertime is coming,
and the trees are sweetly bloomin’,
and the wild mountain thyme
grows around the bloomin’ heather—
will ye go, lassie, go?”
his voice is rough in places, worn and lived-in. not polished, but real. it slips into the room like fog through the trees, curling around you, settling somewhere deep in your chest.
you shift in your seat, watching him more closely now. “i don’t think i’ve ever heard that one before,” you say, quiet. “what’s it called?”
his fingers don’t pause. “will ye go, lassie, go. old tune.”
you nod slowly. “sounds old.”
remmick smiles, but it’s faint. the kind of smile someone wears when their mind’s somewhere far from here. “it is. from the old country.”
you tilt your head. “england?”
“nah,” he says, shaking his head. “farther west. ireland.”
you blink. “ireland?”
he finally sets the banjo down gently on the floor, resting his hands on his knees. “me ma used to sing it when the wind howled through the slats of the shack we had. back before we came here. before the land was kind or the neighbors were quiet.”
you study him. “i didn’t know you were irish.”
“most folk don’t,” he says, brushing a hand through his hair. “folk like to forget where they came from once the road’s long enough. but i remember. and that song…” he trails off, looking into the fire, “...that song brings it all back.”
you feel something in your chest twist. maybe guilt for not knowing. maybe awe. maybe just the weight of the way he speaks—like the past lives right behind his eyes.
“what was it like?” you ask. “growing up that way?”
remmick breathes out slow. “hard. poor. different. some english patrol caught wind of what he was doin’—smugglin’ food to a rebel priest. that was enough. they made sure mama knew what happened to him. made her scared enough to leave.
he glances at you, the fire casting amber across his cheekbones. “ain’t nothin’ romantic about it. just runnin’ from one fear to another.”
you don’t say anything at first. just nod. and for a while, the cabin is quiet again.
then you whisper, “but the song... it’s beautiful.”
remmick hums in agreement. “aye. it is. even after everything.”
he picks the banjo back up, plucks at a few strings, then says with a half-smile, “want me to sing it again?”
you nod, and lean closer toward the fire.
and when he sings this time, you hear more than just a tune. you hear longing. resilience. a boy buried beneath centuries of struggle, still holding tight to the one thing that couldn't be taken: memory.
remmick is watching you with a stillness that feels ancient. reverent.
“you said you’d always find your way back,” he brings up softly through the quiet.
you don’t answer. not with words. instead, you lean forward again, this time of your own choosing, and kiss him like you’re trying to make up for all the years lost in silence.
and outside, the wind picks up—carrying the scent of pine and riverwater—and the woods seem to sigh, like they too remember.
you wake before the light fully breaks. the cabin is quiet, wrapped in that strange hush that comes just before dawn. not silence—no, it’s thicker than that. like the whole world is holding its breath.
your limbs are heavy, not with sleep, but with something else. warmth. surrender. the ache that follows closeness.
remmick isn’t beside you, but his shirt is. you drape over your bare shoulders, thick and smelling of smoke, pine, and the faintest trace of something human and dark and steady.
you pull it tighter. there’s a soreness in your hips, a looseness in your chest, but it isn’t unpleasant. just… real.
the fire’s burned low, a few embers crackling quietly in the hearth. your clothes are folded neatly at the foot of the bedroll, as if last night had been gentle. it hadn’t always been—but it had never been cruel.
you rise slowly, muscles remembering the weight of him. the way he touched you like he’d done it before, like he would again. like you were something known, and he’d only been waiting for you to remember.
you find him standing by the window. not moving. just watching the woods, his arms folded, jaw slack with thought.
he doesn’t turn when he hears you, but his voice finds you anyway. low. warm.
“you stayed.”
you hesitate before answering. “so did you.”
he glances back at you then, his eyes dark and unreadable in the pale morning light.
you walk toward him, the floor cool beneath your feet. every step brings you closer to that hum, that quiet pull he carries like a second skin. you don’t know what it is—not really—but you want to be near it. near him.
he watches you come closer. doesn’t move to touch you. not yet.
“you’re not afraid of me,” he breathes, like he was expecting something different.
you reach out and carress the outside of his arm, fingers curling around his biceo. “should i be?”
he looks at your hand, then back at your face. his voice is barely more than breath. “not yet.”
you lift his hand and place it at your waist. guide it there, slow. his fingers tighten, tentative but wanting.
“what was last night?” you ask quietly, “for us..”
he leans in, not quite touching, mouth close to your ear. “a beginnin’,” he notes, “or maybe a return.”
you close your eyes. breathe him in. everything about him makes the world blur at the edges. time slows. thought slips.
you press your forehead to his collarbone. he rests his hand against the small of your back, grounding. reverent.
“you feel like something i lost,” you whisper.
“maybe you did,” he answers, “maybe we both did.”
you stay like that for a long time, standing in the stillness, wrapped in warmth and the quiet, unbearable tenderness of being remembered by someone you forgot.
outside, the light finally shifts. dawn creeps in slow. eventually, you step back. his hand trails away from you reluctantly, “stay an’ther day?”
you take a small step back, eyes still on him, breath just a little uneven.
“i don’t know…” you murmur, voice light with mischief, “my daddy’s probably already pacing the porch, mad i didn’t come home.”
there’s a smile tugging at your mouth—teasing, inviting. the kind that says you know exactly what you’re doing. and that, for once, you don’t particularly care about the consequences.
remmick watches you with a look that walks the line between restraint and hunger. “you’re not worried,” he says, stepping forward, slow and sure.
“maybe i am,” you offer, tilting your head, the smile deepening, “but not about him.”
he moves before you can finish that thought, one hand reaching past to tug the curtain shut with a snap. the next second, he’s on you—arms locking around your waist, lifting you with a strength that still surprises you.
you gasp, but the sound is lost as his mouth meets yours—firm, certain, a kiss that spills over into something deeper, something older.
your hands find his shoulders, gripping tight as he carries you across the room with practiced ease, only stopping when the backs of his knees hit the bed of blankets and cushions near the hearth.
you fall into them together, tangled in limbs and heat and laughter that catches in your throat as he kisses you again, slower this time, but no less hungry.
the firelight casts soft shadows around the room, catching on the curve of your jaw, the line of his hands as they smooth over your sides. every breath feels shared, every shift in movement more like a conversation than a collision.
whatever waits outside that cabin—your father’s temper, the questions, the ache of returning to something half-lived—you leave it behind for now.
here, in the quiet hush of the woods and the warmth of him around you, you let yourself disappear into the moment.
just for a little while longer.
remmick’s touch ignites something in you—sharp and consuming, like striking flint to dry leaves. his hands move with reverence, but there’s hunger there too. a need. he reads your body like a language he already knows by heart, coaxing every sound from your throat with precision.
his fingers press into your skin, mapping the lines of your ribs, brushing over your chest in a way that sends heat pooling low. you arch into him before you realize it, breath hitching, your body chasing his touch before your mind catches up.
the fire crackles behind you both, a steady rhythm, but it fades as he focuses on you—and only you. your world shrinks to the space between his breath and yours. the room tilts with every movement, every press and roll of hips that leaves you dizzy and clinging to him.
his mouth finds yours, open and wanting, and you take him in—soft and then demanding, until you’re both breathing the same ache. there’s a strange taste on your tongue, rich and coppery, but it doesn’t startle you. it only makes him groan low and deep, like he’s unraveling at the seams.
you lose time in the tangle of limbs and whispered gasps, in the give and pull of bodies learning each other by instinct. when it crests, it does so in waves—slow and spiraling, until all you can do is hold on.
after, you lie in the hush of morning. skin damp, hair clinging to your temples, your legs still wrapped around his. remmick’s fingers trace lazy circles along your sides, grounding you. you don’t speak. you don’t need to.
the warmth between you is quieter now, but no less powerful.
something has changed. something has opened. and though you don’t yet know what to call it—you know it’s his, and it’s yours.
the fire burned low by the time your eyes cracked open, light from the hearth still flickering faint on the cabin walls. the air was thick—still scented of pine, smoke, and something older. dusk was pressing in outside, and for a moment you didn’t know what time it was, what day it might be.
you shifted under the quilt, still warm from the cocoon of blankets and from remmick’s body—except now he was gone.
you sat up, disoriented.
a floorboard groaned.
the door creaked open.
you looked.
and there he was.
remmick.
but not the remmick you remembered falling asleep beside. not the one who whispered your name like it was something sacred.
this one stood with his shoulders hunched, breathing heavy. blood slicked his jaw, stained the corner of his mouth. it dripped slow from the side of his chin to the base of his throat. his eyes weren’t soft—they glowed faint, scarley and wild.
your breath gets caught in your throat. you know where you’d seen remmick before. that night on the dirt road. he was no man, he’s not who you believed he was.
and his mouth… you saw them. the fangs. not long, but enough. enough to change everything.
he stilled when he saw you awake. like a child caught red-handed.
“i didn’t mean for you to see me like this, mo stór,” he muttered, voice low and rough as gravel. that southern drawl still there, but coarser now, heavier with something feral. like he’s finallt given up the facade, “thought you’d be sleepin’ through the night.”
you stared. breath locked in your chest.
“what did you do?” you whispered. it wasn’t a question. it was a statement.
he stepped forward. you flinched.
he slowed, held up a hand—bloody fingers trembling just slightly. “now hold on, darlin’. don’t go lookin’ at me like that. it ain’t what’cha think.”
“then tell me what it is,” you snapped, the weight in your chest crumbling. “what are you?”
he didn’t answer. not right away. just kept walking until he was in front of you, crouched low by the bed, his head tilted.
“you remembered me,” he said instead, “you felt it. the pull, my call.”
“you made me think we had a past,” you hissed, throat tightening. “you made me think i—that i meant something to you.”
“you do remember,” he said gently, like trying to soothe a spooked horse. “just not the way you want to. i just… gave it a nudge.”
the realization hit you like a stone to the ribs.
“you lied,” you breathed.
his eyes darkened, something hollow flickering behind them. “i gave you a story you wanted to believe. that’s all any of us are ever doin’.”
when he leaned in again, you turned your face—but he caught your chin with blood-slick fingers and kissed you anyway. rough. hungry. it tasted of iron. it burned. you tried to pull back and his hand slid to the back of your neck, holding you there.
you felt him nip at your lip and you winced, pushing his face away but his grip on you still remained
he growled low in his throat—not pain, but something else. something dangerous. “you still got fire,” he rasped, close against your skin. “that’s why i liked you then. why i still do.”
you shoved him off with all the strength you had. scrambled to your feet, heart pounding like a drumline in your ears. you didn’t look back—you went for the mantle.
your fingers closed around the rifle.
“don’t do that,” remmick said, a warning under the twang of his voice now, “you don’t wanna turn this into somethin’ it don’t need to be.”
“you turned it into somethin’ the moment you walked into my life with blood on your goddamn mouth.”
he flinched, just a little. then smiled. slow. almost admiring.
“go on then,” he said, stepping aside. “run if you need to.”
you didn’t wait. you bolted, feet hitting the floor, body numb but moving fast. you burst out of the door and into the woods, not caring where you landed. not anymore.
behind you, the door remained open with remmick’s shadow-veilled form remained. his eyes glowed, staring at your fleeting form. his head tilted, as if to mock you and as if the wind still carried his voice, it told you this was only a headstart.
the woods swallowed you fast.
you didn’t wait to see if he followed—couldn’t bear to look back. branches snagged at your—remmick’s—clothes and scratched your arms, the damp underbrush pulling at your ankles like it, too, wanted to keep you. the rifle was heavy in your grip, but you held onto it like it was the only truth left in a world turned sideways.
behind you, the door to that old shack groaned shut. and then nothing.
silence.
until the sound of him came.
not footsteps—no. nothing so human.
just the breath of the woods shifting. the hush of something too still.
“you always did have a pretty way of runnin’, mo ghrá.”
his voice was soft, distant—but it was close. too close. it echoed through the trees like wind through hollow bones, “no point hidin’, i can hear your heartbeat.”
your heart pounded in response. he was right. he could probably hear it.
you pushed yourself harder. the path ahead was no path at all—just tangled brush and fallen branches, moonlight flickering through thick pine. still, you knew these woods better than he did. this land raised you, rough and cruel as it could be. you ducked through a thicket and atopped at the shallow ravine, the same one where you met him that first time—where it had felt like fate.
fate was for the doomed.
the mud is cold, and it clings to your skin like a second breathless silence as you slip down into the ravine, hiding under the rocks protruding from the sides, heart hammering. the rifle lies half-buried under your arm. it’s quiet now, but you can feel him near—close enough that even the insects have stopped humming.
then you hear him.
his voice slips through the trees like honey through cracked bark.
“i’m gonna tell you how it’ll go, mo ghrá,” remmick says, slow and clear, not shouting—he knows you’re listening. “so when it happens, you won’t be so afraid. it’ll be like steppin’ into water you already tested.”
you don’t move. not even a twitch.
“first, i’ll find you,” he says. “don’t matter how long it takes. i’ll hear the tremble in your breath, the quake in your bones. you can’t hide that from me. not forever.”
a pause. you think he’s closer now.
“then i’ll touch you, soft like before. like a prayer. i’ll hold your face in my hands so you can’t look away, and i’ll ask—just once. ‘cause even creatures as i remember their manners.”
your fingers dig into the earth.
“and when you say yes—and you will, sweetheart, ‘cause the fire’s already in your blood—i’ll bite. not hard. not cruel. just enough.”
you clamp your jaw shut, willing yourself not to cry.
“you’ll go quiet first. the world’ll spin. like drownin’, but there’s air somewhere deep. you just gotta trust me to bring you back.”
his voice lowers—softer now, like a secret between lovers.
“then i’ll give you mine. my blood. my curse, if you wanna call it that. but i call it freedom. no hunger, no time, no dyin’. just the two of us. for however long the dark lets us stay.”
the leaves rustle. you swear you see his boots move past the edge of the ditched revine—but he doesn’t stop.
“you think you’re still runnin’, but you crossed the line a long time ago,” he says. “and now, sugar, you’re just walkin’ toward your end. or your beginning. depends how you see it.”
his steps drift away, slow and sure.
“you think that rifle gon’ save you?” he called, voice lilting, almost amused. “you got grit, i’ll give you that. but you ain’t the hunter, sweetheart.”
you didn’t answer. you didn’t dare.
your breath came out in ragged exhales as you decided now was the time to make your move. you trudged through the quick water, holding back your sobs of fear. your legs felt weak against the current but your will to live kept you going, was what made you climb back out and keep running.
somewhere to your left, a bird shot up from the ground. your breath hitched. he was circling.
you crouched low behind a rotted stump and held your breath. the forest pressed in, thick and watching. you swallowed hard, pulse thudding in your ears as your mind worked quick and sharp. remmick was faster than you, stronger too—but he moved like a creature, not a man. instinct ruled him. sound, scent, sight. if you could take those from him—his senses—you might just have a chance.
your fingers tightened on the rifle.
one shot to the eyes. another to the ears, if you got close enough.
he hunted like a beast. so you'd fight like someone who knew how to kill one.
“see, i tried to be patient with you,” remmick’s voice drawled, “gave you time. gave you space. hell, i even gave you a head start. that’s love, darlin’. that’s mercy.”
the wind shifted—and so did the air.
he was close.
you peered around the stump, heart hammering. the forest held its breath. nothing moved.
then something snapped to your right.
you fired.
the sound cracked through the woods, echoing sharp and mean. a shout followed—a grunt of pain, rough and guttural. remmick shot up, clutching his nose.
you’d hit him.
your stomach twisted—not from guilt, but grim satisfaction.
you ran again, faster now.
“well now,” he hissed, voice ragged, furious. “that ain’t very ladylike.”
your lungs burned. thorns clawed at your shins. the sky above was painted gray-blue, dawn pressing at the edges of night—but still not enough light to guide you.
“you think you’re gonna win this?” he snarled from somewhere too near. “you can’t hide from me. i can smell your skin in the rain, hear your blood singin’ in your veins.”
you stumbled, caught yourself on a low branch. sweat ran into your eyes, your mouth dry with panic.
“you thought i was soft, didn’t you?” he said. “thought i was just a memory. just a pretty voice in the dark. but no—i was the dark.”
it irks you—how he hypes himself up and turns himself into this amazing stellar being.
the trees swallowed your breath.
every twig underfoot betrayed you. every branch above you watched. the only sound sharper than your heartbeat was the distant rush of the river far behind you now—and his voice, rising like smoke.
“is that any way to repay your savior?”
you stopped. the echo of his shout trembled through the woods, full of fury and something worse—wounded pride.
“i saved you,” remmick said again, closer this time. “you don’t even know how much yet.”
you spun around, rifle shaking in your hands. shadows shifted, but you couldn’t find him. not fully. just the sense of him—moving like a second wind through the trees.
“stay away from me,” you warned, voice dry, weak.
he laughed, low and bitter. “you already know what i did to the cultists.”
your blood went cold.
“they would’ve bled you like livestock,” he growled. “i stopped ‘em. broke their ribs in and salted the ground where they laid. for you.”
leaves rustled to your left. you aimed, breath caught, but he wasn’t there.
“you think i’m the danger?” he hissed. “you think this—this game you’re playin’—ends with you runnin’?”
then suddenly, he stepped out from behind a tree, maybe ten feet away, breathing hard, mouth smeared with dark red. his eyes caught the moonlight like a predator’s.
“you lied to me,” you whispered, tears welling unbidden. “you made me think there was something—something good in you.”
his expression softened just a flicker. “there is, darlin’. i kept it soft for you.”
“but you—” your voice broke.
he took one slow step forward, arms out slightly. “you ain’t seein’ the whole picture. you’re still sleepin’ through it.”
“don’t come closer.”
“you called me in your dreams, sweetheart. don’t you remember that? i came when you needed me. i always come.”
he took another step.
you stepped back, falling backwards into the gully that bordered your daddy’s land, and slipped down the bank, half-falling. mud coated your hands and knees. crying out, you scrambled backwards the rifle strapped tight across your back as your eyes darted to find remmick.
you raised the rifle.
a blur of movement to your left—and suddenly he was there.
remmick lunged, fast and wrong, too fast for a man. his eyes burned gold in the dark. he must’ve been angry and unsatisfied. you’d only seen his scarlet irises, never ones of pure gold.
you whipped around and struck out with the butt of your rifle—caught him square across the temple.
he snarled, reeled back. blood splashed across your shirt. you didn’t stop. you jammed the barrel toward his face and pulled the trigger again.
bang.
straight through his ears. one side to the other. he stumbled back, yelling as his ears bled.
bang. once again.
his left eye. it knocked him down into the mud. one more shot and he’d be out of commission for a good, good while.
click.
your heart dropped and you ran without giving one more thought to the fact that you ran out of bullets.
his lips peeled back into a grin as he watched you run.
“clever girl,” he rasped.
he lunged again and you ducked, scrambling back up the ridge. pain flared in your thigh as you slipped, bark tearing into your skin.
his laughter followed you—cruel, sharp as thorns.
“crazy, ain’t it?” he called, breathless with the thrill. “how the hunter becomes the hunted?”
you ran toward the house lights barely flickering in the distance. only a field stood between you and the porch—but your legs were heavy, your breath ragged. you didn’t know if you could make it.
“you can’t run forever, darlin’,” he called, voice rough and ragged now. “and even if you do… i’ll always be just behind you.”
you turned, raising the rifle like a club.
but he wasn’t there.
only silence.
only night.
and then a whisper against your ear, too close, too cold: “found you.”
you screamed and swung the rifle again. this time it caught something. he grunted, stumbled back—half-shadow, half-man.
you didn’t wait to see if he’d rise again.
you bolted across the field.
your daddy’s house loomed like a savior. you hit the steps hard, burst through the door, heart in your throat, eyes wide and wild. no one else was awake. only you. only him. outside, the wind howled.
and somewhere in the trees, remmick was still smiling.
the front door slammed open before you reached the porch, the screen door bouncing off its hinges.
your daddy stood there barefoot in the dirt, shotgun clutched in both hands, wild-eyed and heaving. he must’ve heard the scream—your scream—and come running. he squinted into the night, trying to make sense of the shape tearing across the field.
you.
you, in another man’s shirt, your nightdress nowhere to be seen, your face streaked with blood and sweat. the rifle hung limp in your hand, your bare feet cut and muddy. you looked nothing like the girl he kissed on the forehead two mornings ago. the one who he never would’ve suspected would up and leave so suddenly.
“what in god’s—”
you didn’t give him time to finish.
you hit the steps like a storm breaking and threw yourself into his chest, burying your face into the familiar, sweat-salt smell of him. the shotgun clattered to the porch floor.
“please,” you sobbed, fists clinging to his shirt. “please let me come home, please let me in—please.”
he caught you like he’d done when you were little, arms steady even though his whole body had gone stiff with confusion and fear.
“baby girl,” he muttered, voice caught somewhere between a growl and a prayer, “who did this to you? who—”
“don’t let him get me,” you begged. “please.”
his hand cupped the back of your head, rough and warm. “ain’t nobody gonna touch you now, y’hear me? i got you. i got you.”
he held you up when your legs gave out and kicked the door open wider with his boot. you sagged against him like your bones had gone soft, breath catching in wet gasps.
“leroy! daniel!” he barked over his shoulder. “get the goddamn lanterns. somebody’s comin’—and it ain’t somethin’ good.”
but all you could do was whisper again, voice trembling: “please let me come home.”
and for the first time in a long while, your daddy didn’t ask questions. he just held you close and took you inside.
after that night, things changed.
you slept long into the day. the light stung your skin. you stopped laughing. the world felt too loud, too bright, too much.
daddy kept the rifle by the door and said nothing.
leroy tried once—just once—to ask what happened.
you didn’t answer. you just looked at him long enough for him to regret it.
and still, none of them touched the button-up.
you folded it up and tucked it into the chest at the foot of your bed, though some nights you swore you heard the buttons rattle when the wind blew wrong.
they found your dress by the river a week later. one sleeve torn. hem stained red with something that wasn’t quite blood.
no tracks. no signs of pursuit. just absence.
it was like the woods had swallowed you whole and spit you back out a changed woman.
some nights, you stand at your bedroom window and listen.
the wind drags through the trees like it’s calling your name. sometimes it almost sounds like him.
sweetheart, it coos. i gave you somethin’. you just ain’t figured out what yet.
you close the curtains.
you tell yourself it’s over. that you’re safe.
but deep down, you know the truth: whatever happened out there in the dark, it wasn’t finished.
not yet.
okay we made ittt !! what remmick wants hell get. i saw someone say that because hes yearning for a community, instead of being all nonchalant and swuave, he’d be all clingy and stuff and do anything to make their partner stay and would defo turn them (are you a vampire??? hmmm) so that kind of inspired me.
synopsis. a woman of divine beauty, grace and fairness has plagued remmick’s mind and being. no matter where he goes, what time he’s in—you’ve been around every corner. he cannot escape your watchful eye. he knows you aren’t human but you are no vampire like him. and while he finds everything about his situation frustrating, he finds you quite intriguing.
tags and warnings. remmicks pov, hes pining unknowingly, mythical ambiguity for the most part, temporal ambiguity so lots of time skips, readers race isnt specified or specific to the story, know-it-all gf vs quickly humbled bf, fluffy, bit angsty, some discriptions of feeding
wc. 10k
1,385 years. one thousand, three hundred and eighty-five long, excruciating years in which remmick had no choice but to endure your presence—your seraphic presence. seraphic, not in beauty, but in that maddening way you carried righteousness like armor, wisdom like a curse. your face, ageless and untouched by time, only deepened his resentment. the more he was forced to see it—those eternal, untarnished features—the more unbearable you became. there was nothing soft or lovely about it anymore. your immortality was a wound that never healed, and he bled quietly beside you for centuries.
you came to him first in the rawness of your glory—nude, your flesh supple and unnervingly perfect, like something carved from the dreams of old gods. it was only weeks after the catholics had spilled into ireland, clinging to their bibles and breathing scripture like smoke. remmick, newly turned and still trembling in the dark, didn’t yet understand what he was. he thought he had died from the wounds carved into him by war and man, and he sobbed like a child beneath the stars when he saw you approaching—not through the river, but on it. your bare feet pressed the water’s skin as if it were solid, each step leaving behind a shimmer like fireflies or some underwater bloom. the stream itself was dull, lifeless. it had never glowed before. it never glowed again. only when you walked toward him like it was the most ordinary thing in the world did it come alive with light.
“the lord does not encourage such violence,” was all you said. or perhaps not to him at all—your voice was distant, almost drifting, as if carried on mist. it felt less like a warning and more like a half-forgotten thought, spoken aloud without meaning to. weightless, airy, like you were reminding yourself of some rule you no longer believed in, repeating it out of habit more than conviction. the words hung in the air, delicate and hollow, and remmick wasn’t sure if they were meant for him or the sky above.
your words unsettled him. the lord. even hearing the name turned his stomach. after everything he’d suffered—everything he’d lost—invoking the man upstairs felt like a cruel joke. it was tone-deaf, sanctimonious. so when you opened your arms, all light and grace, offering some divine comfort, he recoiled like you were poison.
“stay away from me!” he snapped, stumbling backward. “i ain't interested in walking with god’s so-called vessel.”
his voice cracked, thick with fury and something raw beneath it—betrayal, maybe. or grief.
you merely frown and watch as he scrambles off deeper into the trees.
remmick wandered deep into the woodlands, far enough that the moon vanished behind the thick weave of branches overhead. the air grew colder there, denser, and the only light came in faint silver slivers where the canopy broke. he let the owls guide him, their low, rhythmic hoots echoing like warnings through the underbrush. every step tangled him deeper in roots and bramble, the trees growing close and ancient around him, as if they were watching.
then—a sound. sharp, low, guttural. a growl, too deliberate to be the wind. it came from ahead, thick in the dark. his eyes adjusted, and he saw them: teeth gleaming like shards of polished bone, bared in a snarl that pulsed with threat. a wolf. broad-shouldered, fur rippling like smoke in the moonless dark. remmick froze.
good, he thought. maybe now, finally, it would all end.
but something inside him stirred—deep, primal, and hungry. not fear. not relief. hunger. sharp and sudden, like a spike to the gut. his throat burned. his limbs ached to move. and before he understood what he was doing, he stepped forward, slow and silent, toward the wolf.
it blinked, muscles tense, and backed away—eyes locked on him, more confused than afraid. it knew something was wrong. it sensed something unnatural.
remmick kept moving, drawn not by instinct to survive, but by something darker, something ancient coiled now inside him.
before he could even think to lunge, a light broke open behind him—blinding, radiant, pure white. it wasn’t overwhelming. no, it was no different to the faint light of a flame. it was just unnatural underneath the shade of the canopy. the wolf didn’t wait. it bolted, tail low and body vanishing into the underbrush with a panicked rustle.
remmick turned, breath sharp, pupils blown wide as his eyes locked onto the source.
you.
you, this insufferable, god-touched creature, glowing as if the stars themselves bent to your will. no flame, no torch—just you, radiating light as effortlessly as a flower bleeds scent. it was unnatural. it was maddening.
remmick let out a low, guttural growl. his body trembled with hunger, pain pulsing in his torn flesh like a second heartbeat. he was wounded, starving, half-mad—and there you stood, pristine, untouched, a walking symbol of everything he’d come to loathe.
he squinted at you through the harsh light, eyes narrowed, seething with anger and exhaustion. “wha’dyou want?” he snapped, voice rough like gravel. “i thought i told you to stay away.”
you didn’t answer. instead, your gaze drifted lazily to his face, head tilting slightly, eyes calm—almost amused.
“you are drooling,” you said, voice soft and unbothered.
remmick wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, scowling as he turned away. “can’t blame a man for being hungry,” he muttered, bitterness coating each word like tar.
you only smiled, a slow, knowing curve of your lips, and without a word, followed him—silent, steady, undeterred by his resentment. his anger rolled off you like water on stone.
“you will have to learn how to control that hunger,” you said, voice light, almost distant, like the words weren’t really meant for him alone, “you are not the man you used to be. not anymore.”
there was a quiet finality to it, as if the truth had already settled in the soil around you, waiting for him to catch up.
“what am i then?” remmick asked, voice rough and brittle, like dried bark about to snap. there was a weight behind it, something choked and bruised, the kind of heaviness that clung to a man who’d wept alone through too many sunless nights—because the sun, once warm and welcoming, had turned its back on him completely.
your expression didn’t shift. your voice was steady, almost cold.
“inhuman.”
“an’ what about you?” remmick’s voice cut through the air, a mix of frustration and suspicion. “you look human, but you ain’t one.”
you nodded slowly, your gaze steady, almost serene, as if every word you spoke was steeped in something far beyond him.
“a keen observation, remmick,” you replied, your voice soft yet filled with an ancient grace. “i am not human, nor have i ever been. i merely wear this face, this form, for as long as my time among mortals endures.”
remmick jumped at the sound of his name, the echo of it like a whisper from a past he hadn't invited. he never told you his name. never gave you the right to know it. yet, there it was, hanging between you like a thread woven from the air itself.
the world around him swayed, and it wasn’t from too many drinks of ale or beer. it was something far heavier.
“how did ya know my name?” he demanded, voice tight with disbelief, as his hand shot out, gripping your shoulder with an urgency that bordered on panic. “what even are ya? there’s something... unorthodox about you. nobody radiates light like that! and absolutely nobody galavants around naked, óinseach!”
you regarded him with an almost sorrowful expression, lips pressing together in a faint frown.
“i apologize,” you murmured, your tone gentle but laced with something ancient. “i can tone down my appearance if it frightens you.”
remmick froze, his pulse stuttering in his chest. then, before his very eyes, you shifted—your form bending, stretching, warping, as if reality itself could no longer hold the weight of your true essence. a blur of faces spun before him—his younger sister, laughing beneath the sun; his mother, her tired eyes soft with love; his wife, her smile warm, full of memories that felt like a dream; his older brothers, strong and brash, voices echoing through the corridors of his past; and his daughter, her innocent eyes full of questions, a life he’d lost forever.
each face flickered in and out of your shifting form, leaving a trail of aching familiarity in their wake, and remmick’s breath caught as the weight of it all settled over him.
a terrified yell ripped through remmick’s throat, his body jolting with a surge of panic as he stumbled backward, scrambling away from you. his legs carried him without thought, driven by instinct, his heart pounding in his chest like a drum of war.
he didn’t dare to look back. the images—the faces—clung to him like a curse, and the sight of them twisted something deep inside him.
this time, you didn’t follow.
you stood still, an immovable figure in the shifting darkness, watching him retreat with quiet understanding. your gaze lingered on the space where he had been, serene yet filled with a sorrow that was not yours to bear.
that was his first encounter with you and now he wears you like a burden. you didn’t show up for days after that and remmick began to believe you were a fever dream. something he made up due to delirium.
but then, just as suddenly, you appeared—the sound of waves washing softly on the shore marking your arrival. your natural glow was the only light beside the pale moon, soft and unearthly, illuminating the world around you in quiet brilliance.
remmick groaned in frustration upon seeing you, his shoulders sagging in resignation. “i thought ya’d have written me off by now. labelled me a lost cause.”
you shook your head, the motion slow and graceful, your presence like a steadying breath in the chaos of his mind.
“no,” was all you said, the simplicity of it carrying a weight beyond words.
without waiting for him to respond, you sat down beside him, where the sand darkened with the lingering traces of water’s touch. the cool salt air swept over you, and the ocean’s rhythm seemed to pulse in time with your being. the salty water kissed your skin, as though it had been waiting for you to arrive.
“i found some clothes so i would not stand out,” you chirped, your voice light and carefree as though nothing had transpired between you. remmick didn’t want any part of this conversation, but you were relentless.
he nodded, barely looking at you, pulling his head closer to his knee. “good on ya.”
“i wanted to give you space after our last conversation,” you continued, tone softening. “i realize i was... insensitive. and for that, i want to apologize.”
remmick raised an eyebrow, the bitterness in his voice sharper now. “if i accept it, will ya leave me alone?”
you laughed—a sound so unexpected and pure that it caught him off guard. the first time he’d heard it, and it was like a breath of wind through still air. “not forever, no. but for now, will that suffice?”
he sighed, letting go of the tension in his shoulders for a moment. “i forgive ya then.”
and just like that, you were gone. not with a quiet fade or a dramatic burst of smoke, but simply—gone. one second, remmick could hear the steady beat of your pulse, the rush of blood flowing beneath your skin, and the next, the world was empty, save for the sound of waves and the distant echo of his own heartbeat.
he waited in silence, the stillness of it pressing in on him, until his hunger clawed at him again, and he turned his focus to the water, waiting for a fish’s heartbeat to break the quiet.
it took remmick a long time to understand what he had become: a vampire. it wasn’t until he encountered others like himself that the true weight of his transformation hit him. in their eyes, he saw only the reflection of something monstrous—unnatural, evil. but remmick wasn’t evil. his life had been stolen from him, ripped away in a moment of violence, and now he was left to survive on instinct, just like any creature would.
that wasn’t evil. it was simply the harsh truth of nature’s cold hand. survival, stripped down to its most primal form. natural selection.
they taught him what it truly meant to feed, the raw satisfaction that came with fully indulging his hunger. feeding on humans—it felt strange, yes, but it also felt right, as if his body had been designed for this purpose and nothing else. there was no one to tell him there were other ways, no gentle voice reminding him of the choices he still had.
in truth, he hadn’t seen you in a long while. he hadn’t felt the comforting warmth of your light, nor the unsettling pull of your golden blood since that brief encounter at the beach. he had told you to leave him be, and you had listened—something he hadn’t expected but couldn’t help but feel grateful for.
still, as time passed, something gnawed at him. it was subtle, like a missing note in a melody, a strange emptiness in the quiet that followed your departure. part of him was glad you were gone, but there was another part—a part he couldn't ignore—that felt... unsettled.
when you finally appeared, remmick was nestled at the edge of an ancient castle ruin, tucked into the jagged rocks and rubble. the moonlight filtered through a gaping hole in the stone wall, casting silver beams across his form, and he lay there, eyes closed in quiet stillness. moonbathing, he called it. though, when you approached, he shot you a disgruntled look, clearly annoyed by the interruption.
“moonbathing?” you asked, your head tilting in quiet curiosity, “i understand that the sun darkens the skin, but why would you try to tan in the moonlight?”
remmick shrugged, not bothering to lift his gaze. “ha'fta keep my pale complexion up to date," he muttered with a dry smirk, clearly unbothered by your confusion.
“so you have no intention of tanning?” you ask, still standing in the frame of the hole in the wall. remmick shakes his head, “if i tried to tan, i’d get a little more than sunburn.”
you nodded slowly, a thoughtful motion, but before you could speak, remmick waved a hand and grunted, “move outta the way. you’re blocking the moon.”
he hadn’t exactly told you to leave, so you quietly stepped over the rubble, your movements as fluid as mist, and settled down beside him, folding your body against the cool stone as if it belonged there.
“do you know about constellations?” you asked after a pause, turning your head to face him, your voice gentle, like a breeze trying not to wake the earth.
remmick kept his eyes closed, but he could feel your gaze on him, steady and curious.
“no,” he muttered, “ya gonna give me a random fact o’ the day?”
you smiled faintly and nodded, undeterred by his sarcasm.
“many constellations are tied to the zodiacs,” you began, your voice slipping into that melodic cadence you often carried when speaking of old things. “twelve of them form a path the sun appears to follow throughout the year. the ancients charted them to navigate the seas, tell time, even predict their fates. and if you look just there—” you lifted a hand, pointing skyward “—you can see libra, the scales. it is faint, but present. balance, even in darkness.”
your words trailed off into the night, soft and steady, like starlight dripping into silence.
remmick grunted, finally cracking one eye open to glance at you. “fascinating,” he muttered dryly, “write a book about all that and they’ll string you up as a witch.”
“no one knows i exist,” you replied, calm and matter-of-fact, as if discussing the weather.
remmick sighed and let his head fall back against the stone. “iontach. so i’m the lunatic talking to the ghost nobody else can see.”
“i am not a ghost either,” you said with a soft smile, the kind that barely touched your lips but somehow warmed the space between you. “i am sure you have figured out what i am by now.”
remmick let out a dry chuckle, the sound low and a little hollow. “my best guess?” he said, eyes fixed on the sky. “i’m seein’ things. you’re not real—just something my mind cooked up to keep me company when the silence gets too loud.”
“if that is what you believe,” you replied, your tone quiet, unreadable—neither confirming nor denying, as steady as still water.
then, without another word, you rose, movements fluid and precise. you stepped lightly across the scattered bricks, your figure momentarily silhouetted in the moonlight as you reached the jagged hole in the wall.
“until next time, remmick,” you said over your shoulder, voice echoing just slightly, like it belonged to the night itself.
remmick watches as you disappear but he swears your hand lingers on the brick for a second longer. he’s left in silence now until your words echo, until next time. he groans, what about never?
he does see you. again and again and again. your visits get more frequent until you’re both caught unexpectedly in war. the eleventh century. remmick thought he had escaped your watchful eye and found himself hitching rides with strangers in their carts, hiding under thick velvet rugs until nightfall where he bid his goodbyes and wandered off. he should’ve known you’d find him.
remmick stood at the edge of the treeline, deliberately keeping himself in the shadows, avoiding the last vestiges of sunlight that hung stubbornly in the sky. his eyes scanned the valley below, where the battle raged fiercely, men clashing in a frenzy of steel and blood. the air was thick with the sounds of war—shouting, the clang of weapons, the stampede of hooves. it was chaos, but he was content to watch from afar, detached from the madness.
and then, as if summoned by some unseen force, you appeared. he didn’t need to see you fully to know—it was the light that gave you away. a soft, golden glow that seemed to push back against the fading daylight. it clung to you, hovering just at the edges of your presence, and for a brief moment, it felt like the world itself dimmed just to make room for you.
“ain’t bored o’ me yet?” remmick muttered, his voice laced with annoyance and something else—something he refused to acknowledge.
you didn’t answer immediately. instead, there was a slight rustle in the air, a shift in the atmosphere as you moved closer. when you did speak, your voice was serene, effortless. “not at all.”
he couldn’t see it, but he could feel the subtle shake of your head, the shift in the air that told him you were amused. you always were, always so certain and unbothered by his disdain.
he huffed, rolling his eyes and returning his focus to the battle below. you were like a persistent, unavoidable breeze—always there, no matter how much he tried to ignore you.
its silent between you two as you both experience the rage of the battle of hastings below, the cries of men filling the air as blood stains the earth beneath. the dying light of the sun casts long shadows across the field, and the sky is a mixture of fading reds and purples. you stand at the edge of the treeline, your presence almost otherworldly, that strange divine glow surrounding you like a halo. it's the kind of light that would make anyone believe you're something holy, untouchable, perfect. but remmick doesn't care about any of that.
he stands next to you, his arms crossed, eyes bored as they track the chaos below. his face is hard, indifferent—he's seen enough of human suffering to not bat an eye at it. to him, they're all just ants. he turns his attention to you, though, the faintest hint of annoyance crossing his features. it’s the same thing every time. you show up, radiating light, acting like you’ve got a hand in this world’s fate. he’s sick of it.
you speak, your voice a soft, almost ethereal whisper. “do you ever wonder if they know what they are fighting for?”
remmick scoffs, the sarcasm dripping from his words. “i’m sure they’re all very aware of their ‘noble causes,’” he mutters. “but it don’t matter, do it? they’ll die anyway.”
you give him a sidelong glance, those piercing eyes of yours studying him like you always do. “do you think death is all they’re meant for?”
“i think most of them wan’ it,” he responds flippantly, his gaze flicking over to the chaos below. “or maybe they're just too stupid to know when to stop fighting.”
you shake your head, a quiet sigh escaping your lips, your tone almost sad. “you’re so jaded, remmick.”
he looks at you then, an eyebrow raised. “and you’re so holy.” he leans against a tree, crossing his arms tighter. “if you think they’re all so deserving of your pity, why don’t ya help ‘em out?”
you ignore his question, your gaze fixed on the battle once more. it’s almost as if you can’t help yourself—you have to watch, to be present. but then something catches his attention. the flicker of an arrow in the last rays of sunlight. it's a fleeting thing, but remmick notices it.
before he can react, the arrow strikes you.
it’s quick. too quick for him to fully process. he hears you gasp, and then you stumble slightly, your hand clutching at your side. the arrow, so perfectly aimed, has found its mark in the divine part of you, piercing through the space where your beauty and immortality should be untouched.
he doesn’t react immediately. instead, his gaze lingers on you, observing the way your breath hitches as the golden blood begins to seep through your fingers. his mouth curls into something that might have been a smile, but there’s no warmth in it. there’s nothing but quiet satisfaction in the knowledge that he’s right.
you’re not as untouchable as you think.
“oh, look at that,” he murmurs, the words coated in a kind of cruel humor, “a little scratch. guess you ain’t as perfect as everyone thinks.”
he watches for a moment longer as you stand there, your form still glowing faintly even as blood drips from you. you’re not the same now. you’re broken. you’ve been touched by the same death that touches everyone, and for some reason, that gives him a sense of relief.
you look at him, and there’s a flicker of something in your eyes—concern, maybe. or maybe just a question. but remmick isn’t interested. he’s never been interested in your divine presence. he’s only been stuck with you because you follow him, despite the fact that he wants nothing to do with you.
he takes a step back, turning his gaze away from you. “well, i’ve seen enough,” he says flatly, his voice devoid of any emotion, “you’ll be fine. immortals like you don’t just die from an arrow.”
he called you immortal because he didn’t know what else you were.
and with that, he turns, disappearing into the trees, leaving you there. blood staining the ground, your divine light flickering weakly.
he doesn’t care if you survive. in fact, a part of him hopes you don’t.
he leaves you there, under the dying light of the sunset, and walks away without a second thought. the darkness of night soon envelops him, and for the first time, he feels a strange sense of relief. maybe this is what he wanted all along—an escape from your presence, from your light, from the divine pressure of your existence.
he doesn’t look back. he doesn’t even think about it. he’s long gone, disappearing into the night.
remmick hadn’t seen you in over five hundred years. for a while, he thought the peace would last. the solitude had been... bearable. a century of living on his own terms, without your relentless light or your judgmental eyes, was a relief. he wandered through europe, a ghost in the shadows of history. he watched the rise of new dynasties, the endless wars of vikings, the decline of the roman empire, and the brutal reign of genghis khan. centuries passed, each one feeling like a whisper in time, and he thought he had finally outrun you.
but the renaissance? that was the point where it all fell apart. it was the 16th century in france, and somehow, against all logic, he had managed to convince the royal family that he, too, was royalty—a lost prince from some forgotten kingdom. he was skilled in deception, after all, and no one really questioned an enigmatic figure like him. they believed his stories, and the royal family, desperate to flaunt their connection to ancient lineages, eagerly threw a ball in his honor.
“to celebrate the visit of prince remmick i,” they announced, and the court was abuzz. everyone was charmed by the mysterious foreigner, the one whose origins were as hazy as the fog that rolled across the french countryside.
as the night stretched on, lit by shimmering chandeliers and the glittering eyes of aristocrats, remmick found himself drifting through the crowd, always watching, always smiling with that knowing smirk.
he should have known. he should have known that your light would pierce through the shadows of his false life. and yet, he didn’t hear your footsteps, didn’t see your radiance until you were already standing before him, like a vision from another time, another world.
"ain’t bored o’ me yet?" remmick asked, half-amused, half-resigned. he starts the greeting the same way he started the last one you had.
you smiled softly, as if you'd never left, "not at all," you replied, your voice soft as always, yet carrying a weight he could never ignore. you seem to remember too how he greeted you.
remmick’s fingers curled into his palm, nails digging into the flesh. how long had he really been free? how long could he ever escape your watchful eyes?
the music swirled through the air, soft and alluring, as the orchestra in the corner of the ballroom played their delicate tune. the sound of strings filled the grand hall, echoing off the gold-trimmed walls. remmick held you close, his hand firm on your waist as he led you in the dance, effortlessly twirling you through the sea of guests. each step felt like a rhythm he had known forever, like he'd danced this dance with you a thousand times, even though it was only now that he realized you were real—more than just a haunting image from his mind.
you moved with an ethereal grace, laughter bubbling from your lips like a song he couldn’t help but chase. when he spun you, the light caught in your hair, and for a brief moment, it almost felt like the entire room faded away—just the two of you, floating through time. his chest tightened as you laughed, that soft, knowing sound, and he couldn’t help but notice how your presence filled the space around him. he’d never let himself feel this before, not for someone like you.
but before he could think on it too long, the dance shifted. your hand slipped from his and suddenly, you were in the arms of another man—an older figure, no doubt a noble, with a grasp on your waist that was far too close, intimate. you laughed again, a bright, airy sound that made remmick's stomach twist and churn.
this is the moment remmick realises you have a physical manifestation and you truly weren’t apart of his imagination.
he stood still for a moment, watching as you moved away, the warmth of your hand no longer in his, replaced by the weight of something heavy that clawed at his insides. his eyes narrowed instinctively as you, effortlessly, slipped into another’s embrace. the man held you close, spinning you with a tenderness that made remmick’s skin prickle.
it shouldn’t matter, but it did.
he swallowed down the odd bitterness that had risen in his throat. it was absurd. he wasn’t allowed to feel this way—this possessive ache. but still, he couldn’t help himself, watching the way you laughed in his arms, the way your eyes shone so brightly for someone else.
remmick shook his head, forcing himself back into the present. the princess he had been dancing with swirled into his arms, but his gaze never wavered from you. he couldn’t look away. it was as if the room had ceased to exist around him—there were no voices, just the sound of your laughter and the light that shimmered around you.
he knew it was futile to hold on to any of it, but for as long as he could, he would keep you in his line of sight, hoping you wouldn’t slip away again, like you always did.
as the music reached its final notes, remmick's gaze never left you. he watched as you slipped gracefully from the arms of your partner, your presence like a flicker of light lost among the throngs of well-dressed nobles. the man—his face now blurred by the growing distance between them—seemed unaware of the way you had subtly detached yourself, drifting into the crowd of silks and velvets, where the shadows danced just as intricately as the guests.
remmick felt an inexplicable urgency seize him. his fingers grazed the princess’s hand, and with a smooth smile, he pressed his lips to her delicate knuckles in a gesture that seemed far more rehearsed than genuine. “my apologies, princess,” he murmured, the words slow and languid, “but i’ve promised myself a moment alone. something about cutting the cake, you know? a royal tradition, i suppose.”
she blinked, clearly satisfied by the excuse, her smile warm and unsuspecting. “of course, prince remmick. go enjoy your cake.”
and with that, she was lost to the crowd of swirling dancers, her attention already diverted. remmick didn’t waste a second more. he gave her a lazy bow and watched her retreat into the gilded glamour of the ballroom. then, with a fluid, practiced motion, he slipped into the labyrinth of bodies around him, the rich fabric of coats and gowns folding into a soft blur of color.
he didn’t care about the cake. he didn’t care about any of it. all that mattered was finding you again before you vanished into the shadows once more. his heart pounded as his feet carried him swiftly through the crowd, his eyes darting over the sea of faces, seeking that unmistakable glow that had haunted him for centuries.
there. between the columns of the balcony, under the flickering candlelight. your silhouette, radiant even in the midst of so many others, a beacon amidst the chaos. remmick’s pulse quickened, a feeling—half desire, half something darker—stirring deep in his chest.
“long time, no see…” you breathe, your voice soft as you stand at the edge of the courtyard, staring out into the cool night. the moonlight catches the edge of your dress, making it shimmer in a way that feels almost too ethereal. “remmick.”
he swallows, his throat dry, and his eyes track the curve of your silhouette in the dim light. there’s something about the way the dress clings to you tonight—it suits you better than anything he’s seen you wear before. he can’t help but notice, even in the midst of everything else, how striking you are, even when you're so distant.
“yeah…” he hums, his voice rougher than he intends. “how long’s it been?”
you don’t turn to face him, but he knows you’re listening. “ah, five hundred years. it was quite the break from your presence,” he adds, with a hint of bitterness that slips from his lips before he can stop it.
you give a small nod, the movement subtle, but it feels like you’re acknowledging something deeper, something unsaid. your gaze doesn’t waver from the distant horizon, the city lights far below barely flickering. “it was quite the goodbye. if i remember correctly, you left me to die.”
remmick laughs, a hollow, cold sound that doesn’t reach his eyes. “you remember correct. i’m quite fond of that memory, actually.” the words fall out like a joke, but the edge to his tone betrays him. there’s something about it that feels unfinished, unsaid.
you remain silent for a moment, your eyes still lost in the night. then, slowly, your head falls into your hand, your fingers pressing lightly against your temple as if to hold back something that could break through. remmick watches you, his smile fading, the silence stretching between them.
he doesn’t say anything more, because he knows—no words would make this any less complicated.
so, he let’s you speak first.
“why did you leave me like that?” your voice is quiet, but it cuts clean through the space between you. you still don’t turn to face him, your figure leaning into the cold stone railing like it might offer some kind of answer he won’t give. the moonlight brushes your skin like a veil, softening the tension in your shoulders, but remmick can still see it—the weight you carry.
“i got quite the scolding after that,” you add, almost like an afterthought. “that was your… one hundred and fifty-sixth second chance.”
the number hangs heavy in the air. remmick shifts behind you, a half-sigh caught in his throat. he wasn’t keeping count—but of course you were. of course you would remember every time he failed to live up to whatever cosmic expectation you held over him.
you don’t sound angry. not really. just… tired. like the years haven’t worn you down, but his choices have.
“glad to know someone’s keeping count,” remmick mutters, easing in beside you. the stone railing presses into his spine as he leans back, angling his body just enough to catch a glimpse of your face in the moonlight.
your eyes drift to his—slow, reluctant—and for a moment, something catches in his chest. if he still breathed, it would’ve hitched, tight and sharp. you weren’t supposed to look like this.
he’d seen your face in every imaginable light: serene, righteous, unreadable. you always wore that same celestial calm like armor. but now… now you just look exhausted. not weary in the way mortals age and sag with time—but a deeper sadness, old and quiet, like the fading echo of a hymn long forgotten.
remmick isn’t sure what unsettles him more: the silence between you, or the way you won’t quite meet his gaze.
he swallows when you don’t respond, the silence stretching longer than he expects. so he tries again, voice lower this time, almost unsure, “if i’m on my one hundred and fifty-seventh chance… why didn’t you give up ages ago?”
you still don’t answer, and that unsettles him more than any sharp retort would have.
he shifts beside you, the corner of his mouth twitching in a crooked attempt at a smile. “seriously. you should probably reevaluate your standards after that.”
it’s meant to be a joke, light enough to pull you from whatever place your mind’s wandered to—but it lands heavy, as if even he knows it doesn’t quite cover the question he’s really asking.
after a long, deathly silence, you finally lift your head and meet his eyes. there’s no lightness in your expression—just that same quiet, ancient sorrow that’s lingered beneath your skin for centuries.
“do you want to know what i am?” you ask, voice soft but unwavering. “i am sure you have been wondering for a while.”
remmick lets out a dry chuckle, one corner of his mouth curling up. “you’re right about that,” he says, eyes scanning your face like he’s searching for the answer there.
“i am an angel of the lord,” you say, finally standing upright, your voice calm, absolute. “i was sent down to watch you—because god knew you would be trouble. that you would walk on both sides of the line between chaos and order.”
remmick stares at you like you’ve grown a second head. his eyes narrow, brows knit in disbelief, but somewhere beneath the confusion, it starts to make a horrible sort of sense.
“an angel?” he mutters, almost to himself. “an actual angel’s been breathing down my neck this whole time?”
he lets out a bitter laugh, scrubbing a hand down his face. “no wonder i couldn’t stand you.”
“you say that in past tense,” you note, stepping toward him, “it could not be that you havee grown fond of me, could it?”
remmick smirks, “it could be.”
“you are angry. i have seen it,” you say quietly, stepping down from the balcony into the courtyard, your voice almost drowned by the hush of the wind through the hedges. you gesture for him to follow, and after a beat, he does—reluctantly, hands in his coat pockets, expression unreadable.
you walk side by side beneath the open sky, your glow washing over the stone path, brighter than the moonlight itself.
“when everything first happened—when the celts came, preaching christianity,” you begin, eyes forward, “it was not meant to be violent. but vikings... they are unpredictable, as you know. they brought fire to what should have been light.”
remmick stays quiet, glancing sidelong at you.
“god wanted someone to keep a close eye on you,” you continue. “he saw your heart. the way you could bend the world. not out of malice—but defiance. if left to your own instincts, you would unravel the threads of his design.”
you look at him then, calm, steady. “so, he sent me.”
remmick stops in his tracks, brow furrowed. “i’m sensing a but,” he mutters, voice dry. “there’s always a but.”
“but,” you say, and the word hangs in the air like judgment, “after a while, he realized you could not be saved. not in the way he intended. salvation was never going to come easy for you.”
remmick stiffens under your gaze, caught in the weight of your eyes—ancient, unwavering. he doesn’t need you to say it. he knows exactly when that shift happened. the moment everything inside him twisted beyond repair.
you step closer, your voice softer now, though no less resolute. “it took me five hundred years to convince him to let me walk the earth again… to stay in your shadow. because even if you could not be redeemed, you still needed watching. without guidance, you would leave only wreckage behind.”
remmick clenches his jaw, but doesn’t look away.
“i thought,” you add, quieter, more human somehow, “if i told you the truth this time… maybe you would finally be open. maybe you would stop running long enough to let something reach you.”
the silence that follows is thick with everything unsaid.
“you seriously believe i can change?” remmick asks, his voice low, edged with disbelief.
you don’t nod. instead, you shake your head slowly and keep walking, the gravel beneath your feet crunching softly beneath your light steps.
“no,” you say. “you cannot change what you are. that isn’t the point.”
your voice is calm, measured, not cruel—just certain.
“what drives you is not redemption,” you continue, “it is motive. it has always been motive. family… yes? connection. people who see you. who understand you. who can stand to be near you without fear.”
you glance at him, eyes catching the dim moonlight. “that is what keeps you from falling completely.”
your voice fades as you round the edge of a hedge, soft as mist, leaving remmick behind for a moment in the quiet. he blinks, then stumbles forward, hurrying to catch up, boots crunching against the earth. there’s something in the way you move—slow, graceful, unbothered—that makes him wonder if you see him more clearly than he’s ever let on.
he walks beside you in silence for a beat, eyes narrowed in thought. then, low and uncertain, he asks,
“why’ve i been given another chance?”
the words feel foreign in his mouth, like they don’t quite belong to him.
“partly because i begged for it,” you admit, “but also because the fates favour you.”
remmick raises a brow, “favour me?”
you nod, slow and deliberate.
“they do,” you say, voice like distant thunder softened by the night. “you have been offered two paths. one carved from selfishness, where every step takes you closer to your own undoing. and the other…”
your eyes lift to the stars, catching their faint shimmer.
“the other is compassion. it asks more of you, but it gives something in return—quiet, contentment, maybe even joy. and one day, if you choose it, you might find yourself watching the sunrise not with dread, but with purpose.”
“so you know how i go out?” remmick asks and you nod, confirming his assumption. he wants to bombard you with questions but you hold your hand up, “we should head back.”
he listens without a protest.
before you part with him at the balcony entrance, you offer him some words of advice, “do not take my words lightly, think about your actions and do not rely on me to tell you what to do.”
remmick watches you as you glide through the crowd, mingling effortlessly with the nobility, your light drawing them in like moths to a flame. it’s a scene so far removed from him—so foreign—that the ache he had felt earlier surges back, tight and gnawing at his insides. it pulls at him, twisting his stomach in ways that leave him feeling hollow, desperate.
he tries to shake it off, but the hunger claws at him, demanding attention. he stumbles away from his place, moving quickly through the high, echoing halls of the palace. the walls, steeped in rich history, stretch endlessly before him, their reflection of his shadow twisted and distorted as he moves through them, a ghost within his own skin.
the overwhelming scent of life all around him hits like a wave, drowning his senses. the guests, oblivious, stand in clusters, their warmth and the steady pulse of their blood flooding his senses. it's all he can focus on now. the desire to feed is primal, insistent. there’s no escaping it, no distraction from it. not when the banquet is brimming with potential prey.
at the end of the hall, a figure catches his eye. the princess, the one he danced with earlier, stands alone for a moment, separated from the throngs. the hunger takes over before he can stop himself, and he jogs toward her, the rhythm of his steps faster than he intends.
“your highness,” he greets, bowing low, his voice smooth, almost too smooth. she smiles, a demure expression. she asks him about the cake, her voice light and innocent. he tells her, with a playful tone, how divine it was—how it tasted like nothing he had ever known.
she seems to believe him, her eyes sparkling with curiosity, but her guard is down, naive to the danger she’s unwittingly stepped into. with the fluid ease of someone accustomed to getting what he wants, remmick guides her away from the crowd, leading her into a quiet, dimly lit chamber.
the door closes softly behind them.
he doesn’t waste time. with a practiced movement, he presses her against the cold wall, his fangs sinking deep into her neck. the warmth of her blood fills his senses, and the ache, that terrible, gnawing ache, begins to fade with each drawn breath. he feeds greedily, thirstily, until there’s nothing left to take.
when it’s over, the room is silent, save for the faint echo of his own breath. her body slumps in his arms, lifeless, pale. he lets her fall to the floor, her blood staining the carpet beneath her.
remmick stands over her for a moment, his chest rising and falling as he surveys the damage. a small flicker of something—guilt, maybe? regret?—crosses his mind, but it’s fleeting.
he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his hunger sated, but the emptiness inside remains. the cycle repeats. it always does.
he’s not going to change.
not long after that night, remmick fled paris—your footsteps trailing his despite his growing resentment. he never lingered anywhere for long, slipping through cities like smoke through fingers. yet, somehow, you always followed. unwillingly bound or stubbornly tethered, you were there.
he dragged you through the winding streets of spain, the frostbitten stretches of russia, the misty peaks of the balkans. he even wandered through the dense, humming cities of asia for a time, lost in a sea of languages and lanternlight.
but no matter how far he roamed, his footsteps always led him back to ireland. something about the damp green hills, the crash of waves against the cliffs, the ache of memory in the stone—his heart answered to it like a song half-remembered. it was the one place that still felt like his. or at least, where the ghosts felt familiar.
you’d washed up on the english channel in 1888, clothes heavy with salt and divinity, and drifted through london’s smoke-stained streets before finally making your way toward ireland. but your journey was delayed—four months, to be exact—by a detour you hadn’t planned.
a pitstop, as remmick called it.
he confessed with a twisted grin that he’d developed a taste for the blood of london’s street women. easy prey, he said. no one missed them, and no one looked too hard when they vanished. they came willingly, and their fear made their blood taste as sweet as it was tangy, he added, and left quietly.
you spoke to him as you always did—with the calm patience of eternity. you reminded him of light, of the path laid by the divine, of mercy, and restraint. you quoted scripture, invoked parables, and offered him alternatives. but he only scoffed, sharp-eyed and smirking.
“nothing beats an easy target,” he muttered once, licking the blood from his fingers as if it were honey.
and that was when you realized: some pitstops aren’t delays. they’re tests.
remmick came home that final night drenched in blood, the crimson soaking through his shirt and shining beneath your glow like oil on water. you didn’t ask where he’d been. you already knew. he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and flung the bloodied fabric into a dark corner of the hostel you’d both occupied for months. you didn’t meet his eyes. instead, you recited, quiet and firm,
“violence shall no more be heard in your land, devastation or destruction within your borders; you shall call your walls salvation, and your gates praise.”
remmick snarled at the sound of scripture, his lip curling as if the words burned him, “i told you to quit spewing that holy bullshit around me, angel.”
he said your title like a curse, like something he’d spit into the dirt.
still, you smiled—an expression that almost reached your eyes, though it never truly did.
“you live in a world built from devastation and oppression,” you said gently, stepping closer, “but the real prison, vampire, is the one in your own mind.”
remmick, in a sudden fury, swept a plate of fine china off the rickety wooden table. it sailed past you and shattered against the headboard of your borrowed bed, shards of porcelain raining down like splinters of his frustration.
“ain’t nothin’ wrong with my mind,” he barked, chest heaving. “i’m livin’ off what i know. what i am!”
your frown deepened. the glow around you dimmed, like a flame shying from wind.
“rough night?” you asked softly.
he groaned, dragging a hand down his face, smearing blood across his jaw.
“nearly got caught,” he muttered. “some fella interrupted my meal.”
you nodded slowly, walking toward the mess he’d made, stepping carefully over broken china.
“you have built quite the reputation for yourself,” you said. “jack the ripper, they are calling you now.”
remmick scoffed, holding up a hand as if to physically reject the accusation.
“that ain’t me,” he said. “there’s a difference. he—he guts ‘em. rips ‘em open like game. i just puncture the neck, nice and neat. drain ’em sideways, clean as i can. i got some standards.”
your eyes narrowed. “do you?”
“for my kind, i do,” remmick mutters, casting you a sidelong glance as he sinks onto the edge of the bed. the frame creaks beneath his weight.
he feels it again—that phantom pump, the ghost of a heartbeat that only stirs when you’re near. if blood still moved through his veins, it might’ve rushed to his face, warmed his skin. instead, he remains pale, a static figure carved in cold ash and shadow.
you don’t move. you stand there, still as a monument, graceful and ethereal. divine. everything about you—your poise, your silence, even the way the light bends to wrap around you—makes his chest ache with something unfamiliar. something like longing.
your glow brushes his skin like the edge of sunlight, and in that moment, he swears he can feel your heart. or maybe it’s his own, trying to remember how to beat. he shakes his head, breaking the moment like glass.
“i’m leaving tonight,” he says, voice flat. final.
you just watch him—silent, as always—as he picks up his old acoustic guitar. it fits in his hands like it was always meant to be there, an extension of him. he’s always had a gift for music. even in the earliest years, before he knew what he was, he’d whistle back at the birds when they sang at sunrise, tap rhythms into the bones of tables, the sides of carriages, the hollow of his own chest. it was instinct. but once he found the guitar, it all came together.
remmick doesn’t look at you as he starts to play, but you can see his shoulders ease. his fingers move fluidly over the strings, coaxing out a tune that feels older than this life. you pull out a chair and sit, the wood creaking softly beneath you. no words pass between you. for once, there’s no biting sarcasm or divine reprimands. just the melody, soft and unhurried.
he plays like it’s the only honest language he’s fluent in. and you listen, like it’s the only time you truly hear him. it's brief, but in that moment, there’s peace.
remmick knows it, you know it. you’ll follow him wherever he goes.
remmick stayed in ireland for three decades, tucked away in green hills and rain-soaked stone villages. of course, you were there—always there. disappearing for weeks, months even, only to reappear when he least expected it, glowing like a bad omen he couldn’t shake.
then came 1921. something called to him—a sound, delicate and haunting. a woman playing an instrument so beautiful it made his dead heart ache. he boarded a ship of irish immigrants bound for boston, chasing the echo of her melody. he claimed he wanted to reconnect with his roots, to find the family he’d left behind. the truth was more selfish.
the voyage was a disaster.
desperate to reclaim what he thought he’d lost—music, love, belonging—remmick tried to turn them all. everyone on board: children, parents, the elderly. but vampirism is no gift, and none of them survived the transformation. blood ran like wine below deck, and the woman with the gifted hands? lost to the chaos. he never even learned her name.
when the ship docked three days later, reeking of death and silence, he slipped off unnoticed. another new instrument slung over his shoulder like a trophy. the only thing he managed to save.
but you? you were gone.
no glow in the shadows.
no soft footsteps trailing behind him.
for once, he was truly alone.
the last time he saw you—really saw you—was at a juke joint deep in the mississippi delta, about twenty years later.
he’d been lingering just outside the shack, half-shrouded in trees and night, the thrum of blues rolling out of the open door like the sweet aroma of pie out a window. his mouth was wet, glistening—thick ropes of blood and spit clung to his lips, soaked into the collar of his shirt, cooling on his skin.
he was a mess. a predator fresh from the hunt.
but even in that haze, he felt it. that pull. that warmth.
you.
your light slipped through the trees before you did, soft and steady, brighter than the porch lamps and louder than the music.
he didn’t need to feel warmth anymore to know it was you.
he’d always know.
"i should be more surprised that you’re here," remmick groaned, not bothering to turn around. he didn’t need to see your face to know what expression you wore—he could picture it perfectly: the sharp furrow of your brow, the disappointment etched into every line.
he leaned against a tree, dragging a bloodied sleeve across his mouth.
"why now?" he muttered. "gonna try and talk me down again? throw a bible verse at me like it’s some kind of holy water? think i’m gonna suddenly grow a conscience 'cause you showed up glowing?"
his voice was tired, bitter.
"you always show up when i’m at my worst. like clockwork."
“you are straying from your righteous path,” you say, your face unreadable but your voice heavy with sorrow. “are you sure you want to do this?”
remmick waves a dismissive hand, “i’m sure.”
you shake your head slowly. “you did not heed my warning.”
he arches a brow, a smirk tugging at his lips. “you warn me all the time. how’m i s’pposed to know which one?”
he knows exactly which warning you mean. but remmick aims not just for the best—he strives for something beyond that. his selfish path feels carved into stone, unchangeable. you’ve spoken of another way, a second path meant to offer hope. but he never entertained that hope. not once.
“i know what you think i do not know,” you begin, your voice steady, eyes fixed on the back of his head, “there is more for you, if only you listen to my age-old warning.”
remmick clicks his tongue in frustration, something sharp and bitter rising in his chest.
you continue, voice gentle but firm,
“life is beautiful, remmick—whether you see it or not. and i know you are unable to, not anymore. you have grown bitter, i have watched it happen, piece by piece. but it does not have to stay that way.”
your eyes focus on his form, steady and unwavering.
“you still have time. you can make peace with them, with yourself. you can reclaim what you have lost. not everything is beyond reach.”
you pause, searching for something in his body language—anything.
“do not do this. do not spill the blood of good people just because you have forgotten what goodness looks like.”
your calmness feels like mockery. he snaps—like a wire pulled too tight—spinning around so fast it startles you.
“you can’t seriously expect me to listen to anything you have to say,” he growls, eyes burning, “not after you vanished for twenty damn years just because you finally saw what i was capable of! how are you supposed to be my guardian angel when you’re so unbelievably shit at your job?”
you think your heart breaks—and remmick thinks he hears it. not a dramatic crack, but something quieter, crueler. like dry glass splintering under pressure.
his eyes flash a deep, dangerous red. for a moment, it looks like he’s considering it—really considering tearing into something holy.
he’d been cruel before, callous beyond belief. but something about tonight lands differently.
you don’t shout, you don’t plead, you don’t fall apart.
instead, just a few tears slide down your cheeks, slow and soundless.
and that’s what gets him.
he never thought he’d see the day an angel would cry. from what he knew, you were carved from calm, built to endure without cracking.
but now, standing under the weak light of a crooked moon, he sees it. sees you.
not a symbol, not a mission. just someone deeply, utterly tired.
you don’t let him linger in your sorrow. as soon as you feel the tears, you turn away—too proud to let him see what he’s done. too divine to shatter completely in front of him.
your wings unfurl—slow, deliberate, and unlike anything he’s ever seen. vast and radiant, feathers pure as untouched snow, glowing faintly with a divinity that makes the dark around him feel smaller, weaker. they catch the breeze like sails on a departing ship.
remmick freezes. not because he’s scared, but because he understands.
this is it.
you’re leaving.
and this time, you won’t come back.
a part of him, the part still clinging to something human, wants to call out. wants to say don’t.
but he doesn’t.
he stays silent, hands clenched at his sides, jaw tight as he watches with empty eyes.
you offer him one last verse—your final tether, a hope you quietly beg he'll remember.
“judge not, that ye be not judged. for with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again.”
your voice echoes long after your wings do.
with a single, mighty flap, the earth stirs beneath you. dust kicks up, grass bends, and then—
you’re gone.
all that remains is the soft imprint of your departure, a shallow crater in the earth where heaven once touched down.
his heart no longer beats in faux rhythm.
and when the sun finally rises, catching him where the shadows fail, remmick doesn’t flinch. doesn’t snarl or thrash or claw at the light like some cornered beast. he doesn’t beg, doesn’t run.
he just stares.
the light crawls across his skin, golden and relentless, and for the first time in one thousand, three hundred and eighty-five years, he lets it. he watches the sunrise not with fear or hatred, but with something else—something closer to awe.
his inhuman eyes brim with tears, not from pain, but from peace.
he knows you’re near. he can feel it. after all this time, he can still sense the pull of your presence like gravity. maybe you’re watching the same sunrise from some rooftop or ruin, silently praying for what’s left of him.
and maybe—just maybe—he’s praying too.
he imagines his ancestors waiting for him, the ones he lost to time and blood and tragedy, their arms open and music playing. but more than anything, he hopes you're there too.
and as the fire takes him, a slow, searing bloom that begins at his chest and spreads outward like a star going nova, he closes his eyes.
not in fear.
but in surrender.
in peace.
and he smiles.
you stand over the scorch-marked earth where remmick had burned. there’s no trace left of him—no body, no ash, just the faint smell of smoke clinging to the morning air and a body of water that moved indifferently as if remmick was never there.
you do not cry.
you knew this ending. had seen it coming centuries ago.
but still, your chest aches in a way that feels foreign. not divine. not righteous. just… human.
quietly, you kneel by the edge of a shallow stream, its waters catching the soft gold of the rising sun. your hand, steady and sacred, slips beneath the surface. it doesn’t take long. the chain finds you, just like he always did.
you pull it from the water—his gold chain, warm despite the cold stream, still whole.
your fingers trace its pattern, each link familiar, worn from centuries of wear.
you smile. not wide. not bright. but soft. pained. knowing.
“goodbye, old friend,” you whisper.
the wind stirs the trees behind you, and the morning continues.
you would not see his soul in the holy place.
not because he was born into darkness—he wasn’t. not because he was forced to live as he did—though that part was true.
but because remmick’s choices stretched far beyond instinct, beyond what was natural. he had time. he had chances. and every time, he chose wrong. knowingly, willfully.
and heaven does not make room for those who choose to burn.
summary: In Godthrone, Mississippi, salvation comes at a cost: one girl, every ten years. Bound beneath a blood moon to Remmick, you become more than offering. You become his. He tastes your terror like honey, drinks your arousal like wine, and marks you in ways no god could forgive. Through soul-binding magic and whispered vows carved into skin, you learn that some monsters don’t take—they tether. And once you're his, there's no such thing as free will.
Only desire. Only devotion. Only him.
wc: 15.3k
a/n: I don’t even know where to begin—I’m still trying to process the fact that Brittany Broski posted Mercy Made Flesh to her insta story like it was just another Saturday and not the coolest thing that's ever fucking happened to me 😭 I’ve been writing these aus with my whole heart, but I never expected the absolute avalanche of love and support these past couple of weeks. The comments, the reblogs, the screaming in the tags. It’s meant more than I can say, you have all helped me find the joy in writing again, I promise I’m just getting started <333 and an extra big thank you to Liz @fuckoffbard for swooping in and not only beta reading but posting the fic from my account with her laptop bc Tumblr mobile kept crashing on me every time I tried to edit it. Not all heroes wear capes
warnings: possessive vampire, blood kink, bite kink, soulbonding, dubcon elements, obsession, marking, monsterfucking, ritual sacrifice, forced proximity, loss of agency, manipulation, primal sex, size kink, somnophilia (implied), power imbalance, breeding kink (suggestive), Southern Gothic horror, emotional coercion, sacred corruption, body worship, predator/prey dynamics, fear kink, aftercare, blood drinking, religious overtones, stockholm syndrome elements
tags: @sweetheart2210, @seashelleseashellsbytheseashore, @cosmicneptune (comment if you wanna be added to the tag list)
likes, comments, and reblogs always appreciated, please enjoy!!
They told you not to cry.
The priestess with the burnt fingertips and clinking bone necklace—she gripped your chin between cracked fingers this morning and said it soft, but firm: “He won’t choose the ones who cry. He likes a little fight.”
You didn’t ask who he was. Everyone knows. They say his name like the air around it might curdle. Remmick. No surname. No title. Just Remmick, the vampire king of the blighted woods, the monster who made your town a deal eighty years ago and never broke it.
Not once.
The sun rose slowly this morning, heavy with heat that made the back of your dress stick to your spine before you even got out the door. The August air tastes like rot and copper. You dressed in the church’s parlor room, with the other girls. Seventeen of you. All local. All barely women, but old enough for sacrifice. The law calls it The Binding, but everyone calls it what it is: Bloodbriding.
Your dress is cotton muslin, faded sky-blue with a high collar and puffed sleeves. You think it used to be a baptismal gown. It’s been worn before, passed from girl to girl, all of them marked and married off to the dead. It smells like dried lavender and fear. The buttons up your back had to be done by the priestess. You couldn’t stop trembling.
The town of Godthrone, Mississippi was dying even before the Great Depression turned fields to dust and fathers into ghosts. But they say things changed in 1853, when Remmick came up from the swamps with hunger in his eyes and a deal in his mouth. He would protect the town from sickness, starvation, and war. No one from Godthrone would suffer famine, plague, or enemy. In return, every ten years, a bride would be chosen.
One bride. One binding. One soul fed to the dark.
They tried sending soldiers once, back in 1891. Sixteen went into the woods. None came back whole. Some came back dead. Some came back wrong. One woman started speaking tongues until her mouth filled with spiders. After that, they stopped questioning the pact. Instead, they polished it, sanctified it. Made it a ceremony. A celebration.
Tonight, the Choosing will be held in the town square. You will be walked up barefoot, hair unbound, throat bare. They say the mark will bloom on the girl he wants. A burning, black sigil over the heart. Like a brand. Like a marriage license signed in blood.
Your fingers clutch the hem of your dress. Your name is somewhere on the roster. Somewhere between Eleanor Avery and Ruth Jameson, though it's hard to keep track when the names aren't arranged in alphabetical order.
You haven’t eaten since yesterday. You haven’t even had your first kiss and you’re ridiculously terrified. Because you’ve dreamt of serrated teeth in the dark for weeks now. Because your skin itches like something under it wants out. Because when you close your eyes, you swear you can feel someone watching. Someone already choosing.
And the sun is starting to go down.
They say only the pure get chosen. But that’s a lie. You’ve seen who’s been taken before.
Rebecca Sue, who slit her baby sister’s throat in a fever dream.
Agnes Miller, who used to take men’s teeth as trophies.
None of them were pure. They were just...unlucky. Or pretty. Or strange enough that no one would miss them.
You’ve always known you were one of those girls. Born during a blood moon, baptized late because no one could find your daddy until spring thaw—when they fished him out of the river with his eyes missing and his hands gnawed to bone. Your mama didn’t cry. Just braided your hair tighter that morning and told you to never kiss a man with a gold chain or blue eyes. Said they never bring nothin’ but grief.
She died a year later. Something in her blood turned sour. The town doctor wouldn’t touch her. Said it was Remmick’s curse, passed down from when she laid with a man not her husband. Said that’s what happens when women sin.
You were seven when she died. You remember the flies buzzing in her throat. You remember how quiet the house got after. They moved you into the orphan house at the edge of the bog. You learned quickly not to cry at night. Crying brought the wrong kind of attention. So you got good at being quiet. Good at disappearing. Good at keeping secrets under your tongue until they turned bitter and black.
You never learned to curtsy right. You never kept your head bowed during sermons. But you were beautiful, and that was enough. Curious eyes, soft demeanor, a voice like river water. You didn’t want to be, but beauty in Godthrone is a death sentence wrapped in silk.
And now here you are.
Twenty-one and cursed with symmetry.
Chosen to stand under the sickle moon tonight, wearing a dead girl’s dress and nothing else beneath it. Your whole life leading to this—one slow march toward a monster’s mouth.
The town pretends this is holy. They hang garlands on the chapel door and sing hymns in minor chords. The mayor’s wife gave you perfume, lemon balm and sugar, and told you to “make the town proud.” Her eyes didn’t meet yours.
You think about running. You always think about running. But there’s nowhere to go. Not with that feeling in your chest. That strange pull. That sense of something waiting. Something with teeth.
And a name you never dared say out loud until last night. Whispered into your pillow like a prayer. Like a confession.
Remmick.
Your skin burns when you think about it now.
There are stories, of course. Every girl who grows up in Godthrone hears them. They start as whispers during thunderstorms—told under quilts with a candle burning low, shared like secrets between girls too young to know better and too scared not to listen.
“He walks on graves and doesn’t leave footprints.”
“He drinks from animals and people, unless he’s claimed you.”
“If he marks you, you’ll never want anyone else. Even if you try.”
But the worst ones are the quietest. The ones passed from dying lips to trembling ears. The ones that don’t sound like warnings—they sound like wishes.
“He touched me once. I haven’t known peace since.”
There was one girl—Celia Mott—who came back. Just once. Just long enough to be seen. The Binding year of 1911. She walked into the town square three years later, barefoot and smiling with red-stained teeth. Hair grown long and wild, white dress yellowed with age, eyes gone black. She didn’t speak. Not even once. Just walked right into the chapel and curled up on the altar like a dog. They found her there the next morning, hands folded on her chest, body cold as the river.
No one talks about Celia. But everyone remembers her. You remember her.
You were only thirteen, peeking through a knothole in the chapel wall. You watched as they wrapped her in burlap and buried her deep. You remember thinking she looked peaceful. You remember being jealous. That was the first time you ever said his name, whispered into the dirt above her grave. Not out of fear. Not even hate. Curiosity.
Because what kind of man makes a girl lie down and die smiling?
You used to wonder what he looked like. The other girls said he was monstrous, with claws for hands and eyes that burned like oil lamps in the dark. But that never sat right with you. You don’t think a creature that ancient would need to be grotesque to be feared. You think he’d be beautiful—awfully, unnaturally beautiful. The kind of beautiful that keeps you up at night, sick with craving.
And that’s the part that terrifies you most. Because somewhere in the dark part of you—the part that still dreams of blood-slick mouths and hands around your throat—you want it.
You want to know if he’ll kiss you first or just bite. You want to know what it feels like when the bond takes. You want to know if the mark will hurt as much as it’s supposed to. You want to know if you’ll scream.
You press your palm flat to your chest. Nothing yet. No mark. No burn. No claim. But you swear—you swear—you can feel something there. Like a match waiting to strike. Like teeth ghosting your skin. Like someone’s already touching you from the other side of the veil.
The sun is sinking lower. The bell will ring soon.
And then—the chapel doors open like a serpent unhinging its maw.
Wood creaks. Heat rushes in. And for a second, you don’t move. Then the priestess nods. Just once. That’s your cue.
You step forward on bare feet, feeling every splinter in the boards, every grain of dirt that clings to your soles as you pass the threshold and step into the sweltering dusk. The sky bleeds orange and purple, clouds dragging low like bruises. Somewhere, a cicada screams. And just like that—it begins.
The town square is only five blocks away, but the walk feels like miles. You don’t look at the people lined along the street—don’t dare. You can feel their eyes anyway. Heavy as wet cloth, pricking your skin like pins. Old women in rust-stained aprons. Young boys clutching their mothers' skirts. Men who won’t meet your gaze but still lean in for a better look.
It feels like being paraded through the gallows. Or the garden before slaughter.
The other girls walk ahead and behind you, a procession of blue and white and shaking, anxious limbs. No one speaks. Even the priestess has fallen silent. The only sound is the crunch of gravel underfoot, and the dry shush of cotton brushing thighs.
Your heart beats so loud it’s all you hear. It doesn’t sound like fear anymore. It sounds like an invocation.
The town square unfolds in front of the old courthouse, the brick stained dark from a fire no one talks about anymore. There’s a raised wooden platform at the center—built just for this, just for tonight. The gallows rope is still looped overhead, a relic from older rituals, back when Binding meant hanging the chosen until they gasped awake with his name on their lips.
Now it’s cleaner. More sacred.
They say he prefers it that way.
Gas lanterns flicker along the perimeter, casting warped shadows over the crowd. Wreaths of night jasmine hang from the eaves, their scent thick and cloying in the heat. Everything smells like smoke and sugar and sweat. It makes your stomach roll.
The girls are led to the platform and lined up—seventeen of you, barefoot on the warm planks, hands clasped at your waists like dolls posed for judgment. The crowd stares. Some murmur prayers. Some cry. And some just watch.
You keep your chin up. Not out of pride. But because you know he’s watching too. Somewhere. Behind the crowd. Behind the dusk. Behind the veil of what’s seen and what isn’t.
You can feel it. That tickle at the base of your spine. That breath against your collar. That heartbeat that doesn’t match your own.
The mayor steps forward. Fat and red-faced in a linen suit too tight for the heat. He clears his throat. The priestess lights the ceremonial flame in a basin of copper and bone. She whispers in a language that isn’t English, isn’t Latin, but makes your skin crawl all the same. The fire flares blue.
The bell tolls from the chapel behind you.
One.
Your pulse stutters. Every eye is on you.
Two.
You glance down. No mark. Just the flutter of your own chest, just the sickly thrill under your ribs.
Three.
You feel the wind change. Just slightly. Like something just arrived.
Four.
The bell keeps tolling, steady as a countdown. Or a death knell.
You don’t flinch, but your knees feel loose. Like they’re no longer yours. Like the wood beneath your feet is suddenly shifting grain, trying to swallow you whole.
The priestess raises both arms. Her voice, when it comes, isn’t loud, but it carries. Thin and sharp and dry as snakeskin. “By covenant sealed and blood remembered, we offer our daughters.”
The crowd murmurs the response: "May He spare the many, and take only the one."
Five.
You keep your eyes straight ahead. The girl next to you, Ruth Jameson, is breathing so fast she sounds like a kettle about to boil. She’s a preacher’s daughter. Always wore gloves, even in the summer. Once slapped you for speaking during Sunday reading. You almost hope it’s her.
Let it be her. Or Eleanor Avery. Or Violet Price with the thick braid and expensive teeth. They’re prettier. Cleaner. More practiced in obedience. You’ve heard the whispers that the vampire favors grace, not sharp girls who talk too little and think too much.
Six.
You exhale slow through your nose. Try to imagine the town square without people in it. Try to remember how it looked in winter, dusted with sleet and full of silence. Try to picture yourself anywhere else. You can’t.
The priestess begins the litany. A string of old names, spoken in a dialect that feels like ash in your ears. “Ishari. Vael. Thorne. Kelrem. Narthyx…”
The words twist like vines around your ankles, tight and burning. They say the names are the True Ones. The old ones. The first vampires. Remmick’s forebears, or his victims, no one’s really sure. You doubt there’s a difference.
Seven.
The wind shifts again. This time, everyone feels it. A ripple goes through the crowd—silent, almost reverent. A little boy starts to cry and is shushed immediately. You don’t dare move. You feel it too. It’s like being brushed by something that isn’t there. A pressure. A pull. Like your body isn’t entirely your own anymore.
Still, no mark.
You wonder if you’ll even know when it comes. If it will be sudden. Sharp. Like lightning. Or if it’ll be slow. Like seduction. Like being kissed where no one else can see.
Eight.
The priestess’s eyes are closed now. The other girls tremble. Someone is crying. You’re not sure who. You dare a glance to your left. Eleanor’s lips are moving, silent prayer or quiet bargaining. She looks ready to faint. Her hands are shaking. You look to your right. Ruth’s eyes are squeezed shut, lashes wet. No one is looking at you.
Good. Let it be one of them. Let it not be you. Please.
Nine.
The priestess holds up a small obsidian dagger. Cuts the palm of her hand and lets the blood drip into the blue flame. It hisses, high-pitched and eager.
You smell it instantly.
Not like iron. Like something older. Like the scent of a crypt cracked open.
Ten.
The bell stops.
The crowd holds its breath.
The fire roars.
The flame in the basin spits.
Blue arcs to white. The heat radiates across the platform, and the priestess steps back, blood dripping down her wrist like ink on a parchment soaked too long. Still no mark on your skin. Still no voice in your ear. Still no rush of fire behind your ribs.
You let your shoulders lower a fraction, just enough to feel the strain begin to ease. Just enough to believe—maybe—it’s not you.
Maybe you were only ever meant to stand here, to be one of the extras. The backdrop to someone else’s fate. One of the girls who’ll go home tonight, pale and trembling and untouched.
You could live with that. You could learn to breathe again.
You could get married someday to someone simple and safe. A man with kind eyes and a little farmland. You could forget this ever happened, could press it flat like a pressed flower between the pages of your life. You’re almost ready to believe it.
Until the silence begins to stretch.
And stretch.
And stretch.
Too long.
Too unnatural.
The crowd is still holding its breath. But now, they’re waiting. Expectant. The air isn’t quiet—it’s thick. Charged. Like a storm that hasn’t broken yet, a scream that hasn’t been released. You swear the ground hums.
Your skin itches.
Not with sweat. Not with fear. But with awareness.
The priestess’s head cocks slightly to the left. She doesn’t move otherwise. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t speak.
And then the lamps flicker. All at once.
Not a breeze. Not a draft. It’s something deeper. Something below.
A mother in the front row lets out a sob. Her child starts crying again. No one hushes him this time.
The flame gutters low.
You see your breath fog in front of you.
It’s August. The air should feel like soup. But all at once, it’s cold.
A cold that doesn’t touch your skin—it touches your soul. And that’s when you feel it.
Not a mark. Not yet.
But the presence.
The knowing.
It’s here. And it’s looking at you.
You don’t see him at first. You feel him.
Like being plunged into deep water. That gut-punch plunge, that pressure in your ears, that moment of suspended breath where your body forgets how to float. The world narrows. The noise dulls. Every hair on your body rises like it’s been called to attention.
The flame sputters. The priestess lowers her head, and the entire crowd follows. All at once, the square is bowing. No one told you that would happen. The girls beside you drop their gazes. You remain upright.
Too stunned. Too still.
And then you hear it.
Bootsteps.
Slow. Measured.
Bootsteps on gravel, a sound far too ordinary for something this monstrous.
And still, you don’t look. You can’t.
Because your chest is burning.
It starts beneath your collarbone. A single point of heat, sharp as a blade, blossoming outward like ink in water. You gasp, clutch at your heart—but nothing’s there.
No wound.
Just pain.
Just…change.
You look down and see it bloom.
A mark.
Black and bright and moving, like a tattoo drawn by something alive. Swirling patterns, sharp edges and curling lines that twist and wind down your chest. You hear someone cry out—a choked sound, like a girl breaking open—but you don’t realize it’s you until the priestess grips your arm to keep you from falling.
She’s smiling. “The chosen,” she whispers.
And that’s when he speaks.
Not loud.
Not rushed.
But his voice cuts through the air like a blade through silk.
“Lift yer head.”
You don’t mean to obey. But your chin rises.
And there he is.
At the base of the platform.
Not monstrous.
Not grotesque.
But broad and pale, dressed in black that doesn’t shine, hair slicked back like wet ink, and eyes the color of dried blood and dying embers. There’s no mistaking him. No imagining he might be a man. He is not a man.
He is the end of prayers.
The promise of ruin.
The reason the dark exists.
Remmick.
And he’s looking only at you.
Possession, raw and ravenous, carved into every angle of his face.
“C’mere, little bride,” he says, softly.
And when you step forward—shaking, burning, claimed—it’s not because they all told you to. It’s because you want to.
You step down from the platform one trembling foot at a time.
The crowd doesn’t make a sound. No cheers. No wails. Not even a rustle of skirts or a cough from the old men lining the back.
Just silence.
The kind that feels held—like a breath everyone’s too afraid to release.
Your bare feet meet the packed earth. It’s warm from the heat of the day but it may as well be ice. You can’t feel anything but the burn of the mark, pulsing like a second heart beneath your skin. Every beat of it syncs with something that doesn’t belong to you. Something older.
Remmick waits at the bottom step.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. He just watches you walk to him—like he knew you’d come, like the ceremony was nothing more than a formality. A ritual to dress up inevitability.
You stop just before him. Close enough to feel the wrongness that coils around him like smoke. It doesn’t repel you. It draws you. Makes your blood thrum, makes your mouth dry, makes your thighs clench in a way that shames you instantly. You pray he can’t tell.
Then he lifts a hand. And brushes his thumb lightly across the mark.
Your knees nearly give.
The touch is not cruel. It’s not even forceful. But it ignites something deep, something coiled and ancient inside you. The mark responds—flaring hotter, the lines shifting under his skin like they recognize him.
And then his eyes meet yours. That red glint beneath the dark, sharp and knowing.
“Felt ya long before this,” he murmurs. His voice isn’t deep. It’s smooth. Clear. Cold. “Y’cried my name in yer sleep last week.”
Your breath catches. You didn’t even remember dreaming. But he speaks it like truth. Like he was there.
“Almost took ya then,” he says, dragging his gaze down your body, slow and deliberate. “But this here's cleaner.”
He leans in.
And you flinch.
He pauses—just a hair—and then his mouth is at your ear.
“Like when they tremble,” he whispers, voice full of something dark and warm and terrifyingly pleased. “But I like it more when they beg.”
Your breath hitches so violently it hurts.
And then his nose drags along the line of your throat. He inhales.
A shiver tears through you, sharp and helpless.
“Smell like mine.”
He says it like a promise. Like a curse. Like a man who doesn’t need to raise his voice to ruin you.
The mark burns.
And your body answers with something shameful and wet.
His hand slips to the back of your neck, cool fingers cradling the base of your skull. “I can feel ya now, little bride,” he says, voice softer. Hungrier. “Every shiver. Every ache. Every time yer thighs press together ‘cause yer thinkin’ of me.”
You want to say no. You want to say stop.
But your lips part—
—and all that comes out is a broken, traitorous moan.
The crowd still doesn’t move. The priestess watches with her hands folded. And Remmick, smiling now, presses his lips to your jaw—not a kiss, not yet—and whispers:
“We begin tonight.”
They don't clap. No one dares.
The moment he speaks, the crowd begins to part like a body splitting open. Quietly. Obediently. As if on cue.
Remmick doesn't take your hand.
He doesn’t have to.
You follow him.
You don't look back.
The crowd watches in total silence, as though afraid that one misstep, one murmur, might draw his attention. You feel their eyes on you—burning, curious, afraid. But none of them move to stop you. No one calls your name. No one tries to say goodbye.
And somehow that hurts worse than if they had.
The mark on your chest is still searing, like hot iron beneath your skin. But it’s not just pain anymore—it’s pull. With every step you take behind him, it feels stronger. Hungrier. You feel him through it now. A weight in your gut. A throb between your legs. An ache in the part of you that shouldn’t want this, but does.
You wonder if he feels it too.
You don’t have to wait long to find out.
Halfway down the path, Remmick pauses, turns his head just slightly—not enough to see his whole face, just the ghost of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. “Stop squeezin’ yer thighs together like that,” he says without looking at you. “Ain’t polite.”
Your cheeks go hot. You hadn’t even noticed you were doing it. Instinct. Reflex. Shame flickers to life—but it doesn’t stay long. Not when he glances back, finally, and meets your eyes with something wicked and low in his voice.
“Though I do like it.”
You don’t answer. You can’t. You just keep walking.
Remmick’s estate lies on the edge of the woods, past the last row of homes where the gas lamps thin and the road turns to dirt. The air shifts the moment you cross the boundary—cooler, thicker. It feels like stepping into another world. A forgotten place. The trees here lean too close. The moss drips like old lace. You see stones sunk into the earth along the path, names long worn away. Grave markers, maybe. Or warnings.
The carriage is waiting for you.
Sleek, black, quiet. Not pulled by horses—those would never make it through these woods. Instead, it waits unnaturally still, shadows wrapping around its wheels, as if it simply appeared when called. Remmick holds the door open for you.
You pause.
Not because you’re afraid. But because everything in you wants to go in.
You hate how much you want it.
Inside, the cabin is too dark. Too cold. The seat cushions are velvet, the color of dried wine. There are no windows. Only candle sconces that haven’t been lit. You sit, carefully. Your thighs still sticky from earlier. You press your knees together and fold your hands in your lap like a good little bride.
Remmick follows. Closes the door behind him with a click.
You’re alone. Utterly, entirely alone.
And you feel the silence tighten around you like a glove.
Then he speaks. Low. Deliberate. “Take off the dress.”
You don’t move. You don’t breathe.
The words take off the dress still hang in the air—heavy, impossible to grasp, clinging to your skin in ways you can’t shake.
Your fingers twitch in your lap.
The candle sconces haven’t been lit, but you can see him anyway. The dark doesn’t seem to touch him, not really. His eyes are brighter in it. Redder. Watching you the way a wolf watches a trembling rabbit—not out of pity. Not out of malice, either. But with the certainty of hunger.
He leans back, legs spread, one arm resting along the velvet seat. Casual. Patient. Like he’s giving you a choice when you both know there isn’t one. “I won’t ask twice, sweetheart.”
The term of endearment doesn’t sound kind. It sounds dangerous.
Your breath comes shallow. You reach for the first button.
The collar is stiff, the thread old. You fumble. Your fingers feel clumsy, not from fear—but from how aware you are of his gaze. It traces every movement. Tracks the tremble in your hands. Watches your chest rise with every breath.
You get the first button undone.
Then the second.
The third.
The dress loosens across your shoulders. The mark, still searing hot and alive, seems to pulse brighter in the air between you. It aches when you drag the fabric down your arms, exposing more of it. The gown drops to your waist, then your hips. You shift to slide it lower.
Remmick still hasn’t moved.
But the air has. It feels denser now. Like you’ve stepped inside his lungs and forgotten how to breathe on your own.
When the dress slips past your thighs and pools at your feet, you’re left in nothing.
No underthings. No slip.
Just bare skin and that still-burning sigil over your heart.
Your hands twitch up to cover yourself—reflex, instinct, shame—but his voice stops you before they reach your chest.
“Don’t.” One word. Quiet. But it scalds.
You obey. Your arms drop.
He finally leans forward.
His palm drags over his jaw as he takes you in, slow and deliberate. You expect him to leer. To lick his lips or reach for you like you’re already his. But instead, he just looks.
Like he’s seeing something holy.
And then, softly—more to himself than to you—he says, “Fuckin’ beautiful.”
You bite your lip.
Something twists in your belly. Something hot and low and helpless.
He leans in, elbows resting on his knees, and murmurs: “Y’don’t even know what yer feelin’, do ya?”
You try to speak, but your throat’s too dry.
He tilts his head, watching the way your thighs inch together again. “That’s the bond, love. That ache? That throb in yer cunt? That heat sittin’ behind yer ribs like a sin waitin’ to be confessed?”
His voice drops even lower.
“That’s me.”
You shudder.
The mark pulses.
And Remmick, grinning now—slow, sharp, possessive—reaches out, thumb brushing just under the curve of your breast, not quite touching the mark but close enough that it sparks again behind your ribs. “Y’feel me yet?” he asks.
You nod. Barely.
He laughs, soft and cruel and pleased. “Good. Then let’s make it permanent.”
Your breath stutters.
His thumb still lingers just below your breast, not quite touching the mark, but the heat from his skin radiates into yours like an ember pressed to parchment. You feel it coil low in your belly, tight and trembling.
And he sees it.
Of course he does.
“Look at that,” he murmurs, voice like smoke curling around your neck. “Already buzzin’ for me. And I haven’t even laid a proper hand on ya yet.”
He lets his fingers trail lightly down your sternum. Not rushed. Not greedy. It’s almost reverent—if reverence could be soaked in hunger. His fingertips drag over your ribs, then down to the soft dip between them, tracing lazy circles that never quite reach where you want.
The bond throbs between you like a living thing.
It doesn’t just burn. It pulls.
Each touch sends something electric singing across your nerves, as though your body’s not fully yours anymore—shared now, tied to something dark and breathing. Every sensation is heightened. The velvet seat beneath you feels too soft. The air feels too tight. And his touch?
His touch feels like command.
He leans closer. You feel his breath on your throat before you see his mouth. “Tell me where it hurts,” he whispers, and his tongue brushes the shell of your ear.
Your hips shift without permission. “Lower,” you manage, barely above a whisper.
Remmick hums. A dark, pleased sound. “Aye. Thought so.” He brings his hand to your thigh, palm broad and cool, fingers spreading to grip you firm. Not harsh. Not rough. But with purpose. Like he’s claiming the space. Like he already owns it. He pushes your legs apart slowly, and the bond sings when you don’t resist.
When you offer.
His gaze dips down.
And he groans—quiet, guttural. “Sweet fuckin’ Christ.”
You’re soaked.
Your body, treacherous and needy, has already given itself over. The mark glows faintly in the dark now, pulse-for-pulse with your heartbeat, lighting the curve of your breast and the sweat beading along your collar.
“You know what this is, don’t ya?” he says, dragging a finger up your inner thigh, stopping just shy of your center. “The bond’s settin’ in. Claimin’ ya. Makes every nerve scream for me. You’d let me do anything right now, wouldn’t ya?”
You want to say no.
You really do.
But your body says yes in a dozen ways.
The way your breath shakes.
The way your thighs tremble.
The way your hips rock forward, desperate for any friction, even the ghost of it.
You meet his eyes. “Please,” you whisper. It slips out before you can stop it.
Remmick’s grin turns sharp. Triumphant. “Say it again.”
Your cheeks burn. But your body doesn’t hesitate. “Please.”
He moves then.
Not fast. Not rough.
But with absolute, devastating intent.
He sinks to his knees in front of you.
Not in worship. Not in submission.
But in devouring anticipation.
His hands slide up your thighs, spreading them wider, and he presses a kiss just above your knee. Then another, higher. And another. Each one closer to the place that aches. The place he’s not touching.
Yet.
“You don’t even know what I’m about to do to ya,” he murmurs, mouth against your skin. “But yer body’s already beggin’.” He nips just above your hip, tongue soothing the sting. And finally, finally, his hand reaches the mark again—palm flat over your heart.
You jolt.
It feels like fire licking up your spine.
Like something ancient waking up.
Like something that says: Mine.
“Y’ready, little bride?” he asks, voice rough with hunger, reverent with power.
Because this is more than lust.
This is binding.
This is belonging.
And you’re about to be his—in every sense.
Your heart is a drum. A hammer. A hymn.
And Remmick holds it in his palm like he’s already broken it open and tasted what’s inside.
He watches you. Eyes dark, pupils wide, mouth parted—not in awe, not in shock, but in possession. Like a man handed his favorite weapon after years of war. Like he knows exactly how to use you. “Keep yer eyes on me,” he says softly.
You do.
Because you can’t look away.
His thumb strokes over your mark, slow and possessive. The moment he presses down—just the lightest pressure—you gasp, full-body and shaking. It doesn’t hurt. It’s worse than that.
It undoes you.
Your back arches off the seat. A whimper slips past your lips, high and humiliating, and the fire under your skin blooms wider, deeper, lower.
“Good,” Remmick breathes, as if your body’s reaction is all the permission he needs. “Let it take ya.” He leans in again, lips brushing over the curve of your breast, just below the glowing sigil etched into your flesh. His mouth is soft. Cool. But where it touches, heat follows. Magic, maybe. Or something far filthier.
You shiver.
He trails his tongue in a slow, careful circle around the mark. Not kissing. Not biting.
Just tasting.
You make a sound—something raw and helpless—and Remmick laughs, low in his throat. “Feel that?”
You nod, dazed.
He hums like he’s proud of you. Like he owns every breath you take now. “Bond’s startin’ to root,” he says against your skin. “It’s in the blood. In the muscle. Every heartbeat yer body makes now? It’s for me.”
His hand moves lower.
Fingers dragging down your belly, past your hip, settling between your thighs where you’re soaked and trembling and already spreading for him without thought. “You feel like sin,” he murmurs. “Gonna taste like salvation.” And then he finally, finally presses his mouth to the center of you.
You jerk.
It’s too much. It’s not enough.
His tongue is slow at first, lazy, almost cruel in how lightly he licks. As if he’s savoring the fact that you’re shaking under him already. You try to move—try to rock against him—but his hands grip your thighs, holding you open, holding you still.
“This ain’t just fuckin’,” he rasps, voice muffled by your body. “This is the bind. This is me settin’ my claim.”
You moan.
You whimper.
And when his mouth closes over your clit and he sucks, your vision shatters.
It’s not just pleasure.
It’s magic.
You feel it in your bones, in the roots of your teeth, in the back of your throat. You feel the bond snap into place like a tether. You feel him inside you—his hunger, his need, his desire—mirroring yours, amplifying it, turning you both into a single, burning thing.
You’re panting now. Desperate. Gone. “Remmick—” you gasp.
He groans like your voice alone could finish him.
You feel his tongue again—harder now, faster, coaxing your orgasm to the surface like a secret—and you give it to him. You give everything. You come with a cry, eyes wide, hips shaking, the mark on your chest glowing like fire in the dark. And Remmick?
He doesn’t stop.
Not until you’re slumped against the seat, legs still twitching, the bond humming under your skin like a satisfied beast. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Smirking.
“First part’s done,” he says, voice wrecked. “Now we finish it.”
He stands.
Unbuckling his belt.
Unbuttoning his trousers.
And between your thighs, your body begins to ache all over again.
You’re still trembling when he rises.
Remmick towers over you in the low flickering dark, the glow from your mark throwing soft gold light across the sharp bones of his face. He looks half-saint, half-devil—something carved out of hunger and patience, restraint and ruin.
He doesn’t touch you yet.
Not again.
He just watches as you breathe, chest heaving, legs still slack and parted. And for a heartbeat, he says nothing. He simply drinks you in like a man parched. And then his voice cuts through the silence again—low, velvet-rough, intimate as a mouth pressed to your spine. “You’re takin’ it real pretty,” he murmurs, thumbing the buttons on his trousers loose one by one. “Didn’t think you’d fold that fast. But fuck, I felt it.”
Your body answers with a pulse.
You want to close your legs, to pull your dress back on, to shield yourself from how open he’s left you—but the bond won’t let you. It aches when you think about hiding. It pulls you back toward him, like a tide. Like gravity.
And he knows it.
He steps out of his slacks and lets his shirt hang open, chest pale and cut with the kind of lean strength you’ve only read about in books meant to be hidden under your mattress. His body is strong, scarred, real. A monument to the centuries he’s outlived.
Your eyes drop lower. And—god.
You freeze.
He’s hard already, thick and flushed, hanging heavy between his thighs, and for the first time since the mark bloomed, you feel a new kind of fear coil in your gut.
He’s going to ruin you.
And you want it so badly you could cry.
Remmick sees the way your gaze lingers. “‘S alright,” he says, stepping closer. “I’ll go slow. First time’s meant to sting a little.” His hand drags down your cheek, thumb brushing your lips. “But y’won’t be scared of the pain. Not when I’m the one givin’ it to ya.”
You make a sound in your throat—something small, breathless, wanting.
He strokes your jaw, then cups the back of your neck, guiding you gently down, down, until you’re laid out across the velvet bench seat. He doesn’t climb on top of you right away. He kneels beside the bench, one hand splayed wide across your ribs, the other pressing just above the mark on your chest.
The weight of it grounds you.
“Last chance, little bride,” he says softly, and there’s something raw beneath the teasing now. “After this, there ain’t no undoing it.”
You look up at him. And despite everything—despite the fear, the heat, the bond that feels like it’s branded your soul from the inside out—
You nod.
Remmick’s smile is slow.
Tender.
Like a secret finally answered.
“Atta girl.”
He leans down.And when his mouth presses over the mark—soft, sure, claiming—you swear your body catches fire all over again. His mouth seals over the mark, and it’s like being opened. Not physically—not yet—but inside. Beneath your ribs. Somewhere sacred.
You feel it the way thunder rolls over land—first a hush, then a tremble, then a crack that splits you straight down the middle. His lips part just enough for his tongue to drag across the sigil, and something ancient stirs to life.
The mark glows white-hot.
Your back bows off the seat. Your fingers clutch at velvet, at air, at him. A gasp tears from your throat, raw and keening.
Remmick moans against your chest. “There she is,” he rasps, mouth dragging lower, down the slope of your breast. “Fuck, yer soul’s singin’ for me now. Y’feel that? That little ache in the base of yer spine?”
You nod, frantic.
“It’s me,” he says, hand sliding back between your thighs. “That’s me growin’ roots in ya.” His fingers tease your slick folds, feather-light, not giving what you need, just promising.
You whimper.
Remmick watches you writhe, his cock hard and leaking, resting heavy against his thigh. “Spread ‘em wider, sweetheart. That’s it. Just like that. Let me in.”
You do as you’re told. You’d do anything he asks right now. Not because he’s taken your will. But because he’s claimed your want.
He climbs over you slowly, one knee pressing between your thighs, his body blanketing yours with terrible warmth. The feel of his skin against yours makes your mark pulse like it’s alive. He lines himself up, dragging the head of his cock against your soaked entrance, letting it slip through your folds, slicking himself in you.
You gasp.
“Remmick—”
He cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek, voice low and hoarse. “I’ve got ya. Gonna go slow.” He pushes in.
God.
It’s thick. It stretches. It burns in the best, most ruinous way. You clutch his shoulders, nails biting into his skin as he inches deeper—slow, agonizing, precise. Every breath is a plea. Every heartbeat is his. You feel the bond knot tighter, pulling you to him with every inch he sinks into your body. Halfway in, and you’re already fluttering around him, body shaking, eyes wet.
Remmick groans, low and wrecked. “Fuckin’ hell,” he grits out. “You’re tight as a fist. Grip me like you were made for it.” He rolls his hips forward, just a little deeper.
You cry out—more overwhelmed than hurt. Pleasure is coiling inside you like a scream wound too tight to release.
“‘S alright,” he murmurs. “Yer takin’ me so well. Gonna have all of me soon.”
He kisses your temple.
Then your cheek.
Then your jaw.
“Y’wanna say it?” he asks.
You blink up at him, dazed.
He smiles against your throat. “Say yer mine.”
The words curl on your tongue, fever-warm. “I’m yours.”
His hips snap forward, burying himself in you to the hilt.
You shatter.
You can’t breathe. Not properly.
Not with him buried that deep inside you—thick and unyielding, pressing against something that makes your vision go white around the edges. The stretch burns and soothes all at once, every nerve pulled taut, every inch of your body drawn to his like a tide to the moon.
Remmick doesn’t move right away. He just holds himself there. Letting you feel the full weight of what he’s done.
What he is doing. What you’ll never come back from.
You whimper, your hips twitching, the pressure too much and not enough and perfect. And all he does is lean in close, his voice curling against your ear like the heat of a candle’s flame.
“There it is,” he murmurs. “Feel me in ya? That ache in your belly? That’s me settin’ in, stretchin’ ya out, makin’ room.” His hand cups your jaw, gentle but firm, tilting your face toward his. He watches you—hungry and soft all at once, like a man who’s both starving and reverent. “Y’wanna know somethin’, sweetheart?” he asks, hips giving one slow, rolling thrust.
You gasp, back arching, lips parting in a helpless cry.
He groans, deep in his throat, and stills again. “You’ll never forget this feelin’,” he says. “No matter what happens after. No matter where you run. This right here?” He shifts inside you, not pulling out, just moving deep. “This bond’ll hunger until I feed it.”
You can’t speak. Your body is writhing under him, hips tilting instinctively, needing more, needing movement. The bond is humming now—hot, thick, vibrating under your skin like a wire ready to snap.
And then he starts to move.
Slow. So slow it feels lethal.
He pulls out an inch. Pushes back in.
Again.
And again.
Each thrust is a deliberate claiming—grinding against the deepest part of you, igniting something wild and ancient in your blood. You moan with every slide, and his name slips out of your mouth between gasps like a prayer, like a curse, like you don’t care who hears.
“R-Remmick—”
He shudders above you, burying his face against your throat.
“Fuck, say it again.”
You do. You can’t stop. “Remmick. Remmick—” Your fingers dig into his back, pulling him closer, urging him to move faster, harder, deeper.
But he won’t. Not yet.
He keeps the pace slow, grinding into you with the kind of restraint that hurts, like he wants to ruin you one slow breath at a time.
You’re sobbing now.
From pleasure. From pressure.
From the overwhelming rightness of being filled by him.
He kisses the corner of your mouth. Then your jaw. Then the spot where your pulse pounds like a war drum. “Let it take ya,” he whispers. “Let me in. All the way.”
You don't have to let it take you. It's already happening.
Every roll of his hips, every grinding thrust, buries him deeper—not just into your body, but into your very being. You feel him threading through your blood, knotting himself into the soft, wet, secret places no one else has ever touched. You feel him becoming part of you.
And it’s bliss.
It’s agony.
It’s everything you never dared want.
Remmick groans into your throat, the sound rough and ragged, and you realize—he’s shaking. His arms bracket your head, muscles tense, as if he’s holding himself back with the last threads of a fraying leash. "Fuckin’ hell," he rasps against your skin. "You don’t even know what yer doin’ to me, do ya?"
You moan when his hips shift again, a slow, brutal grind that rubs against something deep inside, sending another crack through your already crumbling self.
"You’re burnin’ me up from the inside," he breathes. "Claimin’ me right back without even tryin'." He thrusts again, a little harder this time.
Your nails rake down his back, and he hisses, the sound sharp and desperate.
"Y’hear that, little bride?" he pants. "The bond’s snappin' shut. Lockin’ us together. Ain’t no prayers that can undo it now."
You whimper under him, nodding frantically because words are gone. Lost. All you can do is feel. All you can do is take him. The magic between you stretches taut—white-hot and endless—pulling tighter with every slow, deep stroke.
Remmick lifts his head.
Looks at you.
Really looks at you.
And something raw, something wild flashes through his crimson eyes.
Not cruelty.
Not hunger.
But devotion. The kind of devotion that ruins. That razes. That rebuilds.
And his voice—Christ, his voice—comes soft and reverent, like a prayer said in a burning church. "Mine." He pulls almost all the way out.
Your body cries for him.
And when he slams back in, burying himself to the hilt, the bond explodes.
You barely have time to scream. It rips out of you as Remmick drives back into your body with a force that shatters something deep inside—not bone, not muscle, but something older. Something tied to the very breath in your lungs and the heat in your blood.
The bond snaps tight. It doesn’t just settle between you—it erupts.
A wave of heat crashes through you, stealing your sight, your breath, your thoughts. The air around you blurs and sharpens all at once, everything too bright, too loud, too much. You feel him in every corner of your being—his hunger, his lust, his need crashing against yours in a brutal, endless tide.
Remmick groans low in his throat, a broken sound, like he’s barely holding himself together. "That's it, love," he pants, thrusting deep and sure now, fucking you through the bond’s collapse. "Feel it. Feel me." Each thrust drives him deeper than flesh, branding his presence into you so thoroughly you don't know where you end and he begins.
Your fingers scrabble at his back, nails dragging across his spine. You clutch at him like drowning, like if you let go you’ll be ripped apart.
And maybe you would.
"Yer mine now," he growls against your neck, voice shaking with the force of it. "Every heartbeat. Every breath. Every fuckin’ drop of blood in that sweet body—mine."
You sob beneath him, helpless.
Because it’s true. It’s so true it hurts.
He fucks you harder, hips slamming into yours, the slick sound of your bodies joining filling the dark carriage. Every inch of you aches for him now, craves him. The pleasure is brutal, endless, washing over you in thick, consuming waves that blur the edges of the world. "Say it," he snarls. "Say who owns ya."
You can barely get the words out, your voice broken and gasping between thrusts. "You—Remmick—I'm yours, I'm yours—"
He groans, loud and wrecked, driving himself deeper. "Again."
"I'm yours!" you cry, clinging to him, legs wrapping around his waist without thought. "I'm yours!"
The bond screams its satisfaction, magic sealing tighter, brighter, a perfect, eternal tether. Remmick’s rhythm falters—just for a heartbeat—and then he lets go completely. He fucks you harder, faster, rougher now, as if trying to stamp himself into every molecule of your body. As if the bond isn’t enough, as if he needs your body to remember what your soul already knows.
You’re close again.
Closer than before.
Tears leak from the corners of your eyes, not from pain—but from the overwhelming rightness of it. The way your body, your magic, your very soul sings under him.
"That's it," he grits out, teeth scraping against your jaw, your throat. "Gimme one more, sweetheart. One more, and I'll fill ya. Mark ya up proper."
You sob something desperate and broken against his shoulder.
And then you fall apart.
Your body breaks first. You cry out, a sharp, ragged sound, thighs locking around Remmick’s hips as your climax rips through you like a flood that’s been dammed too long. It’s blinding—so much more than pleasure. It's surrender. It's consummation.
The bond erupts under your skin, a wildfire racing from your chest outward—your limbs, your heart, your mind all filled with him, only him.
Remmick snarls low in his throat when he feels it—feels you milking his cock, spasming around him, clutching him so tightly you might tear him apart if he were anything less than what he is. "Fuckin’ hell, there’s my girl," he growls, voice thick, shaking, barely human. "God, yer perfect—perfect for me."
You barely hear him over the rush of blood in your ears, the way your heart stutters and kicks under the strain of the bond locking into place. You feel like you’re dying, being reborn, consumed.
And then—
His hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back to bare your throat.
You don’t resist.
You can’t.
You offer it to him. Begging without words.
Needing it. Needing him.
Remmick’s breath sears against your pulse, a guttural sound of want breaking free from his chest. "Mine," he rasps, and then— He sinks his fangs into your throat.
You scream—not from pain. From release. From completion.
The moment his teeth pierce your skin, it’s over. The bond seals so violently you swear you feel the whole world lurch.
You feel his cock throb inside you as he spills himself deep, hips jerking hard against yours as he empties everything into you—claiming you, breeding you, binding you. His moan vibrates against your throat, a filthy, possessive sound, full of ancient, ruinous satisfaction.
You convulse around him, helpless, drowning in the force of it—your orgasm crashing into his, a tangled knot of pleasure and magic and hunger so overwhelming you stop knowing where you end and he begins.
Everything collapses into him. His taste. His scent.
His voice murmuring ragged, half-spoken promises against your bleeding throat.
"Never lettin’ ya go."
"Made ya for me."
"Gonna fuckin’ ruin anyone who tries to take ya."
"My sweet girl. My bride."
The world fades to black around the edges.
Not death.
Not fear.
Just him.
Only him.
You don't know how long you stay like that. Him buried deep inside you, teeth still sunk into your throat, body trembling with the aftershocks of the bond and the brutal, gorgeous wreckage he’s left behind.
When he finally pulls his fangs free, you whimper at the loss—but he shushes you gently, lapping at the puncture marks with slow, lazy strokes of his tongue. Sealing the wound. Marking you further.
His hand cups the side of your face, thumb stroking the corner of your mouth like he's calming a horse that’s been run too hard. "There she is," he murmurs, voice low and thick with satisfaction. "My little bride."
You blink up at him, dazed, boneless, ruined.
He smiles.
It’s not kind.
It’s not soft.
It’s something far worse.
Worship.
"You feel it, don't ya?" he whispers. "That ache behind yer ribs? That’s me sittin’ in yer soul now."
You nod weakly. You can still feel him inside you—hot and sticky, filling you in every way a man can. The bond thrums between you like a heartbeat shared.
And he’s not done.
You see it in his eyes.
That hunger.
That certainty.
He presses a kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then your mouth—slow, claiming kisses, each one staking a piece of you deeper than the last. "You’ll never want anyone else again," he promises, voice almost tender. "Yer mine now. Body, blood, soul."
And somehow, impossibly—
You don't fear it.
You crave it.
You crave him.
Forever.
The carriage rocks gently as it moves, but you barely notice. You’re sprawled across the velvet seat, bare and boneless, your limbs too heavy to lift, your skin humming with the aftershocks of what just happened.
Of what you are now. Of what he made you.
The mark on your chest still glows faintly, a soft pulse in the dark, echoing your heartbeat—and his. It thrums in your veins, in the tender ache between your thighs where he spilled himself so deep you can still feel the heat of it. You don’t know where your body ends and his begins anymore.
Maybe there’s no difference. Maybe there never was.
Remmick sits at the far end of the carriage now, leaned back lazily against the seat, trousers still open, hair a mussed halo around his head like he’s been through a war and came out smiling.
He watches you. God, he watches you.
Eyes dark and glittering, hungry and satisfied all at once, a predator marveling at the way his prey still twitches even after the final blow.
He’s in no rush. He’s got you now.
Forever.
And you feel it—the first thread of it tightening low in your belly.
A throb. A pulse.
Your body responds instantly to his gaze, hips shifting, thighs pressing together, nipples tightening in the cool air. You bite your lip, trying to smother the shameful rush of heat flooding you again, but it's impossible.
Because now—
Now he feels it too.
A low, wicked chuckle rumbles from his chest. "Aw, sweetheart," he drawls, the accent thick and syrupy, heavy with cruel affection. "Already missin’ me inside ya?"
Your face burns. You shake your head, a weak, pitiful denial—but the bond betrays you.
He tilts his head, the smile on his lips turning downright vicious. "Don’t lie to me," he says, voice dropping low and rough. "Not now. Not when I can feel every twitch of that sweet little cunt clenchin’ on nothin’."
You whimper, curling in on yourself without thinking.
But he doesn’t let you hide for long.
In a blink, he’s across the carriage, hands bracketing your hips, dragging you back flat against the seat. He crowds over you without even touching you fully, his presence alone suffocating, his body heat pouring into you like a second, darker sun.
"You’re open to me now," he murmurs, brushing your hair from your face with almost obscene tenderness. "Every want. Every ache. Every filthy little thought—" He presses the flat of his palm to the mark. You jerk under him, helpless "—I feel ‘em all."
His thumb strokes slow, lazy circles over the mark, and each touch sends new ripples of need spiraling outward—your body trembling, your thighs wet and slick all over again. "You’re gonna learn real quick, love," he says, grinning as you whimper, as you arch into his touch without meaning to. "Ain’t no hidin’ from me now."
He leans down, mouth brushing your ear. "Every time you ache, I’ll know."
"Every time you touch yerself, I’ll feel it."
"Every time you think about me splittin’ you open again—"
He rocks his hips against you, not entering, just letting you feel the thick, hot weight of him. "—I’ll be right there, cock hard, ready to remind ya who you fuckin’ belong to."
You sob, overwhelmed.
And his voice goes velvet-soft, coaxing. "Beg me, little bride," he whispers, lips dragging down your throat, over your mark, down the trembling plane of your belly. "Beg me to fuck ya again. Right here. Right now. Fill ya ‘til there’s nothin’ left but me."
You’re already halfway there. The bond shudders and pulls tight, a perfect, beautiful noose.
And you know—
You’ll never be free again.
You’ll never want to be.
You don’t even realize you’re begging at first.
It’s not words—
It’s sounds.
Soft, desperate little whimpers that slip from your mouth without permission, without shame. Your hips rock up toward him, seeking friction, seeking him, even though there’s no chance of satisfaction without his mercy.
Remmick smiles down at you, all lazy, wicked patience. His thumb strokes your mark again, and your whole body jolts, back arching beautifully off the velvet, nipples peaked, thighs slick. “C’mon, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and rich. “Know you can do better’n that. Gimme what I want.” His other hand slides between your legs, fingers ghosting over the soaked, swollen mess he’s made of you.
Barely touching. Barely giving.
You sob out a broken little sound, your hips chasing his hand, your body betraying how desperately you need him to touch, to fill, to take.
Remmick chuckles, a dark, filthy sound that rumbles deep in his chest. “You’re already cryin’ for it, aren’t ya?” he says, tapping your clit lightly with two fingers just to hear the whimper it wrings out of you. “Poor thing. Poor messy little bride. All knotted up and nowhere to go.”
You bite your lip, trembling.
And finally, finally, you find your voice. “Please,” you gasp. “Please, Remmick—please, I need you—”
His breath hitches. He feels it through the bond.
Your honesty. Your surrender.
Your helpless, soaking, wrecked want.
His hand fists in your hair, tugging your head back to make you look at him. “Say it proper,” he growls, eyes glowing deep red in the dark. “Say what you want.”
You sob again, blinking up at him, undone and aching. “Please fuck me,” you whisper. “Please—fill me up—make me yours—” You don’t even know what you’re saying anymore.
You just mean it. You mean every breathless, desperate word.
Remmick’s whole body shudders. “Fuckin’ hell, you’re perfect.” He doesn’t make you wait after that. He grabs your hips, hauling you down the seat, lining himself up again with ruthless, hungry precision.
You feel the head of his cock slide against your entrance, hot and heavy and inevitable. You whimper, trying to push down onto him, but he holds you still.
“Easy, love,” he murmurs, voice thick and rough. “Gonna give it to ya. Gonna fuck ya slow. Deep. Like you deserve.”
You cry out, nails digging into the velvet, the anticipation unbearable. And then—
He pushes inside. All the way.
Inch by inch, deliberate and slow, stretching you open, filling you so completely you can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t be anything but his. Your head tips back, mouth open in a soundless moan, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes.
Remmick groans like he’s dying. “Christ, yer fuckin’ perfect inside,” he pants, hips rolling slow, deep, dragging against every tender, swollen place he touched before. “Tight little thing. Made to take me.”
You whimper under him, arms thrown around his shoulders, legs locked around his waist, pulling him deeper, begging without words for more, more, more—
“Shhh, I got ya,” he soothes, kissing the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your throat where his bite still aches. “Gonna take care of ya, little bride. Gonna fuck ya full. Keep ya full. Never gonna let ya go.”
The bond hums louder. Hotter.
Closer.
You can feel yourself already climbing again, your body desperate to fall with him, for him, because of him.
And Remmick—
Remmick feels it too. Feels it through the bond, through your trembling body, through the desperate clench of your cunt around his cock. “That's it,” he groans, pace picking up, thrusts slow but brutal, deep enough you swear you feel him in your throat. “Milk me, love. Show me who ya belong to.” You don’t realize you’re crying again until his thumb brushes the tear slipping down your cheek.
Not hard. Not cruel.
Gentle. Tender.
Like he’s savoring it. Like he’s proud.
“Look at ya,” Remmick murmurs, still grinding deep inside you, the head of his cock dragging over that sensitive, aching place that makes your toes curl and your thighs shake. “Cryin’ so sweet for me.”
He kisses the tear away. Slow.
Lingering.
And then he pulls back just enough to watch your face as he thrusts deep again—slow and rough and devastating—the velvet seat creaking under you both.
You sob, hips rolling to meet him without even thinking, chasing the friction, the fullness, the ownership.
“That’s it,” he pants, voice ragged with pleasure. “Good girl. Good fuckin’ girl. Always knew you’d take me so pretty.”
You cling to him now—arms thrown around his neck, nails raking down his back, legs locked around his hips like your body’s trying to weld itself to his. The bond thrums, vibrating louder, hotter, tighter, until there’s nothing in the world but him—his cock splitting you open, his hands anchoring you down, his mouth whispering filthy worship against your throat.
“Yer built for me,” he growls, teeth scraping lightly against your skin. “Every inch of ya. Every little flutter of this sweet cunt—made to squeeze the life outta me.”
You keen high in your throat, mindless.
Gone.
And Remmick knows it. Knows he’s breaking you. Knows he’s ruining you.
And he loves it.
“You ain’t ever gonna want anyone else,” he murmurs, slowing his thrusts even more, dragging them out until each one feels like a lifetime. “Ain’t ever gonna even think about lettin’ another man touch ya. Not when I’ve already marked ya this deep.”
You whimper, nodding desperately, nails digging into his shoulders.
“Say it, love,” he urges, voice rough and sweet and brutal all at once. “Say yer mine.”
“I’m yours,” you sob, clenching around him so tight he curses under his breath. “I’m yours—I’m yours—only yours—”
He thrusts deeper, harder, driving you up the seat. “Good girl,” he growls, voice wrecked. “Fuck, you’re perfect.”
Your climax builds again—fast and brutal—pleasure knotting behind your ribs, behind your spine, the bond squeezing tighter, ready to snap.
And he feels it. His hand slides between your bodies, finding your clit with ruthless precision, thumb circling it in time with his deep, devastating thrusts. “Gimme another one, sweetheart,” he pants, hips snapping harder now, cock hitting so deep you swear you feel him in your fucking soul. “Wanna feel you fall apart around me. Wanna drown in it.”
You moan—high and desperate—and the pleasure crashes over you without warning.
You shatter. You scream.
Your body locks up tight, clamping around him, pulsing, milking, owning him as much as he owns you.
Remmick roars against your throat, hips jerking wildly, and then he’s spilling inside you again—hot and endless, filling you so deep you swear you can feel it leaking out around where you’re still clenching him tight.
He bites your shoulder this time—not hard enough to break skin, just hard enough to mark—and the bond howls in satisfaction, sealing it even deeper.
He doesn’t pull out. He doesn’t move.
He just lays there, trembling over you, cock still twitching inside your soaked, fluttering cunt, breath ragged against your skin.
“Mine,” he whispers again.
A vow.
A sentence.
A promise.
And you—You cling to him like you’ll never let go.
Because you won’t.
Because you can’t.
Because you’re his.
Forever.
You wake in his bed.
You don't remember how you got there.
One moment, you were in the carriage, trembling and wrecked in his arms. The next, you were here—on soft linen sheets, the scent of smoke and leather and Remmick sinking into your skin with every breath you take.
It’s still dark outside. Still heavy.
Still thick with the weight of what’s been done.
The mark over your heart burns dully now, a steady throb like a brand set into your flesh. Not painful. Not exactly.
But constant.
A reminder. A tether.
You reach for him instinctively, seeking the heat of his body against yours—but find only cool sheets where he should be. You sit up, heart stuttering, chest tightening so fast and sharp it’s like you’ve been punched.
Because he’s gone.
He’s not in the bed. Not in the room.
And the bond—The bond screams.
The ache blooms under your ribs, a sick, gnawing hunger that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with absence.
You feel wrong without him.
Empty.
Fractured.
You clutch the sheet to your chest, trembling. “Remmick?” you whisper into the dark.
No answer. Just the slow crackle of the fireplace across the room.
Your thighs are sticky with the remnants of him. Your body aches in places you didn’t know could ache. And still—it’s not enough.
Your body wants him back. Needs him back.
You bite your lip, rocking slightly where you sit, trying to soothe the gnawing ache, the gnashing hunger spiraling tighter inside you.
And then—
You feel him.
Not physically. Psychically.
A thread tugging between you.
You squeeze your thighs together, trying to suppress the fresh wave of heat pooling low in your belly—but it’s no use. The mark flares hot.
You whimper.
Somewhere—wherever he is—you know he feels it too.
Because a voice curls into your mind. Low. Rough. Amused. "Miss me already, little bride?"
You gasp, hands flying to your chest, clutching the mark like it might stop the flood building under your skin. “Remmick,” you whisper, voice breaking.
His laugh—low and dangerous—echoes in your mind. "Can feel ya squirm from here."
You shudder violently.
He's not even touching you—and still, he unravels you with nothing but the bond. With nothing but his voice.
"Bet yer soaked again already."
"Bet yer clenchin’ that sweet cunt, achin’ for me."
"Bet you’d beg real nice if I told ya to."
You whimper, rocking helplessly on the bed, the sheet sliding down your body, baring your breasts to the cold night air. You squeeze your thighs tighter—but it only makes it worse. The bond thrums between your legs like a second heartbeat, cruel and constant.
And Remmick—
Remmick drinks it in.
"Touch yerself," he murmurs in your mind, voice thick with heat and wickedness. "C’mon, sweetheart. Let me feel it."
You shake your head, trembling.
You don’t want to. You can’t. But your hand is already sliding down your belly, shaking, betraying you.
The bond rejoices.
Your fingers trail lower. Soft. Tentative. Shaking.
You’re not thinking anymore. You’re feeling.
Feeling the mark pulsing hot against your ribs, feeling the bond pulling you forward like a hook in your chest, feeling Remmick’s presence wrapped around your mind like smoke.
You part your thighs slowly, the sheet falling away completely. The cool air brushes your skin.
Your slick heat clings to your thighs. You’re already soaked for him.
And he knows it.
"Tha’s it," he drawls into your mind, voice rich with wicked satisfaction. "Good girl. Show me how much ya miss me."
Your fingers slip between your folds, gathering the mess he left inside you.
You whimper. Just from the first touch.
It’s almost too much—too raw, too sensitive—but you can’t stop. Your body won’t let you. Not when the bond is throbbing so hard it feels like a second heartbeat inside your cunt.
You circle your clit with slow, trembling motions. Your back arches. Your breath shudders. “Remmick,” you moan into the empty room, thighs trembling. You swear you can feel him groan from wherever he is—like the sound of your pleasure punches through the bond and wrecks him too.
"Sound so fuckin’ sweet when ya moan for me," he murmurs, rough and reverent. "Could listen to ya all night, little bride."
Your fingers move faster, hips lifting off the bed, chasing the friction, chasing the edge. But it’s not enough.
You whimper helplessly, frustrated tears welling in your eyes. You need him. You need more.
And he feels your desperation.
"Poor thing," he croons. "Can’t even make yerself come without me now, can ya?"
You sob out a broken little “no.”
Because it’s true. The bond won't let you. You’re too tightly strung, too deeply tethered to him. You’re trapped in a pleasure you can’t finish without his touch. Without his voice coaxing you over the edge.
And Remmick? He sounds delighted.
"Good," he growls. "You shouldn’t be able to. Yer mine now, body and soul. Only come when I say so. Only break when I make ya."
Your fingers tremble between your legs, still circling, still trying.
And then—
His voice drops into a low, filthy purr.
"Tell me what you need, sweetheart."
"Tell me what you’re beggin’ for."
You choke on a sob, panting. “I—I need you,” you cry. “Please, Remmick—I need you—inside me—on me—anything—please—”
The bond tightens, wrapping around you like iron and silk all at once.
And then you feel him move.
Not just through the tether. Physically.
Heavy, sure footsteps across the wooden floorboards.
You twist on the bed, gasping, heart hammering—
And there he is. Leaning against the doorframe.
Shirtless.
Trousers unbuttoned and slung low on his hips.
Eyes glowing deep red.
Cock already hard, leaking, ready.
He licks his lips slowly, predatorily, as he watches you spread out on his bed, hand between your thighs, body trembling with the need he’s been feeding from a distance. “Aw, sweetheart," he says out loud now, voice thick with hunger, accent curling around every syllable. "Look atcha. Fallin’ apart without me."
You shudder violently, reaching out toward him, tears spilling over.
“Please.”
Remmick’s grin turns sharp. Dark.
Triumphant.
“Don’t worry, love," he purrs, crossing the room in three slow, deliberate steps. "I’m gonna take real good care of ya.” The mattress dips under his weight as Remmick climbs onto the bed.
You tremble, thighs still parted, hand still slick and shaking where he caught you mid-plea, mid-fall. But the second his body covers yours—solid, hot, real—you sob with relief.
The bond sings. Bright and brutal.
Tightening like a velvet noose around your heart, your spine, your slick aching cunt.
He hovers over you for a moment, just looking—eyes burning, mouth parted, chest rising and falling with wrecked, hungry breaths. “So fuckin’ pretty when ya beg," he murmurs, voice low and gravelly, all wicked affection. "Could watch ya cry for my cock all night."
You arch up without thinking, hands grabbing at his hips, desperate for him to move, to fill, to own you again—
But Remmick just chuckles. Slow. Dark. Cruel.
"Nuh-uh," he says, catching your wrists easily in one hand and pinning them above your head. "You wanted me, little bride. Now you’re gonna take it."
You gasp, blinking up at him, helpless under the steady weight of his body, the heat of his cock dragging against your dripping folds, heavy and leaking and so close.
He shifts his hips, just enough to tease you—rubbing the head of his cock along your slick entrance, sliding through the mess he already made of you, pressing against your clit with maddening, lazy circles.
You cry out, hips jerking.
But he doesn’t give you what you need. Not yet.
He leans down, nose brushing yours, lips ghosting over your mouth. "Patience," he murmurs, soft and deadly. "Gonna make ya feel it."
And then he moves. Slow. Devastating.
He presses inside an inch. Then stops.
You sob under him, back arching, cunt fluttering helplessly around the stretch.
Remmick groans low in his chest, forehead pressing to yours. "Christ, love," he pants. "Yer still so fuckin’ tight for me."
He pushes deeper. Another inch. Another.
Your legs wrap around his waist automatically, desperate to pull him closer, to drag him deeper, but he only smirks against your skin.
"Greedy little thing," he murmurs. "Can feel it. The way yer suckin’ me in."
You whimper, blinking up at him through a haze of need and tears. "Please," you whisper, broken.
He kisses your forehead. Then your nose. Then your trembling mouth.
"Beg prettier," he growls against your lips.
You cry out, the bond pulling tighter, demanding. "Please, Remmick," you sob. "I—I need you—need all of you—please, please, fill me up—"
And that’s what does it.
His patience breaks. With a low, snarling groan, he slams the rest of the way inside you—burying himself to the hilt in one brutal, perfect thrust.
You scream—high and raw and wrecked—as he stretches you open all over again, thick and deep and claiming.
The bond flares.
Brighter. Hotter. Tighter.
You feel him everywhere.
And he doesn’t move at first—just holds you there, trembling around him, stuffed so full you swear you can feel his heartbeat through the walls of your cunt. "That’s it," he pants against your throat. "Take it. Take all of it."
You sob, clenching around him, desperate for more, for anything, for everything.
And Remmick—Remmick fucking smiles.
"Good girl," he breathes. "My good little bride."
He holds still for just a moment longer.
Lets you feel it. The stretch. The fullness. The way your cunt pulses helplessly around him, like your body’s already trying to keep him, even before he’s started moving.
Remmick’s breath fans hot across your cheek. “You feel that, sweetheart?” he whispers, voice low, reverent. “That’s what it means to be bound.”
You moan beneath him, tears slipping down your temples into your hairline as your fingers tighten around his arms—his name clinging to your tongue like prayer, like poison, like you’d die without it.
He begins to move. Slow.
Deep.
Each thrust rolls through you like thunder, like ritual, like a man grinding his soul into yours one inch at a time. He pulls back until only the tip remains inside—then sinks in again, long and devastating, pressing into every tender spot he’s already mapped with hands, teeth, and magic.
You cry out.
The sound is wrecked. Raw.
Remmick groans into your neck. “Fuck, you sound like heaven,” he pants, thrusting again—deeper, harder, making the bed creak beneath you both. “Takin’ me so fuckin’ good. Like you were made for this.”
You nod—wild, desperate.
Because you were. Because that’s what it feels like.
You were made for him.
The bond throbs between you, singing at every point where your skin meets his—breast to chest, hips to hips, heart to heart. It doesn’t just tether. It entwines.
You feel him inside you in ways that have nothing to do with flesh—his hunger, his need, his worship burning through the tether like fire licking silk.
“Never lettin’ you go,” he murmurs, fucking you deeper now, his rhythm building. “Gonna keep you right here—under me, around me—'til you can’t remember what breathin’ feels like without my cock inside ya.”
You sob—moaning, wrecked, grateful.
He lifts your leg over his shoulder without asking, pressing deeper, grinding his hips down to fill every inch of you, dragging another scream from your throat. “That’s it,” he growls. “Squeeze me, love. Just like that. Milk me dry.”
His hand slides between your bodies, thumb circling your clit with perfect, devastating pressure, like he’s already memorized how to tear you apart.
Your back arches, vision blurring.
You’re close. So close.
Remmick feels it. Through the bond. In your body. In the way your cunt flutters, begging to break again. “Come for me,” he rasps. “Come with me inside you. Let the whole fuckin’ world know who you belong to.”
You can’t stop it. You don’t even try.
You break.
Harder than before—clenching around him, crying out his name, the bond lighting up like a wildfire behind your eyes.
Remmick groans loud and possessive above you, hips snapping hard, fast, until he’s burying himself one last time and spilling into you with a sound you’ll never forget. “Mine,” he chokes out. “Fuck—mine. Mine—”
You don’t know who’s shaking more.
Your hands. His voice. The world.
He stays inside you. Doesn’t pull out.
Just holds you. Breathes you.
Like he needs to.
The bond simmers between you, satisfied and sealed, humming like a beast at rest. You reach up, hands trembling, and cup his face.
He leans into your touch like it hurts not to. “Y’feel it now?” he whispers, barely audible. “That ache when I’m gone?”
You nod, eyes wet.
“Good,” he says. “Because I fuckin’ feel it too.”
You wake up sore.
Sweetly. Brutally. Deep in the muscles of your thighs, between your ribs, in the soft swell of your cunt—filled and used and claimed. You shift under the heavy quilt, blinking into the low golden light of the fire across the room.
There’s birdsong. Faint. And the low simmering hum of the bond still thrumming in your chest like a second heartbeat.
It’s quiet here. Peaceful, almost.
Except for the ache between your legs and the warm, terrifying weight of him behind you.
Remmick.
He’s still there.
One arm curled heavy over your waist, bare chest pressed to your spine. You feel the slow, lazy drag of his breath against your shoulder—calm and even, like a man who’s slept deeply. Like he’s sated.
He doesn’t stir when you shift slightly.
But the bond does. It tightens, warm and low, like a pulse at the base of your spine. Like a hand slipping between your thighs. Like a warning.
Don’t move. Don’t leave. You’re his.
You lie there, heart pounding quietly under his hand.
And then—
His voice. Low. Rough with sleep. Slipping against your skin like silk over a bruise. “Where d’you think yer goin’, little bride?”
You freeze.
His fingers flex over your belly, lazy but firm, tugging you back against his chest until you feel the unmistakable weight of his cock, already thick and half-hard between your thighs. He presses his face into the crook of your neck, breathing you in like he’s starving again.
“I wasn’t,” you whisper. “I wasn’t going anywhere.”
A soft, dangerous hum in your ear. “Good.”
You stay still.
The silence stretches, warm and weighted, as his hand strokes lazy circles over your stomach. He’s not trying to arouse you—not yet. Just remind you. That he’s here. That he feels you. That he owns every flutter of your heartbeat before you even register it.
“You dream last night?” he murmurs.
You swallow hard. You had.
Dreamt of him. Of his hands. His mouth. The way your legs shook when he told you to beg. The way you liked it.
“I don’t remember,” you lie softly.
Remmick laughs against your throat, lips brushing the skin he bit just hours ago. “Liar.”
His hand slides lower. But slower now. Less demanding. More like he’s testing something. Watching how your body answers to his. How the bond hums in response to every breath between you.
“You’re thinkin’ too loud,” he says, nuzzling behind your ear. “I can feel it.”
You tense. Just slightly.
His hand stills over your hips. Then his voice, softer this time. “You scared of me, love?”
The question sinks into your ribs like a needle. You’re not sure how to answer.
Yes.
And no.
And not enough.
You don't answer right away. How could you?
Your throat is tight. Your body too sore, too raw. The ache between your legs still pulses in time with the bond, and Remmick’s presence behind you—his breath on your neck, his cock hardening slowly between your thighs—makes it worse.
Makes it better. Makes it everything.
And still, that question hangs in the air like smoke:
“You scared of me, love?”
He doesn’t say it cruelly. He doesn’t laugh after. He just waits.
His hand stills on your belly, fingers splayed wide over the skin he’s already touched with tongue and teeth and blood.
You swallow hard, voice soft, barely audible.
“Yes.”
Remmick doesn’t tense. He doesn’t growl. He doesn’t punish you.
He exhales slowly through his nose, like the answer had been expected. Maybe even hoped for. “Good,” he murmurs. “Y’should be.”
You blink—heart thudding once, hard, behind your glowing mark.
His thumb strokes your stomach, just above your navel. “You should be scared,” he says again, slower this time. “I’m not a man, sweetheart. I ain’t some boy who’ll kiss your hand and promise forever under a moon I don’t get to stand under.”
He kisses your shoulder instead. Soft. Lingering.
A contradiction to the words in his mouth.
“I’m what waits under the bed,” he breathes. “What knocks at the door when you pray it won’t. What takes instead of asks.”
You shiver. Not from cold.
From the way your body doesn’t recoil.
From the way your hips push back against him without thinking.
Remmick hums against your skin. “Scared of me,” he repeats, voice lowering to a hush, “but still so wet for me you’re stickin’ to my sheets.”
You whimper, cheeks burning.
And still—he doesn’t move.
Doesn’t rut into you. Doesn’t force.
He just holds you tighter. Because this is worse than violence. Worse than taking.
This is knowing.
He feels everything. Not just your body.
Your shame. Your desire. Your ache for him.
And he loves it.
“You think I don’t feel what that fear does to ya?” he murmurs. “How it curls low in your belly, how it sweetens the way you clench when I talk like this?”
His teeth graze your throat again. Gently this time. Carefully. “You’re scared,” he says, “and still, you’d let me put a baby in you if I told you to.”
Your breath catches.
Your body answers before your voice ever could—heat surging between your legs, thighs squeezing together around nothing, cunt fluttering at the idea of it.
He feels that too.
“Ohhh,” he groans, laughing low and pleased. “There she is.”
He doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t flip you over. Doesn’t tear you open.
Doesn’t bare his teeth and fuck you through the mattress, even though you can feel how badly he wants to.
Instead—Remmick slips down your body slowly.
The quilt is pulled aside with a lazy flick of his wrist, exposing your bare skin to the cold air and to him. You shiver, more from anticipation than chill.
He kneels at the edge of the bed, dragging your hips to the edge like you’re something soft and sacred he’s about to set on fire. The bond buzzes between you, a hot, pulsing wire strung from your cunt to his mouth, taut and trembling.
You bite your lip. And you don’t dare move.
Because the look in his eyes—
Low. Hungry. Worshipful.
It pins you to the sheets like a hand to the throat.
“Still scared?” he murmurs, kissing the inside of your knee.
You nod. Barely.
He smiles. Slow. Honest. “Good. Don’t stop bein’.”
He kisses higher. The curve of your thigh. Then the crease.
Then—
Close.
Not touching. Not yet.
But watching you twitch. Watching your hips roll up in a silent, shameful plea.
Remmick groans softly. “You think that fear makes me less gentle?” he asks, voice hushed, like confession. “Nah, sweetheart. Makes me tender. Makes me want to ruin you slow.”
You gasp as he finally presses a kiss to your cunt.
Soft. Closed-mouth.
More reverent than filthy.
It’s worse than teasing. It’s adoration.
He parts you with careful fingers, breath ghosting over you until your legs shake from the not-touching, the almost, the please.
And then his tongue finds your clit.
Just once. A soft drag.
Then again. Slower. Wetter. More precise.
Your back arches off the bed.
Your hands reach for something to hold—sheets, the edge of the headboard, the carved wood posts—but Remmick grabs your thighs and holds you down.
“Mmm-mm,” he hums, tongue circling slowly. “Don’t run.”
You moan—loud, needy—and he groans in response, mouthing at you deeper, filthier, gentler.
“You taste scared,” he mutters between licks. “And it’s makin’ me hard enough to fuckin’ kill for it.”
Your legs twitch.
You’re soaked. He’s drinking you in. Taking his time, tongue slow and firm, lips wrapping around your clit like he’s savoring your fear, your sweetness, your surrender.
And still—
No rush.
No cruelty.
Just… devotion.
Monster-shaped.
Blood-warm.
Endless.
“You’re mine,” he murmurs against your cunt, voice almost broken. “Even when you’re shakin’. Even when you flinch. Even when you don’t fuckin’ understand what I’ve turned you into yet.”
You sob.
Because he’s right. You’re his.
Even in the fear.
Especially in the fear.
And when he sucks your clit slow and deep, the pressure spiraling out from your spine in white-hot coils, you don’t try to hide the tears.
You don’t want to anymore.
You break the second time he moans. Not from the sound alone—though it’s low and thick and filthy, vibrating through your cunt like a prayer that never belonged to God—but from the way he presses his tongue flat, dragging it slow and steady through your slick folds like he’s starving and you’re the only thing that’s ever tasted like salvation.
Your thighs tremble around his head.
You try to close them. He doesn’t let you.
Strong hands pin your legs open, thumbs digging into the meat of your thighs as he devours you—hungry, tender, relentless.
You sob. Tears spill freely now. Not from pain. Not even from overstimulation.
But from the unbearable, overwhelming worship.
He licks you like you’re sacred. He sucks your clit like it’s a rosary bead caught between his lips.
“Please—” you gasp, voice catching. “Please, I—I can’t—”
But you can. He knows you can.
“Y’can,” he growls into your cunt, mouth soaked, voice wrecked. “Y’will.”
His tongue flicks faster now, swirling pressure tight and perfect, designed to drag you toward the edge.
“Gonna come for me, little bride,” he murmurs, biting your inner thigh. “Gonna give it to me. Right fuckin’ now.”
And you do. You shatter.
The orgasm tears through you like lightning—white-hot, blinding, burning you open from the inside out. You scream his name, thighs locking around his head, body writhing, breaking.
Remmick groans like your pleasure’s feeding him, like it’s going to his head, to his cock, to the thing in him that isn’t human and never pretended to be.
You’re still shaking when he moves.
Rising up over you. Dragging his cock along your twitching folds, hard and slick and soaked with the mess you just made.
“You’re still scared,” he says, watching you with eyes too dark and too red to be anything but wrong.
You nod.
Because it’s true. Because it always will be.
And he smiles.
Soft. Loving. Terrifying.
“But you want me anyway,” he whispers, lining himself up.
Your lip trembles. “Yes.”
He kisses you.
Then pushes inside.
Not hard. Not brutal.
Just deep.
He sheaths himself in your still-pulsing cunt like he belongs there. Like the bond’s waiting to welcome him back.
You cry out, arms wrapping around his shoulders, clinging to him like you might fall through the bed otherwise.
Remmick groans, low and aching, forehead pressed to yours. “That’s my girl,” he breathes. “Takin’ me even when you’re scared. Clenchin’ like you don’t ever wanna let go.”
He starts to move.
Slow. Rhythmic. Ruinous.
And you sob against his mouth—not because it hurts. But because you’ve never felt so full of something you’ll never understand.
“Say it,” he pants, each thrust dragging a cry from your throat. “Say the fear don’t matter. Not if it’s me.”
You nod, dizzy and wrecked, tears slipping down your cheeks.
“It doesn’t,” you whisper. “Not if it’s you.”
Remmick groans, fucking into you harder now, the bond singing through your bones. “That’s it,” he growls. “That’s mine. All of it. All of you.”
You nod again.
You don’t fight. You don’t flinch. You give in.
You don’t know how long he stays inside you.
Could be minutes. Could be hours. Could be forever.
Time doesn’t work the same anymore. Not when your body is bonded to his. Not when your soul is stitched to something ancient and starving.
He holds you through every aftershock. His hands stroke your skin as if memorizing the shape of you, the feel of you, the way your body softened under his until it didn’t know where it ended and he began. Eventually, he moves—slowly, gently, as if reluctant to leave the heat of you even for a moment.
You expect him to pull out and clean you, maybe carry you to a bath, maybe tuck you against his chest again and fall into that peaceful quiet you’d been drifting in before.
But instead—He kneels between your thighs.
Again.
Eyes glowing in the low firelight. Expression unreadable. Mouth blood-red and reverent.
“Remmick?” you whisper.
And then you see it.
His knife.
The blade is old. Dark. Iron and bone. Etched with something that moves if you look too long.
He doesn’t raise it. Not yet.
He looks at you with the kind of stillness that makes you forget how to breathe. “I need to finish it,” he says.
You blink. “I thought we already did.”
He tilts his head, eyes trailing down your sweat-slick body, pausing at the faint glow of the mark over your heart. “Nah, love,” he says quietly. “We did the binding. The claiming. The taking.”
He presses the knife to his palm.
“But not the keeping.”
He slices. Clean. No flinch. Blood wells thick and slow from the cut, dark and rich and wrong.
You sit up slightly, heart pounding.
He holds his hand out to you. “Drink,” he says.
You stare. Then whisper, “Why?”
His voice doesn’t shake. It never does.
“Because this world don’t care what I’ve claimed.”
“Because someone’ll try to take you from me.”
“Because I need them to know you’re mine before they even open their mouth.”
Your breath catches. “Remmick…”
“They’ll smell it on ya. Feel it in your blood. The burn of me, buried under your skin. It’ll make ‘em hesitate. Make ‘em hurt when they touch you.”
You swallow hard.
Your legs are still trembling from his last claiming. You can feel his seed still dripping from you. You can feel his breath in your lungs, the bond in your spine, his mark over your heart.
And still—he wants more.
You crawl toward him. Hands shaking. And press your lips to his palm.
The taste is sharp. Sweet. Thick with something that isn’t just blood.
Power.
Magic.
Hunger older than this country, older than the woods, older than God.
Remmick groans low in his throat, watching you lap at the wound like you’re starved for it.
Maybe you are. Maybe you always have been.
When you’ve had your fill, he pulls you up into his lap, cradling you there like a bride carried across a threshold made of ash and bone. His mouth finds your throat again. Kisses it. “I’ll kill for you,” he whispers. “I’ll burn for you.”
You press your forehead to his. “I know.”
“I’ll never let you go.”
“I don’t want you to.”
His arms tighten around you. One hand slides over your belly. The mark is glowing again. Dimmer, but pulsing steady. “You’ll carry my blood now,” he says, voice soft and ruined. “One day you’ll carry more.”
You don’t answer. You don’t need to.
The bond answers for you.
You are his.
Forever.
Not because he took. But because you gave.
Because when the dark came knocking—when it whispered promises of pleasure and fear and ruin—
You opened the door. You bared your throat.
You said yes.
And now, when they speak of the bloodbound bride of the most dangerous vampire in the Delta, they won’t whisper in pity.
They’ll whisper in awe.
Because you didn’t run. You didn’t cry. You stayed.
And when they ask you why—if you’re ever foolish enough to speak to mortals again—you’ll say the only truth that matters anymore.
“I was scared.”
And then, with a smile, with teeth, with Remmick’s fire burning behind your ribs—
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.
English is not my first language, sorry for the mistakes :(.
I hate Oz, but that hate make me write this.
I love you; i'm sorry.
A tired sigh left her lips. She felt all her bones ache as she walked looking for her husband and Vic. She smiled just thinking about them. Vic had won her heart in so many ways. Victor would be someone powerful in the future, and she would be there to support him along with Oz.
She saw them in the distance talking; she quickened her pace so she could join in the conversation, only to stop moments later; her whole body paralyzed, even stopping breathing for a few seconds as she witnessed what was happening in front of her. Her heart was begging to stop Oz from what he was doing, but her mind assured her there was a reason behind it.
Seeing Oz kill Victor with his bare hands left her vulnerable. She turned her back to them as she put a hand to her mouth, covering her sobs. She cried silently until she stopped hearing Vic struggle. She heard the body falling to the ground and tried to wipe her tears quickly as she turned around. She saw Oswald going through Vic's wallet, throwing away his ID, and pulling out the money he had.
Her husband's eyes met hers as she walked over to them.
"May I say a final goodbye?" She asked in a whisper, and felt the tears forming in her eyes again.
Oswald looked at him for a few seconds before nodding.
"Sure, doll, but make it quick."
She reached down, caressing Vic's face, lovingly and sadly. She rested her forehead with his.
"In another life you will not have this fate; I hope your family waited for you."
She kissed his cheek, not caring about getting it wet with her tears. She looked up to see Oswald offering her his hand; she took it with a slight tremor. She looked for the last time at the young man who brought smiles to her face when she was sad, the young man who always helped her reconcile with Oswald, the young man who had so much to live for but got involved with the wrong people.
They began to walk away, but without seeing him one last time, she sighed heavily, knowing that this was only the beginning with the new ruler of Gotham.
Victor's death created a before and after; she squeezed Oz's hand tightly and looked at him.
"He did something wrong, right?"
"Yes, doll, he couldn't come with us this time."
And she believed him. Victor earned a place in her heart, but Oz had a bigger place and always will.
At that moment she remembered his father's words.
"Some people were not born for this life, others were always destined and only one wins the power."
As they walk away a proud smile appears on her face, her husband won that power.
I uploaded this to my tik tok account, I modified it to be an Oz cobb x reader story, but in my videos it's Oz x Oc.
English is not my first language, so sorry for the mistakes :(.
https://vm.tiktok.com/ZMhQhC3BC/
There was something about Oz, something explainable and inexplicable.
It that moment, she did not understand what it was about Oz that attracted her to him. At the time, he was her sister driver. He had no important power, nor was Carmine Falcone's right-hand man.
So why did she fall so quickly deeply in love with him?
It was true that Oz always had a flirtatious or sarcastic comment that immediately made her day. She wasn't going to deny it, others could say the same words as Oz, even with the same tone, but it wasn't the same. With the other guys she had to give her best fake smile and play along, but with Oz? It was all so real, the blushes and the nerves, the shyness his presence aroused.
She had to hate him, because of him her beloved older sister, was in that damned place she hated to think, but in just three years her feelings were changing, from hate to interest, from interest to friendship and from friendship to wanting everything from him.
She wanted his love, his revenge, she wanted it all, she would kill for him and Oz would kill for her.
18+ | 2700 words, salacious use of tentacles, post re5 wesker, one of those things that was meant to be sweet but became nasty, amab!reader version here | Fic Directory
You've taken such good care of him. Isn't it time he rewards you? Be careful though. Some things are still a little… new.
You were something else. Frankly you always have been, but now more than ever.
Despite waves of self loathing and rampant depression of which he would never confess, Wesker’s recovery has been as smooth as you could make it. Pain medication kept most of the lingering aches away and Uroboros had ensured he lived to see another day. Other than a weakened body riddled with scar tissue from his little dunk in the fires of the Earth, he couldn’t complain terribly much.
Even after his fusion with Uroboros, Wesker was still a mere man unable to escape the more… basic urges. He’s always considered arousal to be like an itch. Sure he could scratch it, but he could also ignore it and let it go away. He often chose the latter, but, with little else to occupy him besides literature or your company, such a choice became significantly more difficult.
You notice his state quickly, though you say nothing of the tented blanket that only seems to continue rising the more he tries to ignore it. You simply take his hand and squeeze, occupied with your laptop while Wesker rereads the same line of his book over and over again in a poor attempt to settle down. When he tips his head back against the mountain of pillows he’s propped against, you give him a knowing look.
“Want some help?” You ask, thumb brushing against his knuckles.
Does he? He did go waist deep in lava. Thus far, it had seemed Uroboros took care to heal his nerves in all other places, and he’s never noticed a lack of sensation in the times where he’s had to touch himself to bathe, but what if he can’t feel enough to… perform well for you? Was it even the full act of sex that you were offering or simply assistance in relieving him?
Perhaps the uncertainty was written across his face because you turn to face him, hand rising to stroke his cheek and trail into his unstyled hair. Your touch spurs another aching pulse between his legs. “Only if you want to,” you say sweetly.
He pretends to consider your offer, but his answer was yes the very moment you spoke. The second your thumb brushes his lip, he’s tugging you onto his lap. He swallows your protests with ease, groaning weakly into the kiss. Wesker knows you’re afraid to put your weight down on him, still so worried about agitating his aches and pains. He has half a mind to grip your hips and help you grind against him, but you’re taking charge before he can.
“Let me,” you murmur, lips trailing down his neck. You halt at the collar of his sleep shirt, moving away only to help him pull it over his head. Your hands land on his sides, smoothing up and down slowly, stroking reverently at the juxtaposition of softness and patches of scarring. Each motion brings you closer and closer to his chest until you’re kneading his pectorals, thumbs brushing against rosy buds in such a way that leaves him panting.
It really has been a while… the throb of his cock confirms it. He has half a mind to just tear at your clothes and rush you to take him, but you seem to sense his impatience just as easily as you’d noticed his need. “M’gonna take care of you,” you whisper sweetly, palms coaxing him to rest fully against the pillows. “You deserve it.” You slip so easily down his body, blanket falling away to reveal black boxer briefs that have clearly garnered a little wet spot from such light teasing. “Just relax. Shut your eyes, sweetheart.”
He does as you say, releasing a shuddering breath in anticipation for what’s to come. It turns to a gasp the second your tongue laves the dip of his hips. Your hands steady him with gentle pressure, shirking their duty when you decide to skim your nails over ticklish flesh and wring a breathy giggle from him.
He can feel your smile as you kiss further down, sensation dulling when your peppered love finds its way to the band of his underwear, renewing once more when you peck sweetly at his inner thighs. Wesker’s hips seek you of their own accord and he’s lucky enough to feel at least one press of your lips to his covered length before you make your way back up. He practically bucks into your grasp when you take hold of him.
“Seems like everything's in working order,” you coo playfully in his ear.
Wesker finds his lower lip to gnaw on while you stroke him slowly. His hands paw at your clothes, eagerly trying to expose you. His eyes flutter open, pupils blown wide around distorted hues of red and blue still vying for dominance over one another. He’s just about got your shirt off when that hand of yours dives beneath his waistband, milking the most humiliating whine from him imaginable.
What's wrong with him? Why is he so… desperate?
His hands leave you to shimmy out of his underwear, hissing at the cool air and the mere sight of your hand around his weeping cock. He turns back to you, keening into a kiss as he tries once more to tug at your clothes. He hoists your leg over his hip, palm smoothing to take a greedy handful of your rear, playing with your flesh as you’d done with him. Everything about you is bliss itself, from your slow, torturous strokes to his cock to the slide of your tongue against his. You should be bare against him, skin to skin, letting him feel every inch of you. He needs it. He needs you.
Suddenly, a humming laugh escapes you, reverberating against his tongue before you break away. “Again, huh?” You breathe.
Again… yes.
Once more, tendrils have wound their way around you to do his bidding, but this time for more… salacious reasons. Each one wriggles under your clothes in some way or another. You aid them in their quest to strip you, tugging your shirt and pants away with ease while the masses slither just as eagerly as his hands explore.
It’s so cute how you squirm for him. It’s as if the tables have been turned oh so perfectly, leaving you just as red in the face as you’d made him. He may not have his full strength yet, but this? This more than makes up for it. One tentacle coils at your waist, holding you perfectly in place as the others find themselves far more… occupied. Your giggles turn to breathy moans, each one sung perfectly for him. You’re like an instrument only he can play, your pleasure a melody only he can create.
“W-Wo– Ah!” You gasp, head lolling to the side the very second one of those slimy appendages creeps between your legs. Your first instinct is to clench your thighs together, though you don’t get very far with having been straddling him. The tip of it swipes your clit, making you buck and whine. “Al!”
Tantalizing was… not a strong enough word for the sight before him. These appendages have always carried a degree of wetness, some leaky black ooze that only ever left a small mess, but now? Oh, now they leave clear glistening trails along your flesh that make his cock utterly ache. It’s as if he’s painting you with his own arousal, picture perfect and drenched in his love just like you should be. The tentacles trail over where he wants to see you marked most: your chest, your neck… all the way down to your pretty little pussy.
“Al, I–” You try, but you’re whimpering as more slithering lengths join in to curl around your thighs. He didn’t even have to lift a finger… There’s so many things he could do with you. He could lift you, surely, to his face. Slide his tongue that’s been so starved for you between your sopping folds. Or he could lower you onto his cock right now. Forget effort; you wouldn’t have to do a thing. He could simply maneuver you accordingly, bounce you up and down with their grip on your body until you were both fucked senseless. Or…
Wesker’s chest rises and falls with each open mouthed breath, watching with wide eyes as three smaller tendrils approach your cunt. You squirm, but you show no sign for him to stop even as they alternate swiping along your slit.
“I-I thought– mm!” You try, words as shaky as your trembling body. “T-Thought I was gonna t-take care of you instead…”
“You are…” he breathes, utterly hypnotized as more tentacles join the fray and suddenly, without warning, you’re spread completely for him, slithering lengths taking your legs while smaller ones part your drenched pussy lips. You’ve been put on exhibit, and oh… how you writhe and keen under his sopping touches. All Wesker can do is simply lie there, cock torturously hard at the sight of you like this. He dares not touch himself; he dares not even imagine it lest one of those lengths creep to coil around it to satisfy the urge.
“A-Albert– ngh!” Every cry you make fuels whatever hidden desires lurk below the surface of his mind. Nothing in the world could’ve prepared him for the sight of an extra thick tentacle slinking along your leg, coiling up and up until it presses at your entrance. “O-Oh my god!” You mewl, head falling back. “I don’t– I don’t think I can– that’s too big… Al, I don’t think I can– Ah!”
Exhilaration runs down his spine as though every nerve in his body fired at once. Watching it press into you, seeing every ounce of slick drip from its effort to wriggle inside as you keen and mewl and cry out his name over and over again as if to pray to him… Wesker licks his lips, panting heavily, fighting to keep control despite that knot in his gut threatening to give at any moment. His fists bite into the sheets, threads popping as they give way to his strength.
“O-Oh g-god,” you sob, barely audible over wet squelches. “P-Please… Al, p-please!”
“I…” he tries, but he has no words. Nothing in the world could possibly explain this– why it was happening, why he was allowing it, why… why he fucking loves it.
But he does know why, deep down. Past that layer of perfect prudence and discipline lies the truth. You deserve this. You deserve every ounce of pleasure he can stuff into you. For all that you’ve done for him… you deserve everything.
You cry out over and over again as the thickness fucks in and out of you, slick drizzling from your cunt down your ass and onto the bed. It soaks his hips and cock, oozing off to coat the sheets and surely seep down into what was now a ruined mattress. But he doesn’t care. Not one bit.
The tentacles wriggle all over you, slithering and rubbing against tender flesh, restraining the intense trembling of your legs as you dangle helplessly. He can practically hear it hitting the depths of your cunt, each noisy, wet thrust coupled with your sweet songs a promise of your never ending pleasure. And oh… you deserve it. You deserve all that he can possibly give you. You were there for everything. The good, the bad, the horrifying… Every part of him is yours, which means you get this, too.
The first time you cry out his name is perfection in and of itself. You come undone so beautifully. He has to grasp his cock and squeeze the base damn near to the point of harming himself just to keep from blowing his load right then and there. Watching you practically seize in his slithery grasp, hearing you gag and gurgle on one that had slipped between your lips, knowing you’re so fucked out of your mind that you could do little else than suckle its length as if it were his cock…
Even then, it’s like he can feel it. The sensation is dull, but it is there. Your lazy tongue, the clench of your throat, the warmth of your breath, the throbbing quiver of your cunt– it’s all fucking there, and it’s all for him. You belong to him. You’ve shown him so many times, over and over again that he has you, heart, mind, body, and soul.
“That’s it, dearheart…” he coos, shaky voice barely more than a murmur. “You’re– you’re doing so perfect… You’re taking me so well.”
He feels you clench up again, walls trembling as you approach your next release. You always did like when he’d purr such things in your ear. It warms his heart in the strangest way to see it work just the same now.
“O-One more for me.” Wesker rasps brokenly, heavy breaths leaving him as he watches with an unyielding gaze. He will not miss a second of this. “It feels good, doesn’t it…? I can feel it too.” He wants nothing more than to hear you come undone for him once more. As if understanding his thoughts, the appendage in your mouth slips free, prompting you to gasp and choke desperately for air.
You moan nonstop as if it were the only sound left that you could make. It’s like you’ve been robbed entirely of higher thought and fell into a mindless state, one that could only comprehend the thickness ramming in and out of your cunt. Your sweet noises pitch up more and more with every passing second, signaling your next climax is near.
Wesker wills the tentacles to tilt you upright, the big one still fucking into you despite the position shift, and you whine weakly at the change. “Come for me, my sweet.” He commands, rising from his position to cup your cheeks between his hands. As if fully understanding his order, you do exactly that, falling apart with a breathless scream cut off by the thick length slipping from your cunt while the others force you down onto his cock. “Oh, god!” He roars, face falling into the crook of your neck to muffle his own cries as his release hits him like a lightning bolt, coating your ooze slicked walls with his seed in heavy spurts.
Albert’s eyes are clenched shut, but he swears his vision has gone white. There’s nothing. Nothing at all is left in this world except for your limp form in his hold and the heat of your flesh between his teeth. Even when the oxygen in his lungs has gone stale, he still forgets to breathe. It’s your trembling fingers curling at his nape that remind him he’s even still alive.
The two of you remain like that for some time, long enough that his legs go stiff and each slithering length once wrapped around your body retreats back into him. You’re both covered in ooze, but he can’t find it in himself to care. Not yet, at least.
You’re limp in his grasp, but he can tell you’re awake from the occasional scritch to the base of his neck or breath fanning against his skin.
“I… apologize.” He eventually murmurs. It’s all he can think to say. Certainly, you both would be having quite the conversation about this eventually. But, for now, this much is due. “For… having lost control.” It isn’t even an exaggeration. At some point, all thought went out the door. There was only the two of you and every salacious desire he couldn’t suppress.
He needs to become better at that.
“Mm,” you hum weakly, fingers threading through his hair the way they always do in the afterglow. “You’re full of surprises…” There’s a hint of amusement in your voice. That good natured softness with which you’ve always treated him. “We gotta… mm, when my legs work again… it’s shower time.”
He couldn’t agree more. For now though, he means to simply hold you, still buried within your heat. You feel like home. What luck to have found you…
And what bliss to know you’ll stay.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
wesker cockwarming you when he takes a day to read paperwork at home. you're a great lapwarmer, so when you complain that you're thirsty and need to do your own things, he gets his own water bottle while unpointedly ranting about how distracting you are, honestly, takes a large sip, makes you corkscrew in his lap (and grunts a little, hot breath fanning you), forces his face together with yours and gives you the most dominating, spit-bubble-filled kiss.
The front of your shirt gets wet.
you turn back around red as a beet and he has to hold you close against him so that you don't drip water all over his important Umbrella papers.
he privately wonders to himself what the fuck just came over him to do something so messy, but waves it off as silly oxytocin and a helping of serotonin from your too-gracious rocking. he'll have to discipline you better next time.
-
also, when you wobble in his lap, he steps on your foot and growls a little to make you stay still.
if he's feeling deeply focused and generous he'll lean forward just enough, grab your jaw with one hand to keep it steady (and because he likes the way you tense and huff), and begin reading off the results of his paper in your ear, so close, deep and breathy that you can feel the hot breath against the shell of it and smell nicotine and mint. he likes when you ask what different things mean and he gets to explain them to you while purring and rolling his hips into you.
but watch out, ask too many dumb questions so you get more rolling and he'll harmlessly degrade you about how stupid you must be. what idiot doesn't know what "n =" means? you must be asking because you want more stimulation, right? that's it, dearheart... tell him what you want... use your words...
...
he just gives a sadistic laugh, lets your jaw go, and goes back to reading like he never asked. but you feel his hips tense.
ok sorry for making it really long i just have Thoughts about this man.
probably pretty OOC. uhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.. <:3c ...
THE WATER THING MADE ME WEAK IN THE KNEES LIKE HELLO???
I don't know what is wrong with me today, but Wesker doesn't leave my mind, just imagining him with a baby in his arms, with Uroboros helping him makes me want to cry and have a baby.
I want to write a Wesker x reader so bad, but I'm afraid I won't know how to write it right and it'll be too ooc:(.
Kate piensa que Tyler es un hombre irritante, pero su novia es totalmente lo contrario.
Maldita seas Glen Powell, esto es solo un vistazo a lo que este hombre me hace hacer.
...
"¿De qué estás hablando chica de la ciudad?" Pregunta Tyler confundido, deja de ver las nubes para ver a Kate.
"Desde que hablamos por primera vez no has dejado de coquetear conmigo, no me gustas, no eres mi tipo, te encuentro hasta irritante, tal vez con otras chicas e incluso chicos tu coqueteo funcione, pero conmigo no." Kate dice con seguridad, seguridad que desaparece poco a poco a ver la confusión qué brilla en los ojos de Tyler.
"Mira, lo siento de verdad si esa fue la idea que te di, no necesito coquetear contigo ni con ninguna chica o chico, solo me llamaste la atención porque se ve que sabes realmente de lo que hablas." Tyler lleva una mano a su pecho para demostrar que habla con sinceridad "Mira, ¿ves a la chica que lleva un sombrero de vaquero y una camisa con la palabra llavero de la suerte? Esa es mi chica, mi llavero de la suerte y el amor de mi vida."
Kate mira a la chica que Tyler apunta y un sonrojo cubre su cara cuando sus ojos se encuentran por unos segundos, Tyler le hace una seña con la mano a su "llavero de la suerte", y Kate solo quiere que un tornado se la lleve por la vergüenza.
[Esta es mi primera vez escribiendo algo sobre Graves, no esperen mucho.]
Leí un post en Tumblr sobre la madre de Graves y me dieron ganas de hacer uno.
Evelyn es el nombre de madre de Graves, Ethan es el nombre del papá de Graves.
Los padres de Graves se conocieron en la adolescencia y se casaron cuando la Sra. Graves quedo embarazada de su primer bebé, una niña la cual es dos años mayor que Graves. Phillip fue planeado únicamente para ser hombre, si no era uno sería ignorado completamente por su madre.
La personalidad y acciones de la Sra. Graves fueron una de las razones por las cuales Sr. Graves le pidió el divorcio, él no soportaba como su esposa trataba a sus hijos, como robots para ser perfectos y sin sentimientos, Phillip tenía prohibido llorar. La última vez que lloro cuando era niño fue cuando su juguete se rompió.
"Llorar es de niñas Phillip, ¿eres una niña?"
El pequeño Phillip de tres años no entendía por qué sus amigos podían llorar, pero él no, él era un chico, no una niña, pero también tenía sentimientos, ¿su madre no entendía eso?
La primera reacción de la Sra. Graves al divorcio fue actuar como si no le afectará, pero por dentro estaba completamente enojada, ¿cómo iba a actuar como la familia perfecta si su esposo le pidió el divorcio? Eso no se vería bien, especialmente por las razones de su divorcio, ella solo quería que sus hijos fueran fuertes y poderosos, como ella, la segunda razón afecta su ego ¿Su esposo se enamoró de una chica de su trabajo? Maldito bastardo, ella le dio todo y más, le dio dos maravillosos hijos.
El Sr. Graves hizo de todo para que la ex Sra. Graves no viera nunca más a sus hijos, pero Evelyn lucho, con llantos diciendo que sus hijos eran lo más importante para ella, el juez decidió que la tutela sería compartida, el Sr. Graves los tendría el año escolar, y Evelyn las vacaciones.
Para Phillip alejarse de su madre por tanto tiempo le afecto, ella era su todo, pero para su hermana, Julie, no, Julie estaba feliz de poder hacer las cosas que ella deseaba, tenía ocho años, ella quería jugar con sus muñecas, no estar en la cocina ayudando a su madre.
Phillip irradiaba felicidad cada vez que tenía que ver a su madre, Julie arañaba y lloraba cuando tenía que pasar tiempo con ella.
Cuando Phillip tenía nueve años, y le tocaba ir a ver a su madre y sus amigas, él decía muy feliz que su padre estaba esperando a su primer hijo con su nueva esposa. Esa fue la primera vez que su madre le pego una cachetada.
"¡Me humillaste frente a mis amigas! ¿Estás contento?"
Phillip no entendía que hizo mal, él estaba feliz de tener un hermanito con el cual jugar. Con nueve años Phillip supo que decir, como actuar cada vez que estaba con su madre, oh, ¿había un concurso? Phillip estaba en el primer lugar, ¿Alguien debía ayudar en la iglesia? Phillip ya estaba en camino, Phillip creció fingiendo con su madre, mientras que su padre lo dejaba ser un adolescente normal, ¿se escapó a una fiesta la noche antes de ir a ver a su madre y tiene resaca? El Sr. Graves le dijo a Evelyn que Phillip paso la noche estudiando para un examen ¿Ella le creyó? El moretón en el cuello de Phillip lo dice todo.
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