Remmick came to you like he didn’t want to be seen—just before dawn, soaked in sweat or blood or both. Always bruised, always quiet, always hard the second he stepped through your door.

“Don’t say anything,” he’d mutter, and you didn’t. You just pushed him back against the wall and undid his belt.

You learned real quick: he wasn’t human anymore. Not just in the way he didn’t breathe when he came, or how cold he felt against your thighs—like marble wrapped in skin. No, it was in how fucking hungry he was.

⸻

You’d never met a man who could stay inside you that long—gripping your hips like you were the last thing tethering him to this world. He’d fuck like he hated himself for it, like he thought he could bury whatever he was in your cunt and come out whole on the other side.

He didn’t talk sweet.

He grunted. Swore under his breath. Bit into your shoulder like he wanted to taste blood but knew better.

“Jesus, you feel too fuckin’ good—”

His voice was hoarse, dragged from somewhere ancient. Sometimes he said your name like it hurt. Like it pulled something out of him he couldn’t control.

⸻

He wasn’t soft, not until you got on top.

You learned he liked to be told what to do—quietly, without mocking him. Just leaned down and whispered, “Stay still,” and his hands would grip the sheets while you rode him slow, deep, until his head tipped back and he let out the most pathetic groan you’d ever heard.

He never begged, not out loud.

But his body did.

You’d clench around him, watch his throat work as he held off, jaw locked, fists shaking.

“You gonna come for me?” you’d ask, sweet but sharp.

“Fuck,” he’d hiss. “Yeah—shit—don’t stop—”

And he never pulled out unless you told him to.

⸻

He was addicted. Not just to sex. To you.

You made it worse. You kissed his neck when he came. Bit his lip. Held his face in your hands after, and he looked ruined by it. Touched like he wasn’t used to being touched gently.

He told you once, panting hard, your legs still wrapped around his waist:

“I used to fuck just to feel something. You… make me feel too much.”

⸻

You knew what he was by then.

He didn’t sleep. You caught him watching you at night—eyes glowing faint in the dark, not blinking. You saw his reflection twist in glass, and one time you caught blood under his nails that wasn’t yours.

“Still feeding?” you asked him once, post-orgasm, your thighs trembling.

He lit a cigarette with shaky fingers.

“Not from people,” he lied.

⸻

But you didn’t care. You were too far gone. He’d pull you into his lap, grind up into you like a man starved, whispering filth into your neck between kisses. He’d mouth at your tits with fangs peeking out, just enough to scare you, just enough to make your breath hitch.

“You taste better when you’re scared,” he muttered once.

You clenched around him at that.

“Then make me scream.”

⸻

He never said he loved you. Not in words.

He showed it when he let you tie his wrists and ride him until his eyes rolled back, hips jerking helpless under your grip. When he curled into your chest after, not asleep, just safe. When he touched your stomach with that haunted look like he couldn’t believe you let him come in you again and again and again.

⸻

“Let me turn you,” he said one night, cock still wet inside you.

You blinked. “Why?”

He looked at your neck like he was starving.

“’Cause I want to fuck you for a hundred years and never stop.”