Archive of Our Own

You watch the TV in the hotel room, fuming. 

“Let’s talk about your little feud,” the interviewer starts.

“Oh, my lover’s quarrel?” Remmick jokes, his accent dancing over his words.

The audience laughs and the host gives him a polite chuckle. 

They say your name, and a superimposed image of your most recent album cover appears on the lower third of the screen. Remmick wolf-whistles, sunglasses over his eyes.

“She’s a good-looking girl,” the host says.

“And thank God she is, cause that music? Phew.”

You hear mostly men laughing in the audience, and you crush the sheet music in your hand.

“You really think that?”

“C’mon, you think people bought that album cause they just love her songs? It’s cause’a how tight that shirt is.”

“You think all of her success comes from her looks?”

“Maybe we should turn it off,” your publicist Marcia starts.

“Turn it up.”

Marcia turns up the volume.

“That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it? She’s very successful.”

“Harsh? She’s the one who was calling my music-”

The audio cuts out and you hear the audience in shock. You know what you said. One month ago, while very drunk at an afterparty, his music had started playing. When you heard his newest song– a dirty industrial rock song that has been climbing up the charts from whatever filthy studio he recorded it in. It’s a song about group sex that Marcia deemed “disgusting”. You had rolled your eyes and slurred out–

“Ugh, why is the DJ playing such shitty music?” 

Unfortunately, someone overheard that, and it got quickly relayed to him.

He said some things about you most magazines were afraid to publish, but in an issue of some sleazy rock magazine they printed exactly what he said word for word.

WHEN ASKED ABOUT THE POPSTAR’S OPINION ON HIS MUSIC

           “I DON’T REALLY GIVE A F**K ABOUT IT. I THINK THAT POOR GIRL JUST NEEDS TO GET LAID. I BET HER RECORD LABEL PUT A CHASTITY BELT ON HER WHEN SHE SIGNED HER CONTRACT. BUT YOU’RE VERY CUTE, SWEETHEART, LET ME KNOW IF YOU NEED MY SERVICES. ”

“You know you can’t say that on TV,” the host jokes lightly.

“Grow up,” he sneers to the audience. “I didn’t even know she could say that word, I think her record label keeps a pretty tight leash.”

He looks at the camera, tugging down his sunglasses to show those stupid red contacts he’s always wearing.

“You started it, sweetheart.”

You sneak a cigarette outside the studio, on the hidden back fire escape where nobody can see you. 

“No fuckin’ way,” a voice speaks from below you. 

You quickly put out your cigarette look down. Your eyes narrow instantly.

It’s Remmick. In a ripped up shirt, a cigarette between his lips, and his sunglasses on. 

“What are you doing here?” you snarl at him.

“Whoa, relax, sweetheart. I’m recordin’ here.”

“What? No, I’m recording here.”

“I’m sure it’s a different studio, baby-”

“Don’t call me baby, scumbag.”

“Aw, are we doin’ petnames now?”

"Y'know, I was sort of hoping you'd be nicer than everybody says you are," you tell him, rolling your eyes. "But you're just a jerk."

He takes one step forward and blows a ring of smoke upward.

“Y’know… one more step and I can see up your skirt, doll” he teases, smirking at you.

You gasp and step away from him. He snickers, smoke puffing from his nostrils. You grab your purse and open the window to climb back in.

“Wait, what studio are you in?” he shouts to you.

“The one with the big security guard!” you bark back.

He doesn’t know that back in your hotel room, you’re staring at the Playgirl issue he did three months ago. Someone had sent it to you as fanmail with the note-

           HAVE A WANK AND CHILL OUT BITCH

And a hand-drawn heart. You sneakily snatched it from the pile. Now you’re contemplating opening it. You flip it open carelessly, hiding behind your hands and peeking from behind your fingers. Remmick lounges back on a plush velvet futon, shirtless. You didn’t know he had such a big cross tattooed on him. A woman’s hand with red ruby nails pulls down his pants.

Your hands fall away slowly. He’s gorgeous. It’s a good size and a nice girth, and the trail of hair that leads down his tummy before joining the groomed patch of hair by his shaft has you salivating. And he’s hard. Flushed pink and veiny. 

You think about him looking up your skirt. He’d see a wet spot right now, soaking through the cotton. He’d probably call you something disgusting because you wear pink panties.

You want it, though. You want him to call you names and touch you all over with his big hands. You think about the tight recording booths at the studio and imagine being stuck in there with him, pressed against the soundproof wall and taking two of those fingers inside of you. The way he called you baby and doll.

You don’t even realise you’ve drawn blood on your lip until you taste copper and cover your mouth. You have to close the magazine, flipping it to the back cover, a cigarette ad, and turning your body to scream into a pillow.

Why did you do that? You know you’ll be mortified when you see him tomorrow at the studio.

You call your stylist and twirl the phone cord in your fingers until he picks up.

“Hi, love.”

“Hi, I want to make a really bad decision and Marcia is going to hate us both for it.”

“You know I love pissing off Marcia.”

“Can you get me a Remmick t-shirt?”

“What? That rocker weirdo who’s been slandering you in the news?”

“I wanna wear it to the studio tomorrow.”

“If you had just stopped talking about her like I asked,” Remmick’s publicist sighs, looking at the TV as you walk into the studio. 

The illustration of Remmick’s face is pulled tight against your body, clearly you’d gotten a size smaller to hug your curves. His open mouth sits over your breast as his drawn-on vampire fangs seem to bite you. It looks so out of place on your body. You’re so cutesy usually. Soft pastels. Hearts and lace and bows.

“Is there a reason you’re wearing Remmick merchandise?”

“Have you become a fan?”

“Oh, I don’t like his music, I just think he’s cute.” 

Remmick smirks at the TV. You look so fucking good using his own words against him, with his face plastered on your body. Your skin glowing, your hair perfectly styled, the little excuse for a skirt you wore clinging to your thighs. He wants to eat you alive.

“What’s her damage?”

“You insulted her on national television.” 

His publicist tosses a parcel on the table and pinches his nose bridge.

On top is a note in pink stationary.

Ripping past the tissue paper he sees a shirt with your face on it. It’s pink and tight, clearly a women’s shirt.

“She wants me to wear it?” 

“I really don’t know, Remmick. Look, you wear it, maybe some other guys in the rock scene will think you’re a poser. But if you don’t wear it, she has the upper hand. I think maybe just do it and bury the hatchet. I’m really sick of this.”

Remmick steps out into the balmy night air for a smoke. He knows you’re above him, he’s trying to ignore it. His lighter flicks. Once, twice, nothing.

“Goddamn it,” he snarls. 

“What’s the matter?” you ask him from above. Your voice is sugar sweet, but you’re smirking at him. 

He looks up at you. Even like this, you’re pretty. In a pair of regular bluejeans and an oversized uni jumper, one sleeve hanging over the non-smoking hand. 

“Fuckin’ lighter’s broke,” he says with his cigarette in his teeth. 

“I have a light.”

He moves to climb up and you point to his hoodie.

“Ah-ah. Are you wearing my face?” 

He unzips his hoodie and shows your merch. Strategically cut up, a few safety pins added on. And he drew devil horns in red marker over your hair. 

You giggle at him and wave him up. So damn cute.  

He tucks the cig behind his ear and climbs up the ladder to join you. He leans on the railing as you light his cigarette for him.

“What’s the deal with the sunglasses? Are you just, like, hungover all the time?”

“I am usually hungover. But no, my eyes are really sensitive to light.”

You don’t expect that, looking at him funny. You point to your own eyes. 

“And the contacts…?” 

“What contacts?”

He’s playing the fool. He knows exactly what you’re talking about. 

“Your eyes are red.”

“Yeah, that’s uh… it’s a part of the condition,” he lies. 

“Oh. Sorry, I thought that was part of like… the stupid vampire thing you’re always doing.”  

He takes a drag off of his cig and blows it out to the side.

“Why’re you here so late at night?”

“I work better at night.” 

You pause for a second, looking at his side profile. He’s so damn good looking.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

You roll your eyes. 

“Why do you hate me so much? I literally have never done anything to you.”

“You said my music was shitty to an entire party of people.”

“You said I need to get laid in a national magazine!” 

“Cause you fuckin’ should. Maybe you wouldn’t act like such a brat all the time.”  

You scoff, putting out your cigarette. 

“Y’know, I was really drunk. Like so drunk, like, I hardly even remember it. And yours was just after like, five way worse songs!”  

You’re babbling. And you’re nervous, Remmick can hear your heart pounding in your chest. He shrugs off his hoodie experimentally, leaving his arms exposed. 

Of course he cut the sleeves off. 

He can smell you getting wet and feel the clench of your cunt as your eyes rake over his arms. He pushes up his sunglasses, finally looking at you with those real, red eyes. 

“So you do like my music?”

“I’ve never listened to it before.”

“No?”

“I don’t have any free time. I’m always… recording or doing press or touring or doing press about touring.”

“Shocker. They fuckin’ love you.”

You sigh, slumping over the railing. Remmick takes a peek at your ass as the denim tightens around it. He slumps over next to you, mocking your movement. 

“Oh, it’s so hard to be everybody’s little princess,” he teases.

“It is,” you murmur honestly. “It’s like I can’t do anything, every single little move I make. I haven’t even had a real boyfriend in forever because-”

You pause, face flushed as you look away from him.

“Sorry.”

“You were so feisty yesterday. You nervous, sweetheart?”

You want to call him a pig or a freak but instead you say-

“I saw your Playgirl,” you blurt, immediately covering your mouth.

He coughs, smoke puffing out with each one.

“Shit, really?” 

“Somebody sent it to me and I-I- I don’t know! Curiosity killed the cat or whatever…”

You fiddle with your sleeves and look away from him. 

You’re damn delicious when you’re nervous. 

“Did you like it?”

His voice drops.

“Did you touch yourself?” 

You gasp and push his shoulder as he snickers. 

“Ew! No, you’re so nasty!” 

“Oh, you love it, baby.”

Fuck, you kinda do. 

You both just stare at each other for a second. Your eyes on his red ones, his gaze on your pouty, glossy lips. 

“Come over,” he says.

“What?”

“Come to my hotel.” 

“I’m not coming to your hotel, dummy, the paparazzi will literally eat me alive.” 

He’s going to eat you alive. He hands you a piece of paper from the hotel, haphazardly folded into his pocket. 

Inside you find a small bag of white powder, which he quickly snatches back.

“Hey! Ha, uh, you don’t need that.”

“Wait… we’re staying in the same hotel.”

“I’m in room four-twelve.”

“Shut up, we’re neighbours! Well, like, up and down neighbours, but still. I’m five-twelve.”

Remmick could die. Again. You’re so bubbly, so sweet, so fucking fine. He wants you, wants to drink you down and feel those glossy lips around his cock. He wants to pin you to the bed and make you sing all those pretty high notes he hears in your songs. 

“What like… what would we do?” 

“We’ll just chill out and listen to music. And smoke, if you’re into that.”

“Like… cigarettes?” 

“Like… pot,” he mocks your voice. 

You’re dangerously close to him. He makes you feel crazy, nothing like the PR-approved boy band members you’ve been allowed to be seen with in the past. You had a hometown boyfriend when you first started, and he couldn’t handle the degree of your fame and dumped you through a letter. 

You were totally heartbroken, but at least you got your second Top Ten single from it, “Postman (Better Without You)”. 

“So just come over? To… to your room?”

“Whenever you want. At night, I mean. I’ll face down if it’s daytime.”

You giggle at that. 

A camera flash catches the both of you off guard, making you gasp and cover your face. Remmick’s eyes squeeze shut– and you swear he hisses like a cat– then he shoves his sunglasses back down.

You quickly scramble through the window and he flips the photographer the bird before climbing in behind you. 

“They found my secret spot,” you whine, peeking at the three photographers in the alleyway. 

“They got a picture of us tit to tit, sweetheart, that’s the least of our fuckin’ worries.” 

“Oh, shit, I have to talk to Marcia!”

“Who’s Mar-!” 

You grab his hand and drag him to your studio.

“Shit, girl, just rip my damn arm off, why don’t you?” he snarls, yanking his hand back. 

You step into the room, and he follows behind you. 

“There you are. Jesus, you cannot be getting air for that long-” 

Your producer cuts Marcia off.

“What the hell is he doing here?”

“Some paparazzi just took a picture of us on that fire escape together.”

“What were you doing out there together?”

You hesitate and Remmick shrugs. 

“Smokin’,” he says like it’s obvious.

“You don’t smoke.”

“Well… sometimes-”

“They have a picture of you smoking?! And wearing his shirt?!” 

Your producer points at Remmick. 

“And he’s wearing hers.”

“Oh, fucking brilliant!” 

Marcia politely asks Remmick to leave while she chews you out for the next fifteen minutes in the studio, then the lobby, then the hotel lobby, and finally when you get to your room. 

You collapse on your bed and sigh, hands over your face. You spy the Playgirl on the nightstand and bite your lip.

The pictures are printed the next morning– giving both of your teams little time to react. Two opposing views emerge.

Firstly, that you– sweet baby angel that you are– would never touch a cigarette and have never been drunk, and don’t have anything other than normal and wholesome missionary sex. The usual stupid, infantilising narrative they try to push on you. Poor sweet you, seduced and bewitched by this Satanist freak.

Secondly, that you actually needed this freak to tell you what a pent-up bitch you are, and now you’re finally lightening up. You do have a reputation of being just a little too polished, a little too clean cut and nice. Even when you try to play sexy or bad girl, it just comes off disingenuous. 

The choice of pictures satisfy both narratives. You’re so cute, poised and perfect, and he’s blowing smoke all over your image. One way makes him the winner, but either way you lose. 

You’re advised not to leave the hotel the next day, and you’re getting cabin fever just sitting around and songwriting. 

Fuck this. You rifle through your suitcase for something cute and fix your makeup– wiping your mascara tears– and reapply your lip gloss. 

You take the elevator down and knock on the door. You hear movement and Remmick opens the door. He’s still wearing your shirt, but instead of his usual tight black jeans, baggy flannel pajama pants hang loose on his hips, the waistband of his store-brand briefs visible above the elastic. Music plays softly from inside. 

“Hey.”

“Can I come in?”

“‘Course you can.”

He steps aside and you enter the suite, which has been completely trashed. Beer bottles and fast-food waste are littered all over. 

“Wow. This is… disgusting.” 

“My band likes to party,” he shrugs. 

“My team would kill me if I left anywhere like this.”

“Yeah, you have that fuckin’ goody-two-shoes image to keep up, sweetheart. I’m… what’d you call me? A scumbag?”

“You are a scumbag,” you shoot back, clearing a space to sit on the sofa in the room.

He sits next to you, arm on the back of the sofa and just barely ghosting your shoulders.

“You wanna smoke or…?”

“I’ve never done it before…”

“You smoke cigs, though.”

“Yeah, but… only sometimes. Just to… to like, take the edge off, y’know?”

“This’ll take the edge off, doll. Promise.” 

Remmick packs a blunt and you watch his tongue wet the paper, twisting it over and sealing it. You squirm a little, which he doesn’t miss.

“Do you have your lighter, baby? Mine’s still out.”

You dig for it in your purse and light the blunt between his fingers. He takes a deep inhale and blows it out slowly, clearing his throat. You grimace at the smell.

“Tastes like shit, too. Blame my drummer.”

“Do… do I just…?”

He smirks. It’s like you can see the wicked idea popping into his head.

“Lemme shotgun it for you.”

“What’s that?”

“Kinda like a mama bird.”

“Ew.”

“Just shut up and take what I give you.” 

He takes another deep hit and cups your face, almost kissing you, blowing the smoke to your mouth as you breathe in.

“Good girl,” he purrs. 

You squirm away and cough violently, your eyes watering. He laughs at you, like an asshole.

“Oh, baby,” he teases, his eyes already red and low. “Too much for you?” 

You sniffle and look back at him, wiping the two rogue mascara tracks from your cheeks. He bites his cheek, thinking about making that mascara run while you gag on him. 

“I’m fine,” you wheeze.

You’re suddenly very aware of his hand on your bare knee, rubbing a circle with his thumb. You don’t say anything though, his cold hand feels good against your skin. 

“It doesn’t feel like anything.”

“Give it a second. Lemme put some of my stuff on.” 

He switches out the CD in the player, biting the blunt between his teeth while you watch his fingers. They’re careful. Calloused, though, you know he can play guitar.

“I want more,” you say rudely, pawing at his arm.

“Yeah? You want another hit?” 

His mocking tone has your stomach flipping and your panties wet. 

“Mhm,” you hum, very obviously staring at the bulge in his pants. 

“Ask me nice, pretty girl.”

“Please? Please, can I have more?” 

Fuck, he can’t believe you. He chuckles and leans in, kissing your cheek before he takes a hit, lips touching yours as he blows the smoke to you. You’re more prepared than last time, accepting it and fisting your hand into his flannel pajama pants. Your eyes are heavy and teary, your face is hot and you don’t even notice that you’re rocking your hips in place.

“You’re so handsome,” you can hear your own voice begging in your ears though you’re sure you didn’t say it.

“Oh, that’s so sweet, darlin’.”

He’s making fun of you. You know that. You crash your lips into his, throwing your arms around his neck.

“You’re such a dick,” you mutter against his mouth.

“Only for you, princess.” 

You whine, peeling off your jumper, leaving you in a camisole and no bra– a purposeful choice.

“You feelin’ hot, sweetheart?” 

All you can do is whimper. 

“Yeah, baby. Don’t worry. Don’t you worry, I’m gonna take care of you.” 

He lifts you– far too easily– and sits you in his lap, his hips slotted between yours. He’s solid and cool, and it feels so fucking good on your burning skin and your drooling cunt. Your legs spread and your skirt rides up.

“You’re soakin’, baby. Poor thing, I bet you been wet half the day, huh?” 

You nod, just grinding without abandon.

“Oh- oh, shit.”

“I-I’ve never done this before,” you say quickly. “Like, not on a real guy, just pillows,” you add, completely unnecessarily.

He smirks at you. He imagines you in your hotel room grinding on a soft pillow while you flip through his Playgirl. His teeth are so white and pearly, you almost think they’re sharp. You reach to touch his mouth and he snaps his teeth at you, making you flinch and giggle.

“If you wanna stop, you say so. But if you want more, I think you know what to do, baby.”

You rock your hips on his clothed cock and sigh, your head lolling forward, pushing your tits in his face. He mouths at your nipple through your shirt, making you keen.

“Where’s your bra, sugar?”

“Left it in my room,” you mumble, chasing a high that feels incredible. Better than it’s ever felt before. “I liked it when you looked at them… made me feel pretty…”

“Everyone in the world thinks you’re pretty.”

“Sexy,” you correct. “Makes me feel sexy.” 

You pull back to look at him.

“Cause you wanna fuck me,” you sigh dreamily. “Like… for real.”

“Fuckin’- yeah, I do.”

You’re both panting, his red eyes staring into yours as you kiss. It’s sloppy and hot, you’re both halfway wrecked. He grabs your ass, pulling you closer as he grinds up into you. You’re lost in the feeling, but suddenly aware of his voice coming from the CD in the player.

Give it to me dirty, baby, give it to me raw

Promise you can hurt me, kitty, scratch me with your claws

You grip a handful of his shirt– your own face looking back at you as you ride him until your toes are curling in your heels.

“Fuck, you cummin’, baby?  C’mon, cum all over me, dirty fuckin’ slut.”

You whimper and lean forward, smudging your mascara on his bare shoulder as he makes a choked noise and jerks his hips up. 

“Oh, shit! Oh, fuck, baby, l-look at what you’re doin’, yeah, singin’ so pretty, riding me… your fuckin’ tits in my face,” he babbles until he whines, tugging down the already low neckline of your top and sucking your nipple through your shirt.

You’re almost sure he’s crying, but you can’t even see right now experiencing a climax while high out of your fucking mind. 

You go limp over him and he finally releases from you, kissing between your breasts and wincing softly. He gives a soft pat to your thigh.

“Alright, enough.”

You just snuggle up to him and he tries to catch his breath. You giggle quietly, finding the whole situation really funny for some reason.

“I’m hungry,” you murmur.

“Me too,” he grits, listening to your heartbeat pounding in your throat.

You sniff and sit up.

“I should… go back to my hotel room.”

“Yeah, you should.”

You both stand up on wobbly legs and he walks you to the door. You turn back, your eyes narrowed at him.

“If you keep talking shit about me… I might just keep escalating.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

“I’ll tell everyone you cry during sex.”

“Yeah, but then you’d be sayin’ we had sex.”

“Freak.”

“Bitch.”

“Goodnight, Remmick.”

“G’night, sweetheart.”

A couple of months later, the rumours have evolved. There are people who claim the two of you started the feud for attention. People who think you hate each other. A few media outlets have made it out to be a “battle of the sexes” in music, which pisses you off more than him. 

What nobody knows– save for the two of you– is that you two are on each other every time you can be. 

Break at the recording studio? Meet in the bathroom on floor two. 

Both in LA? He goes to your apartment. In New York, you go to his. 

You haven’t actually had sex– not yet at least. Mostly you want him to earn it, and you do love teasing him. But that doesn’t mean you haven’t been doing other things. 

The first time he dropped to his knees and shoved up your skirt, you were pushed up against the counter of the single-stall bathroom at the recording studio.

“Wait, wh-”

“It’s alright, baby. Shh, c’mon, just lemme taste you…”

“Remmick, I’m on a deadline,” you whined. “My producer is gonna kill me.”

“Oh, this won’t take long.”

He finally saw your panties, and the growing wet spot between your legs.

He dragged your panties down your legs– thank God your skirt was long, he refused to give them back, and in fact, you saw him wearing a jacket with those panties sewn flat onto the back two weeks later. He pushed your legs apart and immediately dove forward, obsessed with the bassy sound of your blood pumping, reverberating in his ears when you squeezed your thighs around his head. He filled you with his fingers and sucked on your clit, you were so loud he had to stuff your panties into your mouth. Watching you get stupid was the best part, moaning and squirming, drooling into the gusset of your panties– oh, he would be sucking that fabric clean after this. You yanked on his hair like you were trying to open his head up, and he shoved a hand down his pants to palm himself over his underwear. He remembered that you wrote- 

♥ DON’T DO IT, HE’S A POSER! ♥  

-in pink marker on his waistband last time you slept over, calling it a “warning for any other girls he’s sleeping with”. What he wanted to tell you is that he isn’t sleeping with any other girls. He only messes around with you. But he decided instead to remind you that you hadn’t actually slept together, just done a lot of dry humping while very, very high. You both forgot about that, but those words made him so fucking hard when he saw them the next morning. He did fire back with a-

REMMICK’S SLUT☺

-on the inside of your bra strap. Good thing it came out in the wash. 

In the studio bathroom, he managed to restrain himself while he quickly and efficiently made you cum, except for when he bit down hard on the innermost part of your thigh, the softest skin. His fangs threatened to slip out but when you made a soft little whimpering sound and pushed on his head, he pulled away. He kissed and soothed the area with his tongue while you came down from your orgasm. 

“Fuck, I’ve been gone for like, fifteen minutes.”

“Fifteen minutes in heaven,” he joked back, grinning at you. 

“That doesn’t even rhyme. You’re such a loser.”

You quickly grabbed a paper towel to wipe his face off and gave him a sloppy kiss before you left.

When you returned to the studio on shaky legs and sounding very out of breath for your next song, your producer just rolled his eyes. 

You know that he knows, and that your whole team does. You figure they just want to let you have some fun. And you’re surprisingly sneaky about it.

You and Remmick are changing each other in subtle ways. You’re becoming more nocturnal to match his schedule, lamenting to Marcia whenever she pencils you in for early-morning commitments. And you care less, you don’t have to be perfect anymore. A smudge of lipgloss or a little eyeliner out of place isn’t the end of the world for you. 

Remmick cares more. You’ve seen him letting his guard down. He’s usually so aware of the way he’s perceived, worried that everyone thinks he’s a poser or a phony. He’s corny as hell and his antics actually are quite embarrassing. He’s still rough and rude– just the way you like it– but he’s getting a little more sentimental. He keeps that first note you wrote him in his songwriting journal, and every other one after that. Once, you leaned over to kiss him after freshly applying some lipstick, and he held up his book to block you from smearing it on his cheek. He was obsessed with the kiss mark, and wrote a song about you on that page. 

You’re jealous like you’ve never ever been before. You write a song called “Loverboy (He’s Mine)”, including some of your most racy lyrics–

He’s all mine (My loverboy)

All by design (Get under my covers, boy)

–in response to Remmick being seen at a party with some rocker girl. She’s “just a friend” and “doesn’t even swing that way” but you don’t care. You leave marks all over him, scratches on his back. You want everyone to know that somebody owns him. 

The songs are a whole other can of worms.

You have to admit it’s fun playing games with the public. You put out a song with a completely new vibe for you. “Bad Dreamer”, a very sultry song about the bad boy keeping you up at night. You sing about wanting him so bad, staying up for him– which is always worth it. 

Bad dreamer keeps me up in the dark

Talks meaner, bite’s worse than his bark

Door’s open honey, just come in

I want your touch, I want your sin

His song “Drooling Fool” could not be more obviously about you– and especially your pussy.

Your velvet fits me like a glove

Sing for me my sweet little dove

Good girl, c’mon play by the rules

Cause you know that I’m your drooling fool

Deep in your valley, into the abyss

Down on my knees, begging for bliss

You can use me baby, I’m just your tool

You got me acting like a drooling fool

But Remmick being Remmick, when asked about it point-blank on the VMAs red carpet, says–

“It’s not. And I doubt she knows what it’s even about. I bet she thinks it’s a nice song about velvet and valleys.”

“I would say it’s fairly obvious what the um… subject matter is.”

“Yeah, it’s about pussy.” 

“You- he can’t say that,” the camera man mutters. 

“I know he can’t. Um… what about her song that’s rumoured to be about you?”

“She could be dreaming about me, I got no clue.”  

On the other side of that same red carpet, you stand with an interviewer. 

“I know there’s some speculation about your new single, about it being about a certain person?”

“That’s so silly. You guys act like there are no other men in the world.”

“So, if it’s about somebody else, would you say you have a type?”

You laugh at that, your earrings jingling as you shake your head.  

“Well, maybe!” you joke. “Everybody loves a bad boy.”

You enter at different times, an usher leads you to your seat. Nearby are a few names you recognise and a few people you know, and the seat right next to you.

“Oh my God.”

RESERVED SEATING: REMMICK 

“Aw, you saved me a seat?” he snarks, coming up next to you.

He’s wearing something slightly nicer than he usually does, but he still looks a mess. Wild hair and sunglasses on his face. 

“I thought they would just tie up your leash outside.” 

He has a new album coming out soon and started wearing a dog collar as a part of the promotion. You’ve been making fun of him for it the whole time. 

“You’re fuckin’ funny.” 

He sits next to you, his leg bouncing. You perch next to him.

“You smell nice.” 

What he wants to say is “can I take that dress off of you with my teeth?” He can’t stop staring at your exposed collarbones, the tops of your breasts, the curve of them in this tight little dress. You look so fucking good. 

“It’s Angel by Mugler. You smell like pot.” 

He grins at you, snickering.

“Oh, I bet I do.”

“I cannot believe I have to sit next to you. Why are you even here? Did you even put out a music video last year?”

“Yep. The one for Hivemind.” 

Hivemind. The song that got you in this whole mess. 

“Are you nominated?”

“Yep. But the FCC said the video was downright pornographic, so I don’t think I’m gonna win.”

You have to keep yourself from giggling at him. You’ve never been this close in such a public space. Thinking about it, you cross your legs away from him and adjust your body language.

“We still playin’ cat ‘n mouse?”

“More like dog and bone.”

Remmick shifts in his seat, scrubbing a hand down his face, glad to have his sunglasses hiding his face. 

The show goes fine. You don’t win, which is slightly disappointing, but it almost feels good. You want to move on from that period of your career. You’ve been undergoing a transformation in the past months. You feel like you’re creatively maturing, growing into yourself.

You glance to the side as one of the nominees performs on the stage. 

Maybe you are being corrupted. Your eyes wander down to the visible waistband just above his pants, which has I WANT MY MTV written on it. 

“See somethin’ you like?” he teases.

You meet his eyes and despite your best efforts, you grin at him. Remmick’s eyes stare from under his sunglasses, tracing over your glossy lips in that winning smile. Your exposed neck and shoulders have been dusted with some sort of shimmery powder, and he’s hypnotised by it.

The glint of the tag on the collar around his neck catches your eye. On the other side of his name, where the owner’s would go–

SOMEBODY’S DAUGHTER

Neither of you notice the cameras on you as you have your little sexually charged stare-down. 

As you have many nights before this one, you stumble into his apartment. The first time you were so glad it wasn’t as disgusting as you thought it would be, but it still has a very particular Remmick smell. Rank weed and sweat and something distinctly coppery you can’t place.

He pushes you against the wall and kisses you rough. He presses his body against yours and you feel his clothed cock on your bare thigh as your dress rides up.

“Oh baby, you feel what you do to me?”

“Rem-”

“Feel how fuckin’ hard I am- fuck, that’s all you, princess.”

“I want it,” you say, covering his mouth. He says something, muffled by your hand.

“Want what?” he asks when you remove it.

“You. Your… you.”

“Aw, don’t get shy now.”

He holds your face with one hand, squeezing your cheeks like you’ll spit it out if he clamps hard enough.

“Say it. C’mon, pretty girl, tell me what you want.”

He kisses your jaw and leans into your ear.

“Tell me you want me to fuck you.”

You hesitate, taking a shaky breath. You narrow your eyes.

“Fuck me, poser.”

He scoffs.

“Oh, you don’t know what you just did.”

He picks you up, throwing you over his shoulder like it’s easy– it should not be that easy, he’s a fairly average-sized guy– and carrying you to his bedroom.

He tosses you on the bed and kneels between your legs over the covers, undoing his belt. 

“Fuck, you’re so hot when you pretend you hate me-”

“I do hate you,” you spit playfully.

“Open your mouth. Open your mouth, you little bitch.”

You open your mouth and he spits on your tongue. You tug him down by the shirt and kiss him. Sloppy and dirty, your lip gloss staining his upper lip and his chin.

“This stupid fuckin’ dress, how dare you look this good when I can’t tell everyone I’m yours? Huh?”

I’m yours. You don’t miss that choice of wording. 

“I have to watch all those wannabe pop boys drool all over you when I’m the one spittin’ between these pretty lips?”

He slaps between your thighs, right onto your wet cunt and your cotton panties, You gasp and he shoves two fingers between your lips.

“Keep your fuckin’ mouth open, I ain’t done.”

He spits in your mouth again, making you moan around his fingers as he rubs them on your tongue.

“Oh, yeah? Yeah, my poor little princess… bet you’re gonna be so tight, pretty girl, squeeze me so fuckin’ good.”

He rips your panties clean off and takes his fingers out of your mouth.

“You asshole!”

“I was just gonna steal them anyway, be honest.”

He slides his middle finger into you slowly, working you open. You make a soft noise, you’re so soft and sweet for him.

“Talk to me, baby. Tell me if it’s good.”

The moment you try to speak he works in a second finger, curling them up and making your hips lift off of the bed. He snickers at you and you push on his chest. You try to touch his cock and he smacks away your hands.

“I’m savin’ that for this sweet pussy. Wanna make you cum a few times before I’m down for the count.”

“A few times?” you squeak out as he rubs your clit with his thumb. 

“Mhm, that’s right. I want you shakin’ all over.”

With the speed and pressure he’s putting on your clit, you’re sure you’ll reach your first one of the night very quickly. You grip the bedsheet with one hand, pushing on his chest with the other. Your hand grabs his jacket and you whimper.

“Just keep makin’ all those pretty little sounds, sweetheart. C’mon, gush all over my fingers. All over me like the little slut you are. So sweet, so good for me. Yeah? You a good girl, princess, you gonna cum for me?”

“F-fuck,” you moan, your body tightening and your cunt clamping around his fingers. “Fuck, Remmick!”

“There she is! That’s my girl!”

He leans down to kiss you, changing at the angle of his fingers, which makes you push on his forearm. He slides them out and wantonly cleans them with his tongue, slipping the wet muscle between his digits, moaning and keening at the taste of you.

“Is she ready? Huh? Is she ready, does she need this cock?”

You huff and roll your eyes, leveraging your weight so you sit on top of him. You look down at him and his red eyes. You push at his jacket, which he shrugs off. 

“Open your goddamn mouth,” you command. 

“Oh, you fuckin’ bitch,” he groans, opening his mouth with his tongue out.

You spit, which he greedily swallows, gazing up at you as you shove down his jeans and his personalized underwear, gripping his cock at the base.

“O-h, fuck! Good girl,” he hums, rolling his hips up into your hand. “Put me in, put me in.”

You hike your dress up over your hips and lower yourself down onto him. The tip is enough of a stretch to make you whine. His hands grip your thighs, easing you onto him.

“You take it like a champ, fuckin’ slut, c’mon. Sit on this dick.”

He finally bottoms out, appreciating the way your bare ass feels against his thighs. He bites his knuckles, taking a shaking breath.

“Shit, that’s tight. Oh, damn. She’s so soft, though… fuckin’ soft ‘n tight, you so fuckin’ hot, baby…”

He helps you rise up slightly and ease back down again. He feels a gush of your wetness over his cock, making it twitch inside of you. You pick up speed until you’re bouncing on him, hands planted on the firm planes of his chest. You feel a little give and dig your manicured nails in. You’re looking to mark your territory. You’re perfect, that maddening up-down, in-out, slick slick slick of your dripping cunt on his cock has him seeing spots, panting. His heart is racing– fuck, it hasn’t done that in ages. He feels your heartbeat, when he angles up his hips to hit that spot inside of you that has your vision blacking out for a split second. That soft, spongy little part of you where he can feel that addictive pulse of your heartbeat. The blood that’s rushed to your cunt, flushing it, making it throb for him. For him. 

You’ve never been so crazy about a guy like this. Sometimes you really wonder if he’s doing some kind of black magic on you. You’re so desperate for him, but you need him kissing the ground you walk on. You love how nuts he is about you, the way he wants you to scratch him and mark him. The way he parades around shirtless– because he can show off his body to everyone who wants to fuck him in the audience, and have your marks on full display. He knows  how jealous you are, he wouldn’t have it any other way. When he turns you, the hivemind will feel like second nature. When he locks you down with that bite around your neck, you’ll already be his in every way, his for eternity.

“Remmick,” you breathe sharply.

“Yeah- fuck, me too. Fuck, I-I- you want it here?” he touches your tummy, making you feel how deep he is. You moan and press your hand over his.

“Inside,” you answer him, completely dazed.

“Inside?”

He’s ready to explode, and you just lit his fuse.

“Are you sure?”

“Do it in me, Remmick, give it to me, please.”

Well… when you ask so nice, how can he refuse?

He turns you both over again, pistoning his hips into you as you gasp, nails dug into your shoulders. You’re definitely breaking skin on one side, you can tell from the way he bites his lip and his red eyes roll back into his skull. He circles your clit with two mean fingers, relentlessly rubbing your clit until you’re panting, begging for him.

“Give it to me,” you plead.

“Take it. Take this fuckin’ load, baby.”

“Give it to me, it’s mine, you’re mine,” you cry, tears running down the sides of your face.

“Fuckin’ right, I’m yours. All yours, baby, all fuckin’ yours.”

You hook two fingers in his collar and tug him down.

“You’re fucking mine, Remmick.”

“Shit- fuck!”

He spills inside of you, hot and deep and dirty as the tip of his cock kisses your cervix, bumping against it until you’re sobbing and pushing on his chest again.

“Fuck, it’s so good… so good, d-don’t stop,” you beg him, feeling a second orgasm coming.

“Fu-ck, baby, it’s so fuckin’ ti-ght,” he winces, fighting his own overstimulation, grinding into you. Your own release and his making a creamy ring around the base of his cock, smearing against your clit. You dig your nails in once again– no doubt making him really bleed, and clench around him, milking him for whatever he has left. Probably just his soul at this point. 

He kisses you again, open-mouthed as he takes wheezy breaths from your lips.

“Good girl, fuck… what a fuckin’ trooper.”

He lays on top of you, still inside. You gently rake your nails down his back.

“Mine,” you breathe.

“Yeah, baby. All yours. All yours.”

His teeth scrape your neck, his fangs out.

“Help me clean up,” you say softly.

Not yet. Not just yet. 

“Yeah, princess. I got you.”

“No way,” you tell him when he proposes the idea.

You’re in the private studio of your house in Hollywood, sitting on his lap as you both finalize lyrics and music. Your skin is warm from all the touches he’s given you, largely bare in your little lounge shorts. You wear his shirt again, still tight on your body.

“C’mon, it’ll be fun.”

While you were sharing a bowl he asked if he could record you moaning for one of his songs. 

“No, because either everyone knows it’s me immediately, they just think it’s me, or they think it’s a totally different girl!” 

“If it’s a different girl it can’t be you.”

“Yeah, but the fun of the game is that everyone thinks it’s me. It’s like… you can’t prove it but you can’t not prove it.” 

He blinks at you.

“That might be the dumbest shit you’ve ever said.”

You slap his chest.

“Don’t insult me in my own home. You can sleep outside.” 

“Okay, alright, so… maybe not a full moan. Will you laugh for me?”

“I love laughing at you.”

“Mm, I know you do,” he murmurs against your neck, kissing the shell of your ear.

“Which song is it?” you ask, flipping through his journal.

“Slippery,” he whispers in your ear, hissing the “s” and making you giggle. “Yeah, just like that. Do that for me.” 

“Slippery?”

“Well it’s all about her, baby,” he purrs, his hand slipping between your legs to cup your cunt over your tiny shorts. 

“Ew… you’re calling it slippery?”

“Don’t call her ‘it’, she deserves better than that,” he corrects you, pinching your thigh. 

“So you’re calling her fucking slippery? I thought I was ‘so tight, baby, squeezin’ me like I owe her money’,” you repeat his words from the night before, mocking his accent.

“She get wet enough, shit, I slip right out. Fuckin’ you from behind’s so damn messy.”

“Y’know, sometimes it feels like you like her more than me,” you fake-huff, crossing your arms.

“Oh, I love that smart fuckin’ mouth twice as much, princess. ‘Specially when it’s full'a this dick.”

You squirm and he laughs at you.

“Yeah? Look so pretty gaggin’ on it, makeup runnin’ down those cheeks while I fuck your face.”

“You’re so dirty,” you whine, shoving his face away. 

You’re still grinning, which makes him raise a brow.

“So… just giggles?” you clarify.

“Shit, maybe a kiss or two. I want it to sound wet.”

You grimace and stick your tongue out. 

“That’s so gross.” 

You think it over while he kisses your shoulder, arms tight around your waist.

“C’mon, baby. C’mon. Will you giggle for me, pretty girl?” 

“You can have a couple of giggles.”

You sit sideways, hooking your arm around his neck and kissing the corner of his mouth as he fiddles with the soundboard. You watch his fingers as he meticulously fixes the EQ and faders to his desired sound. He can feel the heartbeat between your legs pulsing on his thigh. He flexes his hands– regaining his composure– then gives your knee a pat.

“Let’s go.”

“Right now?”

“Right fuckin’ now.” 

“Carry me,” you sigh dramatically, tucking your face into his neck.

He manhandles you over his shoulder. 

“Hey!” He smacks your ass.

“Quit squirmin’!”

You both enter the booth– it’s even smaller than the ones at the studio– and he sets you down, the both of you squished together. 

You push him, knowing you can’t speak now that it’s recording. 

He positions himself behind you.

“Ready?” 

You nod silently.  

He brushes his fingers up your side, under the hem of your shirt. Just ghosting your skin. You giggle, squirming away from him. You try not to speak, it’ll be more difficult for him to cut around. He suddenly turns your head to the side and smashes his lips into yours. You hum happily. He angles you both closer to the microphone, giving you sloppy kisses on your lips, your jaw, your neck. His teeth graze over your pulse point and you wince, grabbing his wrist. 

You throw your arms around his neck and kiss him back, sucking onto his jaw until you see the skin darkening. You kiss his collarbone, licking up to his Adam’s apple, where you suck another mark. You pull away with a wet pop, leaving him panting. A string of spit connects you to his throat and he takes a shaky breath.

“Fuck me.”

He leans against the wall, grinning at you.

“Goddamn.”

You giggle again and he snaps, giving you a thumbs up. 

“That’s perfect. Cut it.”

While he’s cutting your vocals– he keeps in your little wince, which you’re mortified by– you get your own idea.

“Will you talk on my track?”

“Huh?”

“My… my track. Right to My Face. I want you to say something.”

You show him the lyrics in your binder, running your manicured nail down the page and tapping it.

“That.”

“I thought you hated bein’ called kitty.” 

“I hate it when you call me kitty, because it’s corny.” 

“These lyrics are so fuckin’ corny,” he shoots back. “Who wrote this shit?” 

“It’s a dance track! I just told them… come up with some sexy nonsense.”

“Oh, it’s fuckin’ nonsense.” 

“Shut up. You’re so negative. Will you talk or not?”

“Giggles is one thing, talkin’ is another.”

His hand squeezes your hip, his eyes on your throat.

“Maybe… maybe we just go public?”

“I’m not ready for that yet,” you tell him in a soft voice. You had a conversation– or rather a screaming match–about this the night prior. It ended with you locking yourself in your room for an hour while he sulked on the sofa.

Well, you thought he sulked on the sofa. Really, it was 3AM and he was panicking about where he would hide when the sun came up. But you opened the door at 4 and let him in. Your room has blackout curtains, thank God, which allowed him to sleep in there until it’s night again. 

“Baby-”

“Please?” you ask, tracing your nail on his chest. “Just a couple of words? And I’ll pitch your voice down…”

“I got an accent, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“Mm, I love it. Talk to her so sweet,” you say, nodding down between your legs. 

You kiss him and slide your hand down his chest, palming him through the layers he’s wearing.

“Baby-”

“Please? I was so good and I let you put your hands all over me… and you got to record me making all those dirty wet sounds,” you whisper in his ear, making a little whimpering sound that has him shivering. “I just wanna hear you talk, Rem…” 

“I could do a few words.”

You grab his hands and drag him into the booth once again, only this time you push him against the wall. 

“What-”

“Just read the script, baby.”

You sink to your knees slowly, dragging your hands down his body, his sides, his legs. You squeeze each thigh and look at him from down there.

“Can I?” you ask, batting your eyelashes and playing with the ties on his loose flannel pants. “Please?”

“It’s recordin’-”

You whine, pouting at him.

“But I want it in my mouth.”

You play dirty to get what you want. 

“Shit, girl, I ain’t gonna say no.”  

You hook your nails in, pulling them down to see your newest message–

MY RIDE IS HERE ↓

–which you smirk at.  

You tug down that waistband too, letting him spring free.

“You’re so hard,” you murmur.

“You got me worked up, suckin’ the fuck outta my fuckin’ neck.”

“Oh, I’ll suck you.” 

You lick up the base of his shaft slowly, locking eyes with him. 

“Fu-ck, baby.” 

Your hand wraps around his cock and you take it in your mouth, bobbing your head as you work your hand on him. 

“Sweetheart,” he sighs. “Take it deeper, yes- fuck, good girl,” he praises you. 

“Read the script,” you tease, digging your nails into his thigh.

He hisses and you giggle, taking it halfway in your mouth. He fumbles to flip the page in your book, his other hand getting a loose grip on your hair. 

Remmick can’t believe this shit. If you told him eighty years ago when his dumb ass stumbled through the States, getting caught and beaten, hunted and burned by the sun– that one day, something as pretty as you would be on her knees for him? He wouldn’t believe it. He’s so ancient, so old. He’s been yearning for so long for something– someone who understands him. You don’t know everything yet, you can’t truly understand him. 

But hell, you’re fucking crazy about him. 

He grunts and you speed up your hand. You pull away with a wet sound, kissing the tip. 

“Don’t fucking stop-” he snarls, cut off by you gripping him tightly. 

“Read the fucking script,” you snap, panting. 

You suck the head of his cock again and his lip twitches.

“Get down, kitty. Bad girl. Off the sofa. No scratching,” he growls when your hand cups his balls. 

He looks so good like this. His eyes shut, tongue out of his mouth, panting like a damn dog as his hips buck his cock further into your mouth. 

“Baby- fuck, y’so good, sugar- goddamn- oh, fuck me!”

You whine quietly and he tries not to shout at the feeling of you sucking hard. He fucks your cheek, holding the side of your head and biting his knuckle. 

“Shit!” he pants, jerking forward. 

He watches your throat as you swallow and sighs, his head thrown back. 

“Fuck, baby. Yeah. Kitty want some cream?”

God, he’s so fucking embarrassing.

“S-swallow that shit, c’mon, good girl,” he babbles. 

You sit back, wiping off your mouth and looking up at him. He tucks himself back into his underwear as you stand on wobbly legs. 

You laugh quietly, leaning against him. He stands up straight, you can see the soundproofing has pressed a pattern into his shoulders. You’re panting, flushed, knees already bruising, mascara running, legs shaking. He swallows, his teeth clenching as he shakes off the urge to just fuck you right there. 

You exit the studio and stop the recording. He leans in the booth’s doorway and takes a deep breath.

“Shit. Where’d you learn to do all that?” 

“I don’t kiss and tell.” 

You play back the recording and cringe, glancing at him.

“Damn, that’s so nasty. I can see the tabloid headlines now.”

“Obviously I’m just keeping you talking.”

“Yeah, but I sound like I’m gettin’ head.”

“You are so gross.”

“Shut up, you love it.”

Your hands stop on the dials of the soundboard. You shake off the feeling and keep cutting.

You share the bed together as you both sleep in the daytime. You wake up earlier than he does, he refuses to leave the room until the sun is setting. 

“Rem,” you say softly.

“Hm?”

“I really like spending time with you.”

“Me too,” he murmurs.

“Like… even when we’re just sitting around and… and making music together, it’s just… it’s like, really special.”

“Music’s special, baby. Ain’t nothin’ like it.”

He had told you once– when you had smoked far too much, slammed two drinks, and almost thrown up confessing your love for him– that you didn’t love him. 

“You don’t love me.”

“Yes, I do,” you had bawled, pawing at him uselessly. 

“No, you don’t,” he said firmly. 

His big hands cupped your messy face, wiping at mascara tears and kissing your glossy lips sweetly.

“S’just the music, baby. Music got you all worked up like this. C’mere. C’mere, pretty thing, you come sit in my lap and cry out all them feelin’s. Okay?”

He held you and kissed your head until you calmed down, and inevitably passed out against his chest.

Now, he feels your heartbeat echoing in his ribcage.

“You know I want you,” he says, suddenly very serious. 

“I know.”

“I wanna be with you. Want everyone to know.”

You get closer somehow, staring at each other.

“Want you forever, wanna be yours forever,” he breathes against your mouth. A promise, a prayer, a plea.

He has to take a deep breath to keep his fangs from slipping out.

His red eyes catch the faint light from your bathroom, glinting at you. Full of want and desperation.

“We’re exclusive though… right?” you ask him.

“Yeah, course we are. Course we are, sugar, I don’t want nobody else. Just want you.”

“I like keeping it private.”

“I’m okay with that.”

“So we’re… fuck buddies who are a little in love with each other? Ugh, I hate that.”

“Lover works. Maybe a ‘lil too romantic?” 

“Maybe…”

“I call you my muse,” he murmurs against your temple. “When they ask… who’s this girl, who’s the one you write about?”

“I called you tall, dark, and handsome. But you’re not very tall.”

He pinches your arm for that.

“Lovers,” you repeat. “Mm, very eighteenth century. Makes me feel like a poet.” 

“I’ve read your lyrics, you can be a poet.”

“I can be?”

“Yeah, when your producer doesn’t write over half your shit.” 

“Don’t go back to New York,” you pout.

“I can’t stay here forever.”

“I’ll come see you soon.”

“I’d like that.”

You both roll out the new albums, to a lot of chatter in the media.

Your album Bad Dreamer– your third now since the disbanding of the girl group 2*Sweet– is received fairly well. You’re praised for finally maturing, for abandoning your cutesy act. Your last album toed the line between cute and sexy which was criticised for feeling disjointed and “some crazy Lolita sh*t,” as it was called by someone you thought was a friend. But people love Bad Dreamer, they love Make Me So, where you rave about how nuts your new man makes you, and the dance track Right to My Face makes the floor vibrate in every club you go to for weeks. The standout is Bittersweet, where– in so many words– you officially announce that your time as the cutesy good girl in 2*Sweet is behind you, and you’re a woman. 

Remmick’s album is an ordeal. Let Me Be Your Dog is heavily experimental, has sixteen songs on it, and two of them are over five minutes long. The title track manages to get airtime on mainstream rock radio stations, where the other tracks find a home on indie and college ones. Collar Me gets a weird, sexy music video, mostly out-of-frame shots of him being led on a leash by a woman– who he assured you over the phone was just a model he knew and nothing to worry about. Slippery gets the most media coverage. The explicit lyrics and the spotlight of the woman’s laughter– and moan– are criticised, condemned, and on many radio stations, banned from the air.

And you’re seeing each other as often as you can. You’re both fiending so bad for each other it’s almost hard to hide the relationship. It’s enticing, lying to the media and turning around to fuck him wherever you can without being caught. 

When you catch eyes from across a room at a party in London– both of you are shocked the other is there, the host has a strange circle of friends– you practically drag him back to your hotel room.

You shut the door and kiss him, arms around his neck. 

“Missed you,” you murmur against his mouth.

“Missed you so much,” he puffs out, kissing your neck as your back hits the wall.

“Fuck me.”

“Gotta be at Heathrow in an hour.”

He kisses your pout.

“Call me when you get home?”

“I’ll call you, baby.”

“Okay. Fuck me, now.”

“Right now?”

“Whip it out, let’s go.”

You lean over the vanity counter, seeing yourself in the mirror. He pushes his sunglasses up, his red eyes meeting yours through your reflection. You shove down your panties and push up your skirt. He undoes his belt and tugs his pants and underwear down. You dig in your purse for a condom– you always have them on you now with how often he’s filling your cunt– and pass it back to him. He tears the packaging and slides it on, pulling you back by the hips. 

“Can you take me, baby?” 

“Let’s find out,” you tease, wiggling your hips. 

He lines up and brings your hips back to meet him, slowly pushing inside of you. His hand clamps over your mouth and he squeezes your thigh. 

“Oh, fuck. This pussy, princess.” 

You cry into his hand, a muffled sound. Your chest rises and falls and he tugs down the front of your corset top, making you gasp as the straps slide down your shoulders and your chest is exposed.

“No bra?”

“The top has a corset,” you breathe, voice straining. “Rem-”

“Shh. I got you. I got you, sugar.” 

He gently rocks his hips into you, feeling you squirm and tighten. 

“That’s my girl… yeah, baby, take it so good,” he pants.

You never fight his grasp, even as he slips his knees between your legs, spreading them open.

“S’good?” is all he can manage, breathing against the back of your neck.

“Remmick,” you whisper.

“You’re close, doll? Fuck, me too.”

You nod frantically and grip the vanity, leaning farther forward. He would love nothing more than to pound you into oblivion and listen to all the pretty noises you make. He’d even love to take his time, make you shake and beg. But he’s got thirty minutes until his publicist starts hunting him down in Piccadilly. So, he just gives you what you need, slamming into you and teasing your clit rough and fast. 

“I got you, baby. I got you, pretty girl, give it all to me… c’mon…”

Your breath hitches and he snatches you up, covering your mouth again as you pant and cry. 

“That’s my girl. C’mon, babygirl, give it to me…” 

He feels your hot tears on his hand and squeezes his eyes shut as you milk his cock. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chants, his knees almost giving out as he feels his balls tighten and he spills into the condom, which you feel filling inside of you.

You finally rest and wince quietly. He rocks gently and you grip his arm.

“Rem, stop,” you breathe.

He pulls out of you and cleans the both of you up, condom discarded into the bin. You sigh, leaning against the table. 

“I gotta use the bathroom.”

You shove him out of your way, kissing his cheek for good measure, and he spies a tabloid on the nightstand. He flips to a page with photos of him from two weeks ago at LAX. He smirks and– finding a pen– adds a few annotations.

You give him a more teary goodbye than you want, lots of kisses and “I know, baby”, “I’ll call you, baby”.

When he leaves you settle in bed, reaching for the tabloid you grabbed. You like to know what the gossip magazines think of you two, so you can always be one step ahead. 

You wake up to a phone call, picking it up sleepily.

“Hey, baby.”

“Hi, Rem.”

“You sleep okay?”

“Yeah, I slept okay. I miss you already.”

“Miss you too, sugar.”

You hear something in his voice, a little wobble that wakes you up.

“Are you…” your voice trails off over the phone and Remmick grunts, hand fisting his cock. 

“Fuck, can’t stop thinkin’ about you, baby.”

His brain is wired from the line he just snorted, and it’ll wear off soon if he doesn’t act quick.

“Talk to me, baby, need you to talk to me.”

“I’m so sore,” you whine softly.

“Fuck, yeah?”

“Gave it to me so hard, Rem… you fuck me like you hate me.”

“Fuckin’ love you, baby. Don’t hate you at all, love you so goddamn much,” he babbles. “Fuck, ca- fuck- can’t cum without your voice, sweetheart. Need you talkin’ to me, so fuckin’ sweet, you taste so fuckin’ sweet. Wish you were on my face right now, feed me that sweet fuckin’ pussy, baby, need it so damn bad…”

“You love me?”

Heat pools in your belly at his confession. You know he’s probably high right now, but you’ll take it. You know what they say: intoxicated words are sober thoughts.

“Love you so much, pretty girl. Love you, love that cunt. Love your pretty voice. Make you fuckin’ sing for me- so nice, singin’ like a damn dove for me, baby,” he pants, stroking himself hard and fast, rubbing the tip with his thumb. “Stuff you full if I was there. Yeah, stuff you full, get you singin’ so nice for me.”

“I wish you were here…”

“You come here, you ain’t gettin’ off this dick ‘till you forget how it feels to be empty, baby. Fill you up and keep you filled, make you cum ‘till all you know is me,” he growls. “Make you mine, sugar, all mine, cause I’m all yours. All yours, forever.”

“I want to go public,” you blurt over the phone.

He whimpers as his thighs tense and he cums onto the magazine photo of you he was using to get off on. 

“Fuck… what?”

You two have had quite the night, spending the evening just after sundown at a club with his band members. You’ve met them a few times but getting to speak to them was strange. They all had a similar energy, all very insistent on the significance of the music and the fellowship of playing together. You nodded your head politely to their words, confused the whole time. 

Remmick has been teasing you all night. From grinding on the dancefloor to him finger-fucking you halfway to an orgasm and leaving you– you would say high and dry but you were so wet you couldn’t even sit on the velvet sofas of the club. Even just him feigning the good boyfriend, putting his leather jacket over your lap so you could drool over his toned arms. You really hope you were quiet enough when his hand snaked under it, rubbing your messy cunt over your panties.

“Y’so wet for me, baby.”

“C-can we go to the bathroom?” you begged, almost crying. 

He thinks you’re so pretty when you cry, he would’ve just smirked at you anyway. 

“You just keep bein’ good for me, darlin’. And we’ll go back to my place and eat.”

You finally leave, stumbling back to his place with your thighs sticky and your brain fuzzy.

“Was your band like… on something tonight?” you ask when you arrive back to his apartment. 

“Can’t remember the last time they weren’t,” he jokes back.

You stumble your way to his bedroom, kissing and laughing the whole way there. You drape your arms over his shoulders as he walks you back until you bump into the foot of the bed.

“Y’look so fuckin’ good in this dress,” he pants against your mouth, gently pushing your shoulders to lay you back on the bed. 

He doesn’t miss the way your thighs rub together as you watch him shrug off the leather jacket. You feel warmth in your cheeks and your belly when you finally get to see his pale, muscular arms. He smirks at you.

“What? She need somethin’?” he teases, glancing between your legs.

“Rem, c’mon, stop teasing me, please? I need you.”

“'Lil old me?” 

He gets on his knees, grabbing your ankles to yank you down the bed. Your skirt rides up and he parts your legs, grinning at your cunt. 

“Shit, look at her. Y’so wet I can see right through these,” he laughs at you, dragging his fingers over your clothed cunt. “Hey there,” he purrs, eyes on the fabric sticking to you, the perfect outline of the curve of your vulva visible with the translucent wetness of the fabric. 

You let out something between a sob and a moan, and he kisses your knee. 

“Okay, baby. Okay, you earned it.”

He tugs down your panties, not before pressing the gusset onto his tongue and sucking, groaning at the taste. He tosses the fabric behind him, onto a pile of clothing form the night before. He hooks your legs over his shoulders, kissing up your thighs, nipping and sucking until you’re actually crying.

“Stop,” you whine. “Just fuck me already!”

He dives in tongue first, pressing right into your cunt, nose bumping against your clit as you gasp, threading your fingers through his messy bronze curls. His hair is damp from sweating in the club– that’s what he gets for wearing leather on the dancefloor. But you both figure there’s no high like the both of you playing incognito in a club and hearing your own track play, his voice calling you a bad kitty while you winded your hips back against the denim covering his cock. 

Even now, he’s canting his hips to the rhythm he fucks you with, the friction of his jeans feeling perfect as he listens to your heartbeat in your thighs. He can feel the throbbing of your walls, the blood pulsing in every little capillary in your most sensitive part. Your slick is sweet like sugar syrup, he knows your blood is going to taste so damn good. 

You’re bucking against his face now, as he slides one finger inside of you, another one following quickly. 

“You think you can take three? I mean, shit, I know you can, cause you can take this dick, but… you want three?”

You nod, eyes squeezed shut as he pushes in a third finger. That sharp pinch of the stretch pulses inside of you for a split second until he’s pressing the flat of his tongue onto your clit. He lavs at you, slow and steady, applying just enough pressure. He’s making some sloppy moaning sounds. His body is flush against the bed, humping his hips against the mattress, desperate for some relief. You feel one of his hands move from your thigh and you grab it.

“You are so not allowed to touch yourself,” you snarl, digging your nails into his skin. 

“Mm– fuck, m’not?” he asks you in a teasing voice, like you have no real authority over him. He kisses your clit, smiling against your skin. He tries to tug his hand away and you narrow your eyes.

“Make me cum and we’ll see about you,” you snap at him. 

You’re locked in a stalemate for a moment, staring at each other until his eyes flick down– like a dog accepting a reprimand– and he returns to eating you alive. There’s something rougher now, maybe spite, him trying to fight the hard truth of how much he loves when you snap at him like that. He loves when you scratch him, how fucking hard you’re pulling his hair as you twist and pant. And the softer things. The squish of your thighs around his head, the feel of your bare tummy on his hand as he slips further under the hem of your dress, and especially the soft little mewls leaving your mouth every time he pushes his three fingers in further, making you cry harder. He starts telling you how much he loves you between loudly sucking on your clit and licking at your hole. He shoves his tongue inside of you again– loving the full whimper you give him when you lose the fullness of three of his thick fingers. His fingers circle your clit like the trackball on an arcade machine, you’re so messy he’s gliding over you with hardly any friction. Hot tears roll down your pretty face, mascara lines and smudged eyeliner, your lipgloss halfway across your cheek from the way he’s been kissing you all night. 

“C’mon, baby,” he murmurs to the inside of your thigh, switching gears one last time to shove two fingers in, curling to stroke that spot inside of you that has you ripping his fucking hair out. “C’mon, sweetheart, all over my face. Just let go, baby, I got you. Be good for me, be a good girl and cum all over my face like the fuckin’ slut you are.”

You snap, your upper body twisting so you can scream into a discarded pillow, sobbing– absolutely staining it with your makeup– and bucking your hips into his face. You definitely knee him in the temple trying to crawl away, and he just drags you back and kisses you gently, licking you like he’d lick a wound. 

“Rem, stop,” you wince, pushing on his head.

“Stop? But you wanted it so bad earlier.”

He looks at your cunt, your thighs trembling, everything wet. He can see your hole clench around his fingers. He shakes his head. “She don’t know what she wants, huh?”

“Go get your collar. I wanna ride you.”

“Don’t go anywhere,” he tells your cunt, kissing your lips.

“You were so good tonight,” Remmick praises you.

You had been. Shaking hands, holding conversations, and acting very normal all around. You only had one moment where you had to hold back the drool when you watched a woman reapply her perfume, pressing her wrists to her neck to spread the scent. The sound of her two pulse points echoing against one another had travelled all the way to you, and Remmick had to grab your wrist and step on your toes to keep you from dashing across the room and draining her. 

Now, he gently bends you over the vanity, your hands planted on the cool wood as you meet his red eyes in the mirror. 

“One ‘lil hiccup ain’t so bad. Swear you growled at me, though,” he jokes lightly, running a hand up your spine.

Your new wardrobe looks like it was salvaged from his. Leather, denim, buckles, and spikes all over the place. You wear his sunglasses but you keep it you. You’re not the same girl he met in that recording studio last year.

You bend further, elbows pressed to the table. Your back arches and he grins at you, hands under the denim hem and pushing the skirt up. He admires the way it squeezes your skin until it bunches around your hips. His knuckle traces over the lace of your panties

“These are cute. Betcha gave everyone a peak.”

You shake your head.

“It’s just for you,” you assure him, wiggling your hips.

He grabs them, pinning you in place.

“I want you, Rem…” 

“What? You want… this?”

You let out a strangled whine when he grinds against you, his clothed cock in his black jeans has a delicious drag against your soaked-through panties. Something about your turning has made you so wet, if you don’t wear black, you’re screwed.

“Please, I need it,” you whimper. 

“Oh, she needs it? But you won’t tell me what it is, sugar.” 

“Don’t tease me,” you snarl.

He whistles, pushing you back down by placing his hand between your shoulder blades. While he presses his hips against you, his claws hook into the sides of your panties, shredding the fabric.

“I liked those ones…”

“You got plenty just like ‘em.”  

The tattered lace of your panties hits the plush carpet that your stilettos stand on top of, and he lets his claws retract. One thick finger pushes into you, another hand returning to keep you pushed onto the vanity.

The sloppy sound of his finger pushing in and out of your cunt makes you shiver. Your mouth falls open, a little pool of drool collecting below it. 

“You droolin’ for it? Need it so bad, huh?” he teases you.

You squeak when he adds a second finger, two of them pumping and pushing down inside of you. Your eyes close and you try to focus your mind, to feel what you feel like to him. 

“That’s it. Make me feel you,” he groans, a wobble in his knees. “Damn, still ain’t used to it. Fuck me.” 

You whine and he laughs at you, low and mean.

“She needs more, huh?”

His thumb circles your clit and you jolt, gripping the wood until you hear it splinter from your strength.

“Shit,” you hiss. “Fuck-”

“I know, baby, I know. Shh, just give it to me. Be good for me, like you been all night. Won’t be the last one, sugar, swear it.” 

His thumb presses on your clit and you gasp, rolling your hips against his hand.

“Ngh… R-Rem…” 

You cry out as your legs shake and you gush onto his hand. He pulls out a little too soon, your cunt clenching around nothing. You groan, hot and very bothered by that. But when you glance back he's licking them clean, sucking your juices off of his digits and moaning at the taste.

“Love tastin’ you, sweetheart.” 

“Remmick,” you huff. 

“What? She need this dick? Huh?”

“Yes! Yes, yes, please-”

“Mm, you earned it, sweetheart. Earned all’a this dick, my pretty thing, my good girl.” 

His hands quickly undo his belt and unbutton then unzip his jeans, pushing down just enough to let his cock spring free. He’s rock hard, vein at the side throbbing in a death-march pulse. Precum leaks from the tip and he’s just as grateful that he wore black. He grabs the base of his cock and after a few quick strokes, lines it up with your cunt. 

The dull pulse becomes amplified– not quickening but deepening– that warmth spreading from your fluttering cunt to the pit of your stomach. With his slow, steady movement, he can feel the stretch of you taking it, feel that sinful good burning feeling. 

“Oh, Rem…”

“F-fuck… s’always like that?”

“I wanna be warm,” you beg him.

“I know, baby. We’re both cold, honey-”

“I-I feel h-hot when I eat…” 

He reaches up and bites his two middle digits– still wet from cleaning them– pricking the pads of his fingers with his teeth. He leans over you– you moan at the way he pushes in even further– and slips his fingers in your mouth.

You hold his wrist, sucking the blood from him and feeling invigorated. Using the leverage from your hand, you push back onto him, hips meeting his as he slams into you from behind.

“That’s my good girl, yeah, fuck me back. Fuck me back, baby, show me what a fuckin’ slut you are.”

He leans back to watch his cock disappear inside of you repeatedly. Consumed by the urge to see your face, he suddenly pulls out.

“No, Rem-”

He picks you up and tosses you on the bed, grabbing your ankles and immediately shoving his cock into your cunt again. You’re so wet, he slips in easily. He holds your face with one clawed hand, his thumb rubbing over your fangs and making you mewl, more slick coating his cock.

“Cum in me, please? Please, please, it feels so good…”

“Yeah? What’s good about it?”

“S’warm… ‘n cosy. Like the feeling of you filling me… I was so good,” you babble, his thumb resting on your bottom lip.

“You were so good. No dirty spreads about you bein’ drugged up this time,” he starts. He laughs, squeezing your thigh. “I got you in a dirty spread right now, though, goddamn.”

You groan.

“You are so corny.”

His thumb presses against your fangs, middle fingers of his other hand rubbing over your clit, both applying the same pressure and moving in tight, precise circles. You drool on his hand, moaning and whimpering as he pounds into you. Your hand reaches up to shove your fingers into his mouth, which he sucks on greedily. You touch his fangs and he pushes against the touch, panting with his tongue out.

His face crashes into yours, your slimy, drool-slick fangs rubbing against each other. Your nails are digging into his back, breaking his skin as you cry into his mouth. 

“O-h, sugar,” he moans, fangs touching yours. 

His hips stutter and he holds you to him, cockhead pressed right to your cervix and spilling inside of you. It warms you up, making you sigh and sink into the bed. 

“H-hah, fuck… feels s-so good… y’twitchin’ all around me, baby…”

He doesn’t still, just keeps shallowly thrusting until he can’t, whimpering and slowly pulling out of you– despite your best efforts to keep him inside. He slumps on top of you, his face between your breasts as you catch your breath.

“Mm… love you so much, princess,” he murmurs.

“You can rest for five minutes and then I want you cumming in me again.”

“That’s my girl.”

The nightclub buzzes from the deep bass in the speakers. You can feel it even from outside. You can smell sex, sweat, and sin from out here, too.

Remmick taps your shoulder.

“Sunglasses,” he reminds you.

“Mhm,” you hum absently, the music falling away as you tune in to the sound of heartbeats. 

Rapid, thudding, echoing heartbeats. 

He rolls his eyes, taking the sunglasses from your head and putting them over your eyes. 

“Hey.”

His voice snaps you back and you turn to look at him.

“Can we dance? I wanna dance.”

“We can dance.”

He squeezes your thigh. 

“Behave.”

You smile at him and nod. 

“Fangs or no fangs?”

“Save it for the club.” 

You exit the car you rolled up in, cameras flashing instantly. You grin at them, sunglasses sliding down your nose to flash your new eyes.

“Where do you get the contacts?” one person asks.

“What contacts?” you respond playfully.

Remmick kisses you on the cheek before you enter the club, escorted to a more exclusive area on the top floor, where you can look down at the people grinding on the dancefloor.

The thought and the sound of skin on skin has you instantly grabbing Remmick’s jacket, pulling him in for a sloppy kiss. Your fangs slide down as he leads you to a hidden corner, pushing you against the wall.

“I said behave,” he snarls.

“Please. We were making out in clubs before you made me into a mosquito,” you tease, your hand trailing down his stomach to palm him over his jeans. 

He grabs your hand– lightning fast– and squeezes. Not crushing, but just enough to remind you how strong he is. You just giggle and wrap your arms around his neck, kissing him again. 

“Put your fangs away,” he mutters against your glossy lips. 

You pout at him.

“Don’t gimme that look, put ‘em away.”

Your lip curls into a sneer as you show him your fangs retracting. He covers your mouth with his hand.

“That’s not how we play the game, princess.”

“Maybe I don’t like your rules.”

“Maybe I take you to the bathroom and put you over my fuckin’ knee. How’d you like that?”

You bite your lip and he huffs. 

“You wanna dance or not?”

“Yes!”

He drags you over to the dance floor and you move in front of him, your back to his front as you move to the music. His arm snakes around you, hand pressed possessively to your tummy. The song changes and you hear the familiar first notes of Right to My Face. Maybe Remmick is rubbing off on you, but you love getting dirty to the soundtrack of your music. You wind your hips back, hand resting over his and eyes falling closed as you listen to your own sultry voice with the sexy reverb on it. 

If you just say it to my 

Swear I can take it- to my face 

(Get down, kitty! Bad girl!)

Right to my, say it to my  

I’ll be so good if you just

I wanna take it to my face 

(Off the sofa! No scratching!)

Right to my face

Your ears perk up when you hear a guitar riff that’s not usually in the song.

If you just say it to my-

Give it to me raw

Right to my, say it to my-

Scratch me with your claws

Right to my face, right to my-

Let me be your dog

The DJ is mixing your songs together. 

“Did you tell him to do that?” you ask Remmick.

“No, but it sounds good.” 

You’ve been working on a project together, a seven track EP that ties together your two seemingly clashing aesthetics. The music always gets to you. You’re so emotional now, crying at the drop of a hat. You don’t just get frustrated when things go wrong, you rage. It feels like an eternal period. Remmick says it’ll wear off soon but for now he thinks it’s cute, shushing you and kissing the tears away from your cheeks. 

But now, hearing your voices– even stitched together like this– has you drooling. 

“You wanna go somewhere private?” he murmurs in your ear, fingers ghosting the top of your skirt. 

You hold down a whimper.

“I wanna keep dancing,” you tell him. 

The remix continues, and Remmick’s grip on you tightens. He kisses the shell of your ear.

“Y’can smell everythin’, hear it all, huh? You hungry, baby? You wanna eat?” he teases in a voice thick with lust. 

Everything is so overwhelming and you turn around to hide in his chest. He laughs and wraps his arms around you, kissing your temple.

“You’re such a dickhead.”

From across the dancefloor, you can feel people whispering about you.

Is that her? 

I think it is! 

Her skirt is so cute.

Who cares about her skirt? I like her boyfriend…

Remmick watches your eyes over your sunglasses, flitting around as you try to follow voices.

He whistles at you, grabbing your face.

“Just be here,” he says, squishing your cheeks. “Be here with me.”

“You’re really not helping my image right now. I’m not a druggie party girl, remember?” 

“Oh, we can get high too, sugar,” he purrs, patting his jacket pocket. 

“Maybe when we get home,” you say against his mouth.

You end up in a private room, the bottle Remmick bought left on the ice as you straddle him, claws digging little holes into his shirt as his hands hold you up by the waist. Your mouths mash together, lips parted and fangs rubbing against his. You’re loud, moaning and gasping and whining when his hips buck up, pressing the lace of your panties against your clit. 

You whimper, such a pathetic noise, and paw at him.

“Give it to me,” you snarl at him.

“Not until we’re home, baby.”

“I want it now,” you whine, pushing on his chest.

“You want it now? Yeah?” “Stop being a dick,” you growl at him.

“Mm, there’s my little rager,” he teases you.

“You won’t give it to me because you can’t fucking keep up,” you sneer.

“Can’t keep up?” he repeats, teeth bared.

You smirk at him. As it happens, you have a lot of energy now as a fledgling. A lot of kinetic, dirty, fuck-all-night energy. Even more than your maker. So sex has been an effective outlet for any aggression around your turning. 

“I see you huffing and puffing when I’m on top.” Your minds both wander to the night before, when your claws dug into the wooden headboard of Remmick’s bed as you rolled down on his cock at a torturously slow pace. All he could do was whimper and mindlessly squeeze your hips. 

“Oh, the big bad vampire can’t even talk? You’re pathetic,” you snarled at him.

Now he stares at you, glancing to the curtains, pulled tight, only a sliver of the pulsing lights in the club visible, reflecting on his wide red eyes. Another one of your songs makes his drink vibrate, rippling in the glass. 

“Remmick,” you whine, resting your head on his shoulder. “Please? Please, I’ll be so good, I’ll make you cum-” “You always do,” he reminds you, hand running up your back.

You look at him and bite your lip.You do look high, wide eyed like a kitten with a ball of string. 

“Stand up and turn around.”

You get up instantly, legs wobbling slightly as you excitedly shift from foot to foot. He undoes his belt and zipper, freeing his cock as he moves your panties to the side. He brings you back down, a hand guiding the tip to your soaking cunt as he pushes in, pulling you into his lap. You sigh in relief at the sensation of being full, leaning back to rest against his chest. He kisses at your neck, fangs just grazing your languid pulse as his teeth pierce your skin. You gasp and his hand covers your mouth, pulling you back against him as he drinks down your syrupy blood. He licks at your neck, smearing the blood up to your jaw. Drool drips from his lips, running down and staining your pink tube top with crimson blood. 

“But-”

“S’all part of the act, baby. Fangs out when we leave.”

His hand reaches down to flip up your skirt, two fingers shoving into your panties to rub over your clit. The hand over your mouth moves, his thumb slipping between your spit-slick lips to massage over your fangs. 

“Now imagine if all that bumpin’ and grindin’ out there gets too close… somebody falls through them curtains… sees you on this dick all spread open for me,” he purrs to your ear, nipping the lobe.

“Fuck-” “Mm, you squeeze me like that, sweetheart, that’s my girl. My dirty fuckin’ girl wants’ta play games in the club, wants to get fucked dirty in the club.” He punches up into you, pushing out dirty sounds while his thumb stimulates your eager fangs and your swollen clit.

“Listen to that. Listen. Hear ‘em? Hear ‘em singin’ along, fuckin’ hummin’ to your pretty voice, baby, sing it. Sing for me-” “Rem-” “Sing it, girl. Sing and you can cum, princess. Gimme that pretty voice and you can cream all over this cock, soak my fuckin’ pants, make a damn mess.” He kisses your neck, muffling his own moans at the way your sloppy cunt draws him in again and again. His eyes roll back and his breath hitches when he hits your sweet spot, making you both see stars. You squeak and he chuckles.

“Hit that high note, pretty thing, yes, baby. My good girl.”

Your muscles flex and you grip his wrist as it continues his rough touches.

“Fuck, fuck, Remmick,” you gasp, cunt clenching.

“That’s it, that’s it, o-h fuck,” he groans, lips to your shoulder as he bucks up once, twice, and then he’s spilling in you while lukewarm tears stream down your cheeks, mascara and eyeliner making tear tracks. You move to wipe them.

“Fuck- leave it,” he growls. “Leave it, they’re gonna fuckin’ love that, oh, baby, yeah, fuckin’ grip me so damn tight.”

You both slow your pace, your hands planted on his knees as you keep rocking back through your orgasm. 

“I want more,” you whine.

“I ain’t got more,” he huffs.

“Yeah, of course you don’t, gramps.” “Don’t start with me.” “Please start with me, fuck. Maybe if I’m bad enough you’ll-” He grabs your arm and manhandles you onto your elbows on the plush sofa. Cock stiffening inside of you, he grabs your hips and slams into you, bumping your hips together in-out, in-out until you’re crying again and clawing at the sofa.

“You rip it, you pay for it,” he tells you. 

“Bad Dreamer just went platinum,” you tease, pushing back to meet his movement, tongue hanging out of your mouth as little uhs are pushed out by his angry thrusts.

“You want another fuckin’ load in you, you fuckin’ slut, you’re such a little whore. Yeah? My fuckin’ girl, she’s so dirty.” “Touch me,” you cry, pawing at the sofa when he slaps your hands away from your clit. 

“I thought I couldn’t keep up? Huh? Am I keepin’ up enough for you? Am I fuckin’ keepin’ up?” “Yes, yes, fuck!” His hand slips down from your hip to splay over your tummy.

“Oh, she feels it so deep. So deep in that pussy, she takes it so fuckin’ good.” “Fucking touch me,” you snarl, claws ripping the upholstery.

His fingers drag down– agonizingly slow as he rubs your clit once more, rougher and meaner this time, around and around until you’re bawling, knees shaking and soaking him again. A few pumps later he’s filling you up again, making a creamy ring around the base of his cock as he desperately thrusts into you, like he’s trying to make it stick, like you actually could get pregnant. 

“Rem,” you mumble. “Can we go home and get high?” “Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he pants. “Gimme a minute.” “Can’t keep up,” you tease breathlessly. 

He spanks you. “You will leave this club with a sore ass and cum drippin’ down your legs if you don’t shut that fuckin’ mouth.”

“Mm, that sounds so good…”

You sit at your vanity mirror, your hand shaking slightly as you struggle to flick your eyeliner out just right.

“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath. You sit up straight and take a deep breath, trying to relax.

“Y’alright, sugar?” Remmick calls from the bedroom.

“M’fine,” you lie. “Just trying to get this right.”

He appears in the doorway behind you, the lights surrounding your vanity reflecting off his red eyes.

“Sweetheart…” he grins. “You know how this works. I can feel when you’re about to cum, I sure as shit can tell when you’re lyin’. What’sa matter?”

You sigh, dropping the eyeliner pen and resting your elbows on the white wooden tabletop in front of you. You rest your chin in your hands and stare at yourself in the mirror.

“What if it’s not…what if it’s not good?”

“What are you talkin’ about?” he chuckles. “It’s fucking great.”

“No, I know, it’s just…” you sigh. “What if…”

“What if…?”

“What if they don’t like it?” you whisper.

“Who gives a shit if they don’t like it?” he retorts. “Do you like it?”

“Of course I like it, but–”

“Then that’s all that matters,” he says, crossing over to you and leaning down, his face next to yours in the mirror. Two sets of eyes, red and white, gleam back at you. You look away and sigh again, your breath as shaky as your hands. The tightness in your chest refuses to let up.

“Sweetheart,” he says softly. You look back at him. “Are you proud of the music?”

Your lip trembles.

“Yes,” you respond in a small voice.

“Then it’s gonna be great.”

Your makeup finally finished, you head to your closet to put on your costume. Tonight is the release party for Sin/Sacrament, and you and Remmick have planned an extravagant evening. You decided to throw the party at your house, the intimate feeling of a house party reflecting the exclusive limited release of the album itself. The focus on the music and fellowship felt like a perfect excuse to deck out the place, keep the guest list exclusive, and celebrate your latest venture. The media has been swarming for the past few weeks about “Hollywood’s most sought-after invite.” Of course, the homefield advantage also means that you don't have to worry about being on a red carpet before sundown, either.

You hold the hanger in one hand and caress the stunning garment with the other, careful not to snag any of the gems. It’s a white minidress, delicate silver stones adorning the fabric and collecting in a fringe at the bottom of the skirt. It’s gorgeous. 

You quickly change from your lounge shorts and t-shirt into the dress and glance at the accessories already laid out on your dresser. It was a cheesy idea, but one you secretly loved. You pick up the wings, delicately cradling them in your hands. Your stylist had really outdone himself. When you’d pitched the idea, his face had lit up brighter than a Christmas tree. 

The white feathers perfectly cascade together into a pair of angelic wings, just small enough to allow you to move and perform, but large enough to be the highlight of the outfit. You take either side of the attached belt and wrap it under your bust, securing the oversized bow masking the buckle right beneath your breasts. You reach over your left shoulder and then your right, securing each snap embedded in the dress to the wings to hold them up straight. You turn and face yourself in the full length mirror.

You look pretty.

You turn back to the dresser and grab the final touches: dangly diamond earrings and lacy white gloves that run up to your elbows. Finally, you slip into your heels: white Mary Jane platform pumps with little gold heart buckles on the ankle strap.

You stare at yourself in the mirror again. For just a second, you like how your white eyes match your outfit. You giggle to yourself. It’s ridiculous. It’s absurd. It’s gonna be great.

It’s gonna be great.

You carefully walk down the stairs. You’ve danced in heels higher than these, but you can’t risk twisting an ankle before the big event. Remmick is on the couch, flipping through his notebook nervously. He looks up as you descend. In an instant, his eyes widen and his jaw goes slack. When you reach the floor, you hold your hands out and give a little twirl, the gemstone fringe at the skirt of your dress splaying out and glittering in the light.

“Well?” you ask, a mixture of nerves and forced confidence in your voice. “Do you like it?”

He stays silent, transfixed on you. He rises from the couch and crosses to you, taking your gloved hand in his own. He lifts your hand and twirls you again, caught up in the way you sparkle at every angle against the lights. 

You can feel your heart pound a little faster, but it’s not your heart. It’s his heart, gently seeping into you. The same way you can feel his sorrow, his rage, his desire…you can feel his love.

“You look beautiful,” he whispers. He stares at you, his hands gently falling to your waist. You glance down, blushing under his gaze.

He takes your chin in his fingers and tilts your face up to look back at him. He closes the distance between you, pressing a sweet, soft kiss to your lips. When he pulls back, he keeps his eyes closed a second longer. When he finally looks back at you, he grins.

“Y’ready?”

You nod, finally smiling. 

“Let’s do it.”

The whole house is buzzing as you mingle among the guests, drink in hand. You feel the excitement of everyone around you vibrating through your body. You can’t believe it’s finally happening.

Sin/Sacrament is your first collaborative project since going solo. It’s your first project with Remmick. It’s your first foray into a new genre. It’s nerve wracking and thrilling, all at once.

You laugh at a joke from one of your dancers, tossing your head back. Your earrings dance and glimmer in the light.

The whole house is divided into the two aesthetics of Sin/Sacrament. The rooms in the east wing of the house are all white and silver–with some pink details, of course. Dozens of mini disco balls hang from the ceiling, sending light cascading onto every wall. Silver streamers line the doorframes, separating the ‘Sacrament’ rooms from those on the ‘Sin’ half of the house. The rooms in the west wing of the house are drenched in red and black. Remmick had even insisted on red lighting. Red plush carpeting lines the floors, trimmed and rolled out specifically for the party. The largest rooms, though, the ones in the middle of the house–the foyer, the living room, and the lounge–are your favorite. They’re split down the middle, both of your aesthetics colliding in a perfect visual representation of the album. The centerpiece is an altar, half white and half red. It’s adorned with pink, white, red, and black candles. Remmick’s black leather collar is slung across the large neon cross at the center of it. A custom neon sign hangs above the altar: SIN in red script, SACRAMENT in white. 

Remmick stares at you across the room. You’ve felt his eyes on you all night. He’s wearing black jeans, his leather jacket, and the pink shirt with your face on it from your earliest rendezvous. He’s added a few extra chains and details to his jacket, namely a red lace heart over the left breast. What wasn’t obvious at first glance was that the lace had come from a–very nice–pair of red lacy panties he’d stolen from you a few weeks ago. You still hadn’t forgiven him for that one. 

The heart is tattered and slightly misshapen–it’s obvious he cut it himself–and attached to the jacket with large safety pins. Through the middle, he’d stabbed a long metal rod to look like an arrow. You’re not even sure what it is or where he got it. He wasn’t too keen on the lovey-dovey aesthetic, but when he’d pitched his original outfit to you, you were less than thrilled.

“Rem, it’s a themed party.”

“So?”

“So! You can’t just wear the same thing you wear every day!”

“Why not?”

“Ugh, you are such a loser!”

“Hey!”

“At least add something to the jacket. Please?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know! Something cute!”

“Cute is for popstars, sugar.”

“Be fun for once!”

“Fine, fine…lemme think about it.”

You had to admit, it was pretty cute.

You take another sip of your champagne, excusing yourself from your huddle of dancers and crossing into the Sin half of the room where Remmick still has his eyes on you.

“You okay?” you ask gently when you get to him.

“M’fine,” he mumbles, watching you with a strange look in his eye.

“Rem…did you take something?” you ask in a low voice.

“No, no…” he protests. “Jus’...jus’ thinkin’, that’s all.”

“You gonna be ready to perform? Just another hour,” you say, glancing at the clock sitting on the altar that’s counting down until midnight.

“Yeah, obviously,” his tone changes as he shakes the feeling off. “Fuckin’ excited, ‘s all. First time performing the album, first time, and I get to perform it with my girl…” 

He wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you tightly to his chest.

You smile, resigned that this is just another of his mysterious moods.

“It’s gonna be fun performing together,” you agree. And it will be. You’d been on stage together before, but this was different. Something you’d built together, created together, and now getting to show it to the world, together…it felt so divine. You feel close to him in a way you’ve never felt before, not even through the hivemind.

“So much fun,” he hums. He leans down to playfully nip at your neck and you toss your head back, leaning back in his arms and laughing loudly as he grins against your throat. You barely register the flash of the camera as the photographer from Rolling Stone snaps your picture.

At midnight, you nervously pace behind the curtains that separate the onstage and backstage areas of the makeshift stage you had commissioned in your backyard. The tricky part about the houseparty angle for the release party was that there was no professional performance space, but Remmick’s team had worked tirelessly–under his control–to get it assembled. 

It’s a simple black stage, with dark red curtains blocking off the small backstage space on either side. A basic lighting and sound rig hangs from scaffolding on either side of the stage, giving you just enough toys to play with to give each song a specific look. This performance had been weeks in the making, with many late nights spent working with your choreographers and design teams to construct essentially a mini version of the shows you would eventually bring to tour.

You suck on the straw of your water bottle, rolling your shoulders and focusing on shifting into performance mode. You’re playing the whole album, start to finish, for the attendees of the party. Of course, both of your teams are in attendance, your dancers mingling backstage with you, and Remmick’s band ready to walk on with him from the other side. But gathered in your backyard are industry professionals, other artists, producers, and journalists. Rolling Stone, of course, and someone from MTV. But you’d also insisted on inviting several journalists from indie publications and small zines, another nod to the exclusive, intimate nature of the project.

You take a deep breath and turn to face the other side of the stage, your eyes finding Remmick behind the curtains there. His head is down, lost in focus. When the lights on stage go down, he looks up, his red eyes quickly finding your white ones in the darkness. He flashes you a quick grin and mouths something to you. You tilt your head in confusion, your vampiric eyes able to see in the dark but unable to make out the words dancing on his lips. He mouths again, and you shake your head, indicating your lack of understanding. He rolls his eyes.

Love you.

You hear him loud and clear in your head, his thought echoing in your mind as he strides onstage with the band.

The lights come up suddenly and they immediately launch into the intro to Dunk Me. You watch him on stage, the way he tears across the floor, his guitar buzzing through the amps on either side of the stage. When he finishes the chorus, he turns towards you expectantly, and you stride on, your white heels stomping across the carpets laid across the stage floor as you make your way center stage to join him for the chorus. You snatch the bedazzled white mic from the mic stand next to his and throw him a quick glance, your nerves dissolving when he grins at you. You can see his fangs poking out from behind his lips. You take a breath and sing, your voices mingling in perfect harmony.

Put your hands on me and dunk me in the water

Wanna be all yours, like a lamb to the altar

Kiss me back to life when you pull me from the river

When you push me under, I get the shivers

When you finish Dunk Me, you’re both sweating and panting hard, more from adrenaline than physical exertion. The crowd goes wild, shouts and applause erupting from every corner of your backyard. You stare out over the crowd, chuckling when you see your pool–Remmick had insisted on dying the water red.

He takes your hand and pulls you in for a kiss. You wrap your arms around his neck and he dips you down, pulling you as close as he can with his guitar still strapped across his chest. You can feel his hands pressing into your back, careful of your wings.

He tastes sweaty and sweet and perfect. You swipe your tongue over his fangs and he moans, a disgustingly obscene sound that’s thankfully masked by the noise of the crowd. You can hear dozens of cameras going off in the audience, every journalist eager to get the money shot of the evening: the devil and the angel, locked in an embrace. When he finally lets you up, you’re both grinning widely at each other. He leans into your ear, and you pull out your in-ear monitor to hear him.

“Love you so much, angel.”

You burst into laughter, giddy from the success of the first song. He kisses you quickly again, then nods towards stage left. You turn towards the crowd and give a wave before bounding off again.

The rest of the show goes perfectly. Remmick and the band play Get Down solo before you join him again for Swear It and One More. When you get to Sick Puppy, it’s Remmick’s turn to head offstage. You’d toyed with the idea of including him in the choreo–he was the sick puppy, after all–but decided you’d both need to at least pretend to need a break at some point throughout the performance.

He watches you from backstage, you and your dancers in perfect sync with the beat of the song. He stares as the delicate gems of your costume catch in the stage lights and send refractions cascading across the stage. You turn sharply and the fringe on your dress shakes, whipping around with your movements. The feathers of your angel wings dance in the gentle breeze that waves through the night, making you look like you’re actually flying as you parade around the stage. He can feel his ancient heart thumping in his chest, and he’s not sure if it’s the adrenaline or you.

He joins you again for the backing vocals on Higher Calling before you pull out your final trick for the last song. As the crowd applauds, a trellis descends from above, one of the roadies from Remmick’s crew operating the basic fly system hidden above the stage. The trellis is a prop, but it’s constructed to look like it’s made of wrought iron and adorned with red and white roses. 

The band plays the intro of Eternity as you stand under the trellis, the red lights above and behind you making only your silhouette visible to the audience. Remmick’s vocals boom through the speakers, and you join him for backing vocals on the chorus.

Immortally loving you

There’s nothing else I can do

I want you eternally

My perfect, sweet ingenue

This was long overdue

I’ll keep you for eternity

He joins you under the trellis as you near the end of the song. A spotlight illuminates the two of you as more photographers eagerly snap photos. You smile at him as you prepare for the most devious part of the show.

He sings the final hook to you. The imagery is far from subtle: your white dress. The two of you under the trellis. Eternity.

In my dark embrace, you will know true pain

The sweetness of death, you’re gasping for breath

Everlasting life, you will be all mine

With that, the band plunges into the final instrumental hook, ready to play out the song. Remmick leans forward and you dramatically throw the back of your hand to your forehead as he sinks his fangs deep into your neck. You gasp into the mic, only slightly exaggerated. It feels divine, him holding you close and drinking you down in front of all these people. All these people who are taking pictures, all these people who are writing notes, ready and eager to describe the scene of him eating you to millions of people tomorrow morning. All these people who think this is an act.

He slurps down your blood, swallowing eagerly, not caring about the crimson liquid that cascades down the side of your white dress, staining it deep red. He pulls off of you, throwing his head back. His hair is drenched in sweat and his face is covered in your blood, the backwards motion of his head sending blood flying and splattering the white roses threaded through the trellis.

He presses his forehead to yours and lifts his mic between you as you both sing the final lines of the song.

Unendingly, infinitely, continuously

Forever and always for eternity

The spotlight goes out, the red backlight creating two black silhouettes as the band hits the final note and Remmick crashes his lips into yours. You can taste your coppery blood still lingering in his mouth and on his lips. Your own fangs begin to slide down, suddenly hit with a disgusting wave of hunger at the taste of your own blood. 

Put ‘em away princess, you hear him in your head. Later.

You focus and part from him slightly, breathing deeply. Your fangs recede.

The lights come back up and he’s staring at you in awe, drinking in the sight of your angelic costume soaked in your own blood. You smile at him, your body buzzing with excitement. You take his hand and turn to the crowd. You bow together to the uproarious applause of the audience. Remmick steps forward and joins the band in a bow. Finally, your dancers come back on and form a line at the lip of the stage, and you step down to join them. You take a bow with your dancers and they step back upstage.

Remmick joins you downstage once more, his fingers threading through yours. The crowd is going nuts, still whooping and cheering as you take your final bow. 

He pulls you in for another kiss, the sticky feeling of your blood mingling between you. Cameras flash. The lights go down.

The show is an undeniable hit. After you left the stage, you and Remmick had dashed up to the bedroom to clean up. Your dancers and the band had each taken over different rooms in the house to act as their green rooms, and were also winding down from the performance. Once you were all back inside, your team directed the crowd back into the house for the final toast, passing around glasses of champagne. 

You’re toweling off in the bathroom, wiping sweat and blood from your skin. Remmick quietly enters.

“Hey,” you grin, still breathless from the rush of the show.

“Hey,” he replies. “Y’okay? Tried not to do it too hard.”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you respond, inspecting your neck in the mirror. You can still see the imprint of his bite, but it’s healing quickly.

“Here.” 

He brings two of his fingers to his mouth and gently nicks them, drawing his own blood. He offers his fingers to you and you eagerly take them in your mouth, sucking greedily. The warm feeling of his blood lights up your body, and you can feel your skin sewing itself back together. You hum blissfully.

When you finally detach, he looks at your neck.

“All better,” he grins.

“Thanks,” you sigh, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. You spin back to the mirror, reaching for your lipgloss. You unscrew the cap and swipe the applicator over your lips carefully.

“I uh–” he starts. “I gotcha somethin’.”

You raise an eyebrow at him in the mirror.

“Oh?”

He reaches into his jacket pocket and you roll your eyes, expecting him to produce a baggie of God-knows-what.

“Remmick, I told you, after everybody leaves. I do not want to be high while–”

You pause when you see he’s holding a long white box. You turn to face him.

“It’s not drugs, dummy,” he retorts. His voice is playful, but there’s a twinge of something else, too.

He cracks the box open to reveal a gold chain with a pretty gold R dangling in the center.

“I know it’s kinda cheesy, but–”

“Rem,” you coo. “I love it.”

His red eyes flick up to yours.

“Really? I didn’t want it to seem like, y’know…but…our first show together…together together, I mean…”

“Help me put it on?”

You turn back towards the mirror and hold your hair out of the way. He takes the necklace from the box and fumbles with the clasp for a second before holding it around your neck. The R dangles perfectly between your collarbones. He fixes the clasp and steps back as you drop your hair again. He wraps his hands around your waist and rests his chin on your shoulder, careful not to crush your wings in his embrace.

“Sharin’ the music with you…it’s special,” he says in a small voice.

“I know,” you respond, rubbing your hands over his arms. “I feel it too.”

“Doin’ Eternity…” he continues.

“Yeah?” you ask, your voice squeaking just a trace higher at the prospect of the rest of his sentence.

“God, jus’ wantcha forever, angel,” he hums. “Wanna be with ya forever, my pretty girl…”

“I want you too, Rem,” you whisper.

“Wanna be yours, baby, always, forever…”

His hands run along your waist and hips, tracing the bejeweled fabric of your costume delicately. He buries his face in your neck, nuzzling right against the still-healing skin he bit just moments ago. You wince when you feel his teeth grazing the spot once more.

“Y’look so pretty, baby,” he continues, the movement of his lips tickling your neck. “So perfect.”

You giggle.

“You ready to go make the toast?”

“C’mon angel, sure you don’t want seven minutes in heaven?” he smirks.

“Gross, Rem, MTV is literally downstairs!”

“Come on…” he teases, his hands finding the hem of your dress. “They were eatin’ that shit up, the whole devil an’ angel thing. Me bitin’ ya in front’a everybody…”

You shudder under the hot breath he sighs out against your neck.

“God, princess, please,” he whines. You can feel him starting to get worked up through the hivemind, your own body starting to tingle with a gentle buzz.

“Rem, the toast,” you protest. He huffs, frustrated. “Come on. When they leave, I’ll letcha take my wings off.”

You walk through the remnants of the party, your heels click clack-ing on the floor. There’s trash everywhere. Empty glasses litter every surface, every ashtray is filled with cigarette butts–and a few roaches, you notice, in some of the ‘Sin’ rooms. From the band, no doubt. Red Solo cups litter the lawn. You grin. It really does look like a house party. 

Remmick had disappeared sometime after the toast, and you stuck your head in a few rooms looking for him before Marcia had informed you that you needed to start saying goodbye and thanking guests as they streamed out of the house.

“Where is he?” she asked, irritated.

“I don’t know, I can’t find him anywhere,” you responded.

“Typical,” she sighed. “Well, one of you is better than none of you. Please, please, try to remember that these are the people you need to like this album…and you.”

“Marcia,” you retorted, rolling your eyes. “Am I ever anything less than perfect?”

She took a deep breath.

“Just…play nice, kid.”

Now the house is empty, and strangely quiet. Coming down from the high of the party, your head is still swimming when you hear a faint sound from the studio.

It’s a piano.

You still, standing frozen in the living room, and listen to the soft, gentle chords.

It continues, the sad, quiet song tumbling through the halls of the house. If you were still human, you doubt you’d hear it all.

You quietly walk towards the studio, following the notes of the piano. When you get to the door, you can see that it’s cracked slightly. You gingerly open it just enough to slip inside and hang just inside the doorframe, careful not to make a sound.

Remmick’s sitting at the piano, his fingers dancing over the keys. He doesn’t notice you sneak in. 

He hums gently, finding a melody. Then he sings.

Think I found my angel girl

I hold your hand, I watch you twirl

You light the room up like the sun

Will you burn me when we’re done?

Angel, baby, say you’re mine

With you, I almost feel divine

Taste so good, angel, gimme a kiss

All I know is how to chase this bliss

Angel, baby, promise me you won’t leave

Just ‘cause I can’t wear my heart on my sleeve

You stare at him in awe. He’s so different like this. So soft, gentle. Sad.

Suddenly, he sighs, his fingers halting on the keys. You freeze. 

He runs a hand down his face, rubbing at his chin. That’s when you notice it. He’s crying. 

He draws in a shaky breath and takes his notebook from atop the piano, scribbling in it quickly. When he sets it back down, he stares down at the piano once more before bringing his fingers back to the black and ivory keys. He begins the song again.

The bass makes the floor vibrate, and you feel it– even through the heels with the platform. You can feel it buzzing through Remmick’s body, his arms around your waist as you dance together, your back to his front.

Since you have the luxury of being at a private party, you both took some happy pills two minutes ago. You’re already feeling it, a virtue of your new lightning fast metabolism. You now understand why Remmick is always puffing on a rollie.

You glance back at your boyfriend, seeing his eyes unfocused over his sunglasses as he pants, sweat dripping from his hairline.

“Rem.”

He licks his lips.

“Mhm?”

“Remmy,” you repeat, turning in his arms and patting his chest.

“Hey, pretty girl,” he mumbles, a lazy grin on his face.

“You wanna go sit down?”

You lead him up the stairs to an unoccupied room– checking all the corners to ensure that it is unoccupied. Remmick stumbles and lands on his back on the bed with the tacky black crushed velvet duvet.

You giggle at him. You feel light and floaty, maybe not what this should feel like, just the lightest effect.

“How much did you take?” you ask him.

“I double-drop all the time. Ain’t nothin’.”

“You took two?”

“Uh…”

He touches the tips of his fingers and shrugs.

“Four? I dunno.”

“Remmick,” you pout. “Now I have to fucking take care of you.”

“I can handle myself.”

“Then why don’t you handle me?”

“I’m rubbin’ off on you,” he laughs.

“I wish you were,” you joke again.

You lock the door quickly and pounce on him, straddling his lap. The addition of your weight makes the mattress dip and rise, and Remmick watches your chest bounce, drooling.

“Fuck, baby…”

He reaches down to undo his belt and you swat at his hand.

“We’re at a party,” you chide.

“Need y’so bad, sweetheart, siddown. Don’t be hoverin’ like that.”

You settle your weight on him, your hands on his stomach. You reach up and squeeze his cheeks.

“Oh my God, you’re so high,” you laugh at him.

He bites his lip and you smirk.

“You want me t’be mean, Rem?” you tease, tracing your finger on his chest. “I know you like it when I pull your hair… tell you how embarrassing you are.”

“M’not embar-”

“Yes, you are! You’re like, such a grandpa.”

Without realising you start to rock your hips, grinding down on his bulge. You’re wearing a risque pair of very lacy underwear, and you’ve been waiting to give Remmick a peek from under this dress.

The fabric starts to ride up your thighs, revealing all the lovebites he left from the night before, just light bruises now.

“Y’so fuckin’ sweet, baby. Mm, y’like that corn syrup blood… gonna cum for me, pretty thing? I want you all in my mouth…”

You whine, picking up the pace as you grab a handful of his shirt.

“Ba-! Baby,” he hiccups, his hands ghosting your hips.

“Big bad vampire can’t even take a little grinding?”

“Like that, l-like that,” he says, not even registering your teasing.

His fangs catch his bottom lip again and you watch his eyes cross as he bucks up to meet you.

“Oh, f-fuck, honey,” he pants. “I-I’m g-go-”

“No you are fucking not,” you growl, pushing him down and sitting up on your knees.

“Fuck, no, no, baby-”

“You don’t get to cum before me, dummy.”

You lean down and kiss him on the nose.

“So be a good dog and stay.”

He nods. You watch his throat bob as he swallows. You play with his chain while you slip down to sit on his thigh, your knee just barely brushing him. You gasp, your back arching as you toss your head back, earrings jingling.

“Please- fuck- touch me, please,” he begs pathetically from below you.

You narrow your eyes at him and giggle.

“Remmy,” you coo, a fanged grin on your face. “You need it so bad, huh?”

“Plea- h-hah… please…”

“Are you fucking crying?”

He covers his face, whining.

“No, no. Let me see you.”

You pull his hands away and laugh.

“You’re crying? The big scary monster is crying?”

“M’not-”

“Not what? Not a monster? All I can see is a big, stupid, drooling monster begging me to touch him.”

He snarls at you.

“What are you gonna do, Rem? You gonna bite my throat out? Hm? Gonna fucking pin me down and eat me alive?”

You shove two fingers in his mouth, pricking your fingertips on his fangs and letting him suck the blood that slowly drips out. He moans around them, his tongue licking between your digits obscenely.

You keep grinding down, rubbing your clit just right on the rough denim, wincing as you soak through the lace and make a darker spot in his dark wash jeans.

You sit back and catch your breath, grinning at him.

“Okay. I wanna dance.”

“What?”

“Oh, did you really think I was gonna jerk you off at this party?”

“B-but-”

“C’mon.”

Remmick is uncharacteristically well behaved for the rest of the evening. He’s quiet– save for the few pathetic whimpers when you’re dancing against him, your ass rubbing his rock hard cock through his jeans. He’s polite, he lets you speak to other men without putting his arm around you. He holds your hand like a lost puppy until you both say goodbye and go home in a car.

He leans his head on your shoulder and you kiss his forehead.

“You coming down?”

“Mhm.”

“Let’s go home and relax.”

The moment you get back home, he’s shoving the door closed and dropping to his knees, his arms wrapped around your legs.

“Still needy?”

“Fuck me, please. Please, please, please,” he chants, his face against your thigh.

You pet his hair as his drool drips down your leg.

“I think you might deserve it,” you coo.

He looks up at you with teary eyes.

“Carry me to the bedroom,” you tell him.

He picks you up and carries you upstairs to your bedroom. He carefully sits you down and you stop him from getting on his knees again.

“No, just fuck me.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, Rem, c’mon.”

He pushes up your dress and you undo his belt to shove down his waistband.

“You were going commando and this fucking hard? Bold.”

He leans forward to kiss you, licking into your mouth as he moves you closer and parts your legs, shoving your underwear to the side. He pants against your cheek as he pushes in, moaning and whimpering.

“Fuck, Rem… that’s so good…”

“Y’so wa-rm, sugar…”

You lay back and tug him with you, wrapping your arms around him.

“You’re still a fucking poser,” you whisper, making him snarl.

You feel drool and his breath on your neck as he prepares to bite you. He knows you have a televised appearance in two days, and it’ll leave a mark.

“Don’t even fucking think about it.”

His teeth graze your skin.

“I’ll break your guitar! I will tear this fucking place apart, Remmick, do-”

His head darts down and he sinks his teeth into your shoulder. You shriek, pushing at his head.

“Motherfuck- oh my God!”

His fingers rub over your clit as he drinks down your blood. He turns his head to kiss you and you bite on his lip.

“I have to be on fucking television!”

“You should cover up anyway,” he jokes.

“Oh, you dickhead, you’re not even high anymore.”

“I haven’t been since the drive home, baby.”

You really want to slap him.

“At least lemme make you cum on this cock first, gorgeous. Then you can ride me and slap me all you want."

You kiss again, sloppy and hot, your thumb claws digging into his cheeks while you hold his face. Tears spill from his eyes and you lick them up. He pounds into you, pushing out uh, uh, uhs from your lips, ghosting his.

“Rem, fuck, y-yeah, give it to me so good…”

“I’m cu-” he whimpers, “I’m gonna cum, ba-by, fuck…”

“Do it. Fill me up, fuck, r-right there, a little ha-rder- shit!”

Remmick tucks his face in your neck and sobs, bucking his hips and getting somehow deeper. He bumps against your cervix and you break, whining and clawing at his back as he spills inside of you. That warm, human feeling of a mutual orgasm thaws your icy skin.

You pant, your head resting on the sheets.

“Y’alright?”

You wince.

“Remmick, I have to be on TV…”

“I know, baby. I know.”

“I don’t even have an outfit yet.”

“We’ll make you pretty. Very showy. Gotta show off my girl.”

“You cried so much. You’re such a loser.”

“Plenty of time to make you cry, baby.”

“As if you can keep up, gramps.”

You blink and close your notebook, rubbing your face. You’ve been writing lyrics since before sundown, having snuck down to the basement studio to work on Jamie’s debut album.

“You tired, sugar?” Remmick asks you softly. 

“Yeah. Let’s call it a night,” you sigh, collecting the sheet music and putting it on the desk. “Really good work, Jamie,” you compliment him in a soft voice. 

“Thanks,” he answers you passively.

“Get some sleep, yeah? We’re gonna go suit shopping tomorrow.”

“I remember,” he says like he has a hundred times.

You forget that not everyone needs a million reminders like your careless boyfriend.

“Right. Yeah. And we can get you some stuff for your room, too. If you want,” you stumble through the awkward olive branch.

“Sure, I’d like that,” he agrees with a little smile on his face.

You want him to like you. You need him to like you.

“Well… goodnight. Sleep well,” you coo. 

“You too. G’night,” he yawns, giving Remmick a look before he turns around.

He heads up the stairs to his room and Remmick kisses your cheek.

“Makes you want another one, huh?” he jokes.

“Don’t say that,” you whine playfully. 

“No? Why not?” he counters.

“Cause you know I do…”

“Hm…” he leans in, kissing the side of your head. “Y’wanna go upstairs ‘n make one?” he murmurs in your ear.

You bite your lip, feeling him kiss down to your neck, dragging the strap of your bra down your arm. You turn your head to look at him and smash your lips into his. 

“Mm, yeah? Should we?”

You practically drag him up the stairs and into your bedroom, quickly throwing off your shirt. He clicks his tongue at you and backs you up to the bed. 

“You just lay down ‘n lemme worry ‘bout the rest, sugar.”

You nod and settle onto the bed, propped up by the pillows. You’re treated to a slow striptease, your eyes fixed on the way he unbuckles his belt and pulls it out of the loops. He peels off his shirt and shoves down his trousers, letting them fall around his ankles. He crawls up to you and you shiver at the sight of his tented boxers. He grabs your ankle and tugs you down the bed, making you giggle. 

“Mm, haven’t heard that one in too long,” he notes, leaning down to kiss your cheek.

He unhooks your bra as you grab his hair, pulling him in for another kiss.

“I love you,” you whisper.

“Love you so much, pretty girl. You got no idea.”

Your bra joins the pile of his clothes on the floor and he starts with your shorts, unbuttoning and unzipping them while kissing your knee. He eases them down so lazily you’re whining at him to speed up. 

“Gotta take our time makin’ this one, sweetheart, I just know she’s gonna be special.”

“Sh-she?”

“You want a ‘lil girl, don’tcha?”

It hits you right in the chest. You paw at him and whimper, your back arching off of the bed. 

“I know, I know, I’m gonna take care of you…”

He makes quick work of your soaked-through panties and his boxers, leaving you both bare and ready.

“You wanna try somethin’, Mama?” he murmurs, red eyes half-lidded as he gazes at you. 

“Try what?”

“I’m gonna lift your legs up like this,” he starts, lifting your legs by hooking his hands under your knees. “Then I’m gonna bend ‘em up… put you like this. Yeah?”

You nod, wincing at the new position. You can feel the stretch of having your legs so wide, but you know you’ll settle in. 

“Love you,” he murmurs, leaning down to kiss you.

You feel his tip bump your clit and jolt, turning your head away. 

“No, sugar, look at me. Look at me, Mama, lemme see that pretty face.”  

You look back and meet his eyes, letting out a pathetic little noise.

You gasp when he grips himself and drags his cock down from your clit to your hole. He doesn’t push in, just slides up and down, the length hugged by your slick folds.

“You want it?”

“Please…”

“What? You want this cock? Huh? You want me t’fill you up, give you a ‘lil baby?”

You push on his chest lightly, digging your nails in on his pec, begging.

“Please? Please, please, please-”

He shoves in and you cry out, squirming under him. You’re really stuck like this. You couldn’t flip him over if you wanted to. All you want is a good pounding and the baby that comes from it. 

He stretches you out– like he always does– and you feel every inch, every vein, every twitch until you finally feel him bottom out.

He sits there for a moment, taking measured breaths and watching you squirm. 

You look good like this. 

He knows it’s a game. He knows it’s not real. But there’s something about that frenzied energy behind your opal eyes that makes him want it too. 

He leans down again, pushing in deeper just to kiss your face. You whine and writhe below him but he doesn’t care.

“I’m so fuckin’ hard for you, baby… need’a fill you up, need’a make you a mama…”

“Please, please, please,” you chant, tears welling up in your eyes.

His fingers find your clit, circling slowly in a perfect timed rhythm. Your eyes flutter shut as your mouth falls open. Your head falls back, allowing him to kiss your skin and lick the sweat from your neck. 

“Gonna be so fuckin’ sweet with our baby, sugar. Everythin’… these lips, these tits… this pussy,” he husks. 

He chuckles at the noise that leaves you.

“Shit, y’gonna hafta beat me off t’get my mouth off this pussy.”

“Y-you do that already,” you joke lightly. 

“S’gonna be different… cause y’gonna be so tired ‘n achy with that ‘lil angel. I gotta take care of my princess…” 

You whimper thinking about it, your hand covering your womb. You rub it gently, almost like you could will your little angel to start growing now. 

He sees you and kisses your temple, speeding up the fingers rubbing at your clit.

You moan softly– everything about you is soft– and arch your back the best you can stuck like this. 

“Y’close, Mama? I can feel it…”

“Remmick, Rem- fuck… I-I’m-”

“Just let go, I got you,” he encourages.

“Y-you haven’t even moved,” you tell him.

“I’ll move when I’m good ‘n ready, you just cum for me now.”

“But-”

You’re cut off by him kissing you and shoving his tongue in your mouth. He pulls out halfway to give you a few good strokes. The motion and the way it makes his hand shake has you clenching around his cock, your clit pulsing. You try to push his hand away but he doesn’t stop, guiding you through the orgasm. Your legs tremble.

“Aw, c’mon, now. We’re just gettin’ started, baby.”

He takes his hand away for a moment, kissing your cheek and murmuring against your skin.

“That’s my girl, look at you. So fuckin’ gorgeous… that’s my fuckin’ girl.” 

He gives you a sickly sweet kiss. 

“I w-want you to move,” you beg him, lips mashing against his. 

“Move?” 

You nod frantically.

“Y’want me to pull out-”

“No! No,” you sob. “Just fu-ck me!” 

“Y’wanna get fucked, Mama? I can do that, I can fill this pussy up, is that what she needs? She needs’ta get filled? Huh?” 

You’re bawling below him as he kisses down your neck and chest until he’s drooling over one of your nipples. You can see his fangs out and you shake your head vigorously.

“D-don’t bite me,” you sniffle.

“I’m not gon’ bite you, baby. I’m not doin’ it, sugar, I promise. I promise. Y’gonna be so pretty when you feed the baby… but Daddy just needs a ‘lil taste right now, okay?”

His fangs retract and he latches onto your nipple, sucking while his hand drags over the other sensitive bud, pinching and tweaking it once.

“Ah!”

He can’t help but laugh at you, how desperate and pathetic you sound. You’ve been so distant since Jamie joined the band, you need this. Both of you. 

“Y-you’re not moving,” you growl at him. 

His fingers are on your clit again, toying with you as he shallowly thrusts in. He hits your spot each time, his movements deliberate but not the pounding you were expecting. 

It’s all too much– the stimulation to your clit, the punishingly slow strokes, the way he sucks on your tits like he’s actually going to draw milk. You’re shaking again, nails digging into his flexed bicep and trying to pull him off by the hair. Yanking his locks while he has his mouth on your nipple just serves to make him moan– the last bit of stimulation to make you scream again. You’re blubbering, begging him to just fill you up.

You pout at him. 

“Shit, look at that, came two times on this dick… what a good girl. She took it so good… grippin’ me like hell, goddamn.” 

He splays his hand over your womb, making you whimper. 

“I know… I bet she’s ready for her baby now. Yeah?”

You nod feverishly, pushing at his chest.

“Oh, yeah. She’s nice and relaxed, she gon’ take this load so good for me?”

He pulls out, so far that only the tip stays in, and slams in, making you gasp. He sits up straight, hauling your ass into his lap and leaning down to fold you over. The drool he left on your chest drips down to your shoulders.

“Is’at good, Mama? Yeah? S’deep enough for you, baby? Just gotta talk t’me, tell me how you want it…”

“F-faster!” 

He speeds up on your command, pounding you like you wanted– like you needed. His balls slap against your ass, underscored by the slick sound of your cunt gushing around his pistoning cock. 

“Y’feel ‘em, Mama? They’re so heavy…” he whimpers. “So fuckin’ tight, goddamn, I gotta fuck you full, baby…”