#sinners Remmick

[lefteagleblizzard]

Can’t believe this fic has gotten over 900 notes, thank you so much for all the love! Should we shoot for 1k? It would be such an achievement for me personally

𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔡𝔢𝔳𝔦𝔩'𝔰 𝔤𝔯𝔬𝔬𝔪 Remmick x male reader

Summary: The village called it sacrifice. You called it betrayal. Bound in blood, abandoned in the woods, you were meant to die. Instead, you were claimed. Now the monster they feared is on your lips, in your veins and between your trembling thighs and he’s not letting go.

Tags: Dark Remmick. Dub-con. Deeply devoted and religious village. Forced marriage. Vampire x human. Possessive Remmick. Stalking. Obsessive behavior. Protective Remmick. Manipulation. Corruption. Blood path. You are sent as a martyr and come back as a villain. Minor characters death. Vampire x human sex. Monster fucking. Blood drinking, blood kink, blood play (Our boy needs to be kept hydrated). Rough sex. Dominant Remmick. Submissive male reader. Heavy make out session. Size difference. Rimming. Anal sex. Breeding kink. Overstimulation.

Based on this idea from a dear friend of mine, hope you’ll like this.

ℳ𝒶𝓈𝓉ℯ𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

Words count: 8000

The village of Rensford sat half-forgotten in a dead end of the world, boxed in by thick, clawing woods and jagged hills that never seemed to let the sun rise fully.

There were perhaps two dozen families, and they shared everything: the narrow well, the worn grazing fields, the crumbling schoolhouse that had never known more than ten children at once. They prayed each morning for health, a mild season, a neighbor’s child to be born strong and not soft in the head. Every evening, before the cold set in, everyone gathered at the church. No matter how tired they were, they always came.

You lived in the far end of the village, past the drying sheds and the old abandoned mill, alone in a squat stone house that hadn’t seen a fresh coat of whitewash since your parents passed. They had been taken by fever one spring, buried out in the weeping field and after that no one asked questions. You were quiet, hardworking, helped with bread-making and tool repair.

The church was the pride of Rensford: a huge, lopsided thing of grey bricks that didn’t match, three wide iron bells, a crooked steeple that cast a long shadow at noon. It always smelled of candlewax and cold stone and no matter how fiercely the wind howled outside, it stayed still inside. The altar was plain oak, but behind it hung an immense iron crucifix flanked by dozens of dried herbs.

Father Ilan had hands like bark and a voice that never rose above a mutter. He spoke of keeping the dark at bay and sin that lurked in idleness.

The night everything changed was in early autumn. You’d helped shear the sheep that morning, your hands raw from the lanolin and your back aching. When sunset came, no bells rang.

The crops disappeared first and by dusk, the church was packed, clutching candles and holy tokens, some crying. You stood near the back, next to the door. Father Ilan was speaking, saying prayers, Latin laced with old speech you didn’t understand.

Someone screamed when the door slammed open against the wind, followed by laughter.

He stood in the frame like something ripped out of a nightmare, soaked from scalp to boot in blood. It streamed from his fingers and stained the corners of his crooked smile. Fangs glistened behind lips that parted too slowly, like he was savoring the way the whole church screamed as one.

You saw the red in his eyes, not bloodshot but glowing molten red.

“Evenin’,” he said, in a voice low and amused, like he was entertained by the scent of your terror. “Awful rude of ye lot. I was hopin’ for a warm welcome. Bit of supper…”

The floor dripped beneath him, blood ran down the aisle in lines.

“Father,” he drawled, tilting his head, “ye wound me. Been ages since I was in a house o’ God. You’d think ye’d be nicer.”

“What do you want?” Ilan barked, voice trembling but hidden well.

The thing paused. He licked his lips, eyes passed over the room, children sobbing and old folk collapsed in prayer.

He sniffed once. Twice.

Then he saw you and froze, a wolf that’s finally found the one door left unlocked.

Like a beast catching the scent of prey, his grin widened slowly. The candlelight caught on the wet curves of his fangs. Your blood turned to ice as something in your belly curled and twisted like a snake.

He didn’t look at anyone else, as if he could sense something in you that caught his attention.

“Me?” he said, slow, soft and teasing, giving a wide, bloodied smile. “I just wanna be let in. Proper manners an’ all, y’know. Knock. Wait. Be welcomed.”

Then, in a voice softer than breath, but loud enough to ring in your ears, he stole another glance at you before adding, “But reckon I could make myself at home either way.”

The nights did not return to normal after that first one. He came again the next evening. And the next. And the next.

Sometimes it was the livestock: shredded open in their pens, blood sprayed so far up the barn walls it stained the rafters. Other times people who were caught off guard by the sun disappear faster than expected.

They came back different. Eyes too bright, sharp teeth and an insatiable hunger for blood.

The worst part came with dawn. They would stand outside controlled by their new owner, sobbing, eyes pleading while mothers wept to see their sons hissing in the daylight, skin burning.

The people of Rensford stopped praying for deliverance, they prayed for quickness. For Remmick to pass over them, to take a neighbor instead, but it didn’t stop.

Through every night, every horrible wail and brutal tearing, you felt his presence on your skin.

He left you things. Once, a dead rabbit on your doorstep. The second time, a bouquet of beautiful wildflowers, ones that only grew deep in the cursed parts of the woods.

One morning, as you were feeding the hens, hands gentle on the wooden scoop, trying to focus on the clucking and not the ash smear across the far field, a voice called out.

It was Joran, the tanner’s son. He looked shaken, eyes red.

“Father Ilan wants to see you. At once.”

The hens kept pecking, you wiped your hands on your apron.

The scent of incense never faded as you entered the imposing structure, clinging to your tongue like old breath. The doors opened with a groan, thick oak that never quite shut all the way.

There he was, tall despite his stoop, his beard gray and wiry, robes dark as soot. His face seemed carved from old bark, creased and weathered.

His eyes, pale and sharp, flicked to you.

“Come, my child.” His voice was too soft.

You moved in, steps echoing between the pews. The place never looked smaller. The wooden benches were worn smooth by generations of knees and elbows. The stained glass above the altar was mostly opaque with grime but still, there was a glory here, terrible and vast.

You sat near him at the last bench before the altar. His hand rested lightly on your shoulder. You could smell the oil on his skin, the wax clinging to the folds of his tunic.

“I hear you’ve been tending the animals better than ever,” he said, smiling faintly. “Mara and Doff must be fat as pigs by now.”

Your lips twitched upward. He’d remembered their names. That did something strange to your chest, a kind of pang. You hadn’t heard them spoken aloud in weeks.

“You’ve done so much for us,” he went on. “Even after all you’ve lost. You’ve never stopped serving. You’re a light in this dark world. A blessing.”

You wanted to feel proud but all you could think about was blood. Blood in the hay, on your doorstep, on teeth that smiled too wide.

Your gratitude dimmed behind memories that swam up like rot in water.

Then, without a word, the old man stood too quick for his age.

His robe dragged behind him like shadow made cloth as he approached the altar where, beside the cracked old Bible, stood a silver goblet.

He lifted it and brought it to you.

“Drink this, my child,” he said gently. “You’ve earned it.”

A father’s tone in his voice that you craved when the cold wouldn’t go and when the fields were quiet.

It was warm in your hands, the rim was etched with faded prayer, worn down from generations.

You lifted it, excepting the sharp yet sweet taste.

What you got was thick and viscous, bitter in a way. You blinked but didn’t say anything.

He sat beside you again, speaking gently.

“We are plagued by a monster. A mockery of God’s creation. A demon with the face of a man.”

Your vision blurred a little. The pew beneath you felt…too far away. Your heartbeat climbed into your throat.

“He has set his sights on someone,” Ilan continued.

You blinked, tried to speak. Your mouth moved but made no sound.

“And it is you.” Something hot flooded your cheeks. Fear, confusion, denial.

“Only those burdened with sin call the devil’s eye,” he said, no longer gentle. “He senses and feeds from it. There is something in you, child. Something… inviting.”

You tried to speak again and this time you choked on it. Your limbs tingled, blood roared in your ears. You gripped the edge of the bench but your fingers felt like wax.

“What…?” you managed to croak.

Your breath hitched. You stumbled up from the bench, knees buckling.

“What are you… talking about…?”

He didn’t answer as you backed away, mind swimming, the walls too tall now, the light too bright.

He caught your shoulder and held you close, pressed to his chest.

“Sleep, child,” he whispered. “We’ll sing for you in the morning.”

You shook your head. Weakly and uselessly, his hand stroked your hair.

“They’ll remember you as a savior. Not… corrupted.”

His breath was warm near your ear, your knees gave out, head slumping forward on his chest.

You woke with a start that never quite reached your limbs. Your eyes blinked open, then fought to stay that way. Everything ached starting from the dull, pressing soreness of limbs held in place too long, like something had wrung you out and left you on stone to dry.

The sky above you was bruised purple, the last remnants of sunlight filtered through a heavy canopy of ancient trees. They leaned in like watchers, bark split and knotted. The light barely reached this far in and already the shadows were thickening, bleeding across the underbrush, pooling in the hollows of gnarled roots and sunken stone.

It was colder than it should have been, breath puffing slow, uneven and barely visible.

You tried to move but nothing gave. Your wrists were bound in twine so tight it bit into the skin. Ankles too, secured with rough cord that rasped against the bone. You were splayed on a wide, flat stone, its surface cold against your spine, ribs and bare thighs. You could only lift your head a little, feel the pull of the thin reed tied at your waist like a belt, nothing but a symbol to be broken.

Just like you.

The cloth over your face was rough wool, darkened at the edges with sweat and tears. It draped over your eyes, not blinding you completely but shadowing everything, like seeing through a veil of mourning. It shifted with every breath, rasping gently over your cheeks, letting only filtered light in.

You could smell iron and crushed herbs, sap and blood all over yourself, astringent and sharp.

Your chest rose shallow beneath the linen clothes they’d dressed you in, humble, ceremonial and sacrificial. Crude garments: coarse, undyed, threadbare from intent. They clung to you in places, hitched high over one thigh where the fabric had bunched from movement or from the ropes pulling tight.

They barely covered anything. Mid-thigh, no sleeves, sides cut wide and low. One hip completely exposed to the cold air, ribs visible beneath the opening, one nipple half-hidden by the threadbare drape, the thin cloth sheer soaked in sweat and blood that offered no true protection from the wind.

It moved along with the wind.

It slithered cold fingers up the exposed sides of your ribs, into the thin shift, making it flap and press in turns. When it blew from the north, the cloth lifted high enough that the stone beneath you kissed bare skin. You clenched your teeth, there was nothing you could do.

The cuts burned.

Tiny, deliberate lacerations lined your exposed skin along your thighs, your sides, even low on your neck where the collar hung loose. Thin slices that bled and they kept going, they’d used some foul herb that kept the blood wet, slick and resisting clotting.

It soaked the linen in patches, at your side under your navel, a red streak down your thigh like a line traced by a lover’s finger.

They were never meant to cleanse, but a bait for who you were meant to.

The ritual wasn’t to save you, but to offer you for the wellbeing of those that sent you.

The air was thick, damp with the coming night, pressing down like a second skin. You could hardly move, limbs splayed out and bound to the cold altar stone with cords so tight your hands throbbed. The raw scrape of rope on flesh pulsed in waves, burning and biting as you shifted your weight again, desperately twisting your wrists only for the twine to dig deeper, grooves forming beneath your skin.

The hood over your head was a mourner’s cowl, coarse and scratchy, hung low over your brow and cheeks, the itchy fibers clinging to your mouth when you tried to breathe. Every exhale fluttered the wool and every inhale dragged it back against your lips. Warm, wet fabric pressed to your tongue like a gag. You could taste your own panic.

The sky beyond the veil was bruising darker by the second from violet to black. You saw flickers of it through the frayed edge of the hood, just slivers of dying light snared in the branches high above.

A leaf cracked.

Your breath hitched, chest barely moving. You were nothing but ears and heartbeat, deaf to anything but your own blood.

Then came a violent rush of air and the stone beneath you shifted as something fast landed on it. One moment you were alone in the woods, the next his weight was upon you, towering over your restrained body.

Lips crashed down on the cuts, tongue dragged wetly down your jawline and landed at your neck.

“Ah… fuuuuck,” he groaned low, a thick rumble that passed through his chest into yours. “Yer sweet. It’s makin’ me high, darlin’.”

You arched what little you could and that mouth latched onto your inner thigh, beneath the slit of the shift. He sank his mouth to the open cut there, tongue thick and textured, pressing into the wound with slow, savoring swirls. He licked you like you were melting sugar on his tongue, the wet heat of his breath pumping fast, moans slipping up through his nose with every pass.

A graze of teeth came, something sharp dragged over the open flesh.

You jerked and it didn’t stop.

The tongue vanished. Then it was on your chest, your ribs—everywhere. He lapped from one wound to the next, following the red trails down your belly like a feast line. Your shift was useless now, soaked and half-peeled back, exposing you to the air and to him. You could feel the heat radiating off him, a body lit from within with need.

The tongue found your right pectoral and paused, a hot exhale before he opened his mouth wide and devoured it.

His mouth closed over your nipple and sucked hard, tongue working fast, swirling in sharp, maddened spirals while his teeth scraped faintly. All of it sent a shock through your spine. Your thighs twitched, bound ankles scraping against the stone.

His name wasn’t on your lips but a noise, choked, helpless and very wrong.

He pulled off with a wet pop, a thin strand of saliva stretching between your nipple and his blood-smeared mouth.

Panting fast and shallow.

Could feel as he clenched his hands, claws dragging across the stone beside your head, then one of them slammed onto your cowl.

The claws caught the fabric and sank into it and they came close to gouge out your eyes. The cowl was yanked up and off, and you were met not with the sky but him.

Up close, there was nothing human left.

A red so deep in his eyes, blood coated his chin, chest, throat—your blood still dripping down his tank top in sluggish, gleaming trails. The fabric clung to his chest, tight and soaked, showing every ripple of muscle. The stench of sweat and gore clung to him like perfume, overwhelming and choking.

His lips were parted, thick and bitten red, tongue darting out to catch what slid from the corner of his mouth, teeth too sharp. Droplets hit your face, warm, slow, staining your cheek.

“Didn’t even need to see yer face,” he murmured, voice thick with heat and something darker, almost shaking with restraint. His accent hung heavy like molasses dripping from a blade. “Knew it was ye. I’d know this scent if I were blind. I been thinkin’ ‘bout ye f’ so long…”

His hand hovered near your face and then he leaned down to press his forehead to yours.

“Name’s Remmick. Tell me yer name, now, pretty thing,” he whispered, voice like gravel dragged through silk. “I wanna hear it. Been wonderin’ it ever since I saw ye standin’ ‘round all those fools. Knew right then ye didn’t belong to ‘em. Ye were the prettiest thing I’d seen in years and I seen wars, sweetheart.”

Your heartbeat was screaming in your ears, every throb thundered beneath your skin, drowning out the rest of the world in that chaotic pulse. Those obscene fangs glinting beneath a grin that spoke of appetite. Death was straddling your hips and breathing through blood-slick teeth.

Somehow, you spoke first, voice cracked, dry and shivering with disbelief and pain, the knot in your throat catching every word.

“Why… why do you care…?”

That grin widened.

He liked the fear in your voice.

You could ser how it ignited something behind his crimson eyes, how the corners of his lips curled higher, how his chest began to rise and fall faster, hungrier, almost panting.

“You don’t get it, do ye?” he murmured, voice slow and damp. His gaze dropped lower to your throat, staring like a wolf eyeing the trembling of a rabbit’s muscles beneath its fur. His head tilted, entranced by the flicker of your artery pumping just beneath the surface and a thick line of drool spilled from the edge of his mouth, mingling with the blood that still glistened on his chin and lips.

He leaned in.

“Won’t kill ye,” he whispered. Hissed. “Could never waste somethin’ this perfect. Yer mine now darlin’, an’ I ain’t lettin’ ye go.”

Then he descended down into the crook of your neck where your shoulder met the column of flesh he’d been fixated on and he smothered you in blood and wetness. His mouth dragged across clean skin, leaving slick trails of spit and iron-red behind, breath steaming in the cooling air. His tongue shot out, hot and heavy as it lapped where his fangs had grazed, licking up the slow-dripping dots of blood he’d caused to spill.

You stiffened, gasped, breath catching hard as you tried again to pull away but the cords bit deeper. He could feel your pulse jump beneath his mouth, and he moaned, the vibration traveling straight into your skin like a deep tremor, making your back twitch involuntarily.

“Ye ain’t scared,” he whispered, voice husky and reverent. “Ye want it. Been wantin’ it.”

You didn’t. You did. You didn’t—God, what was happening?

Then his hips rolled down hard, forcing your bound thighs wider, despite the cords keeping them flush together, as his clothed erection dragged against yours, massive and heavy. Even through the thin, bloodied fabric of his ruined pants and your torn shift, you felt every inch of it slide against your own straining length and your body responded before your mind could protest.

You arched your back, hips lifting into him by instinct and a choked, broken sound fell out of your throat. He growled at that, deep and possessive.

He snapped his hips forward again, grinding and rubbing your cocks together, smearing your shared arousal through the filthy linen. His mouth didn’t stop either, attacking your throat with hot, messy kisses, pressing lips and fangs and tongue into your skin with no rhythm, just need, moans rough and low between every wet smack of his mouth.

“I knew it,” he breathed, “knew you were diff’rent. Them other folks… they looked down their noses ‘cause they couldn’t understand ye.”

His lips trailed sloppily along your jawline, over your cheekbone, peppering your skin with red-stained kisses. The blood on his mouth smeared hot over your skin, clinging in streaks and warm smudges as he kissed harder, more frantic.

“Ye know what it’s like, don’t ye? Bein’ the one they cast out. Left to rot.”

He pulled back enough to hover right above your mouth. Iron, sweat and earth were the scents emanated from him.

His breath fanned over your lips, heavy, hot and metallic, chest heaving, a soft groan curling from the back of his throat.

“Can I kiss ye?” he asked, voice low, rough and almost kind.

Your breath caught, staring up at him, wide-eyed, the trembling of your lips betraying the war in your chest. You didn’t understand why he gave you a choice. Why was he asking? Why hadn’t he torn your throat out, ripped you open like the others?

Why this?

Like he heard your thoughts. “I could hear yer heart, f’r hours,” he murmured, gaze still locked on your mouth. “When ye were all alone, prayin’ to a God who ain’t never answered ye… never loved ye.”

You didn’t even realize you’d said your name aloud. It slipped out, breathless, trembling, but real and he froze.

The wolfish grin was gone but not the hunger. One clawed finger lifted—drenched in blood—and pressed against your cheek.

It slid down gently and cradled.

Then your jaw was in his palm, his thumb barely grazing your bottom lip.

“I like yer name,” he whispered and smiled again, a dreadful smile with red-stained fangs out, shaking with restraint.

“Can I kiss ye?” he asked again, voice husky and sweet, but beneath it, something cracked in desperation.

You nodded once, lips still pressed together in a blood-slick line but he didn’t move.

“Need t’hear it,” he whispered, voice breaking like a prayer. “Need t’hear it from that beautiful mouth.”

Your lips parted. “Please,” you whispered, the word trembling, wet with something half-sob, half-lust.

The sound he made wasn’t human as his mouth crashed down with feral hunger, lips too wide and hot, soaked in blood and spit. Those fangs dragged along your inner lips. You felt slices, sharp and wet, his top canine cutting lightly the skin of your lips and you gasped, stupidly, into him.

A mistake.

His tongue shoved deep at that, lapping at your gums, your teeth, under your tongue, searching for where the blood was pooling, sucking it in hungry slurps. He pressed and scraped every inch of your mouth, a nick bloomed under your tongue, light cuts decorated the inside of your mouth invaded by his sharp one.

Your cry vanished into his throat and he moaned low in response, not sweet but hoarse, the noise vibrating down through your locked jaws into your lungs. The sound is all hunger and possession, a desperate, throaty groan that trembled down your spine and coiled around your heart.

With every swirl of his tongue, you felt the blood being pulled from your small wounds, collected at the edges of his lips, drawn to the corners of his throat. His cheeks hollowed when he slurped at the cut beneath your tongue, lapping thick and greedy, every gulp obscene.

Your face twisted in shock and breathless heat, tasting copper, spit and the ghost of his earlier kills.

He kept your lips locked tight, sealing you in, mouth still grinding against yours, tongue flicking quick now, almost angry, twitching left and right like he couldn’t decide where to drink from next. You felt a sting as his fangs scraped again, carving a new slit and he—God help you— was purring. A sound that made your stomach twist with confusion and the faintest lick of fire. He sucked the blood down and his hips jerked against your side like he could taste your arousal underneath the pain.

He pressed harder, chest crushing yours, ribs grinding raw where your wounds bled again, the pressure making you see stars. You groaned into him, eyes squeezed shut and that seemed to spur him deeper, head tilted, jaw working, tongue thrusting in again, again, dragging the wet length of himself across your teeth.

When he finally pulled away, red spit snapped between your mouths, thick and glossy. It clung in ropes from your chin to his, dripping down your throat as you gasped in fresh air, chest hitching, breath ragged with lungs that screamed in relief.

Then his lips jumped down at your neck.

The wound there, half-clotted now, stood no chance, his tongue found it and jammed in. He moaned, the sound buzzed through your skin.

The warmth flooded again and he drank, mouth pressed so deep against your throat it made your pulse skip. His fingers dug into your hips, claws creating shallow arcs into your side between slurps and grunts he emanates low and thick in his throat.

His mouth never left your skin, tongue swirling through the gashes he’d opened along your ribs, teeth occasionally grinding against your wound like he didn’t care whether he made more blood, only that it was fresh and yours. Your pulse still raced, pumping that warmth up for him, feeding him like he was bred for it.

But under that satisfied hum, the words came not sweet. Not tender.

“I should tear ‘em all apart.” he rasped against your abdomen, voice muffled by flesh and blood.

His mouth pulled back, leaving a long smear of spit and gore over your abdomen. He bared his fangs at your skin like he wanted to laugh at it.

“fed ‘em their own teeth for what they did to ye.”

A lunge. He dove back to your hipbone, licking along the curve with a long, wet stroke of his tongue, then dragging his lower fangs lightly along the flesh until a thin new slit bloomed, beading red.

Around a mouthful of your blood, he snarled:

“I’ll peel that priest open. want t’see what sound he makes when his lungs start fillin’.”

You twitched under the calm finality in his tone. Remmick’s hands clenched around your thighs, fingers bruising, claws pressing divots into your muscle like he was resisting something worse, his lips just brushing your inner thigh, tongue dipping between the notch of your hip and thigh, slick and slow, licking at a thin trail of blood that hadn’t yet dried.

He followed it upward with his mouth, small kisses, wet and hot, fangs tapping gently along your trembling skin.

A ripping noise broke that intimate silence that grew, soon after pain blossomed at your side. His claws tore the shift from your body, shredding a piece of it in one huge swipe.

Three deep gashes carved from chest to hip, sharp and perfect, blood gushing.

He didn’t let it spill, immediately lunged, mouth first, onto the wounds, suckling at them like open fruit, catching every stream with frantic laps of his tongue. His fangs tickled your skin with every drag, mouth painting you redder than you already were.

His tongue trailed down again, lapping between your thighs, that blood-drenched grin already forming on his face before his claws even moved.

Two swipes and the cords at your ankles burst, fibers twanging apart under the weight of his strength. Another flash of motion and the tattered hem of your shift was gone, torn straight through, shredded into nothing.

Hot breath, soaked in the stink of blood and spit, hit the curve of your bare ass. You jolted, not even thinking and your thighs parted automatically.

“Ohhh,” Remmick rasped, already leaning in, voice sticky with amusement, “they tied ye up ‘cause they knew, didn’t they? Knew those legs’d open up for me the second I looked at ye…”

His claws gripped your thighs, fingers spanning the thickest parts with ease and locked them around his shoulders, digging in hard enough to bruise as he spread them wider, forcing your knees up and out.

Your toes curled as his mouth descended, tongue dragging from your perineum up until it lapped a hot, wet line right over your hole. You made a sound you didn’t recognize, head tipped back and mouth parted in a gasp that never quite left your lungs.

He sucked in a breath, grip on your thighs tightening, claws pricking now, holding you open before his tongue dove.

A thick, forceful push, hot muscle breaching your hole in one wet plunge. “Aaahh—!” you cried, body jolting as your hips bucked instinctively upward. He didn’t stop, just grunted and shoved his face deeper, tongue spearing into you with greedy force.

The breath was punched out of you.

Each lick dragged a moan out of you. Each curl of his tongue sent sparks racing up your spine, coiling in your gut. Your cock throbbed untouched, pressed against your stomach, dripping pre-cum in slow, hot trails down your abdomen as he devoured you, tongue flattening to lap, then curling to thrust.

His fangs grazed the sensitive skin of your hole with a slow drag, pressing just enough to make your breath hitch. Blood beaded instantly, warm and wet, trickling down toward your thighs in thin red lines.

He licked the blood with long, luxurious strokes, tongue dragging through the slick mess like it was honey, moaning with every swallow.

His stubble scratched your thighs raw as he mouthed at you, tongue plunging back inside, curling and writhing, fucking you open while he sucked the blood.

A white-hot bolt of something unbearable ripped through your gut like lightning, your whole body convulsed, back arching, head snapping back as your untouched cock pulsed and jerked, spilling hard and hot over your chest in thick, white stripes, mouth open in a raw, cracked sob, fingers clenching at the stone beneath you as every nerve lit up.

He kept going and didn’t stop.

Remmick’s tongue worked faster, sloppier, his moans loud and unashamed as he devoured you through it.

The world tilted as arms wrapped under your waist, hauling your hips off the altar, your torso pinned by the ropes but everything below now suspended, thighs hooked tight around his head.

“R-Remmick—please—!” But he didn’t answer.

He buried his face between your cheeks again, tongue spearing deeper, licking blood and whatever else he could find with desperate hunger. His fangs scraped again, more blood and heat while his arms flexed, holding you aloft like you weighed nothing at all.

Your cock was already hard again, bobbing in the air, twitching with every suck. You could feel his breath through your entire spine, every rumble in his throat vibrating against your guts, hole raw and leaking, tongue fucking you so deep it felt like he was trying to reshape you from the inside out.

You lost count of how long it lasted, every sound he made was desperate. Worshipful. Terrifying.

His fangs dripped, breath trembling as he lifted his head and lowered your thighs, face absolutely soaked in red.

He hovered there, frame hunched and twitching like something trying to decide whether to worship or devour, biceps flexing as he reached for you again.

New red streaks were drawn with his tongue across your chest and ribs, no longer from fresh wounds, just messy strokes through blood already spilled, the warmth of it mixing with saliva and sweat as he mouthed sloppily at your skin.

“M’sorry,” he whispered into your side, “fer goin’ so hard. Ain’t had anyone t’hold in so long. The things ye do t’me…”

Your breath hitched again as his hips pressed harder down, the rigid length of him grinding against your slick hole, lips parting with a weak moan as the heat of him lit your nerves like dry tinder.

Remmick’s eyes rolled slightly at the feel of it—your body soft and twitching under him, your legs wrapping tighter, your hole flexing against the hard line of his cock. His lips parted, tongue dragging slowly along his fangs.

“Fuck,” he hissed, low and strangled, a sound torn from the back of his throat. “Need ye. Need t’be inside ye, now. Wantcha to feel me so deep ye can’t even fuckin’ pray unless it’s t’me.”

His clawed hand traced your neck, then slid down to your chest and pressed sharp, piercing the skin and blood welled instantly.

He was already on it, mouth slamming down, slurping and sucking with animal fervor the sound echoed like wet meat in a slaughterhouse, one claw dragging blood down your chest as he fed. The muscles in his jaw twitched with every swallow, throat moving visibly as he gulped.

You observed how it all occurred, dazed and half-wrecked, but for some reason still alive, unlike how those who betrayed you wanted it to be.

Here he was, monstrous, blood-drenched and cruel, but the only one who hadn’t lied to you.

The only one who shared the ache of abandonment and loneliness. Who even now, somehow, was holding back from ruining you too soon.

Your legs locked tighter around his waist and pulled hard. He growled low in response, mouth still latched to your bleeding chest. The sudden pull made him jolt closer, rock-hard cock pressing deep into the slick of your hole and his mouth left your shoulder with a wet, bloody gasp.

Forehead touching yours, droplets of blood slid down from his chin and landed on your parted lips. Your tongue caught one and shallowed.

His lips twitched before he leaned in and you met him halfway there, mouth opened over yours and tongue pushing deep. His fangs clinked against your teeth, a reminder that this could end in a single bite.

One clawed hand cradled your neck now, a deadly grip held in perfect check. The other dragged down between your bodies, across your abdomen, down to the base of his cock to free it.

The weight of it pressed down, tip slick from precum and blood he’d collected with his claws. You felt it glide along your entrance as he growled low at the contact.

“Tell me,” he whispered, lips brushing your cheek and the fat head of his cock nudging your entrance. “M’I invited?”

“Pleas—“ small and shaky, immediately interrupted by him pressing forward.

The stretch hit first. A slow, dragging pressure that pushed past your rim with that first devastating thrust, the head thick and already soaked with blood and slick, forcing itself deep into the slick mess he’d made with his tongue and spit.

Your eyes rolled back, jaw slack and lips wet, unable to even form words, body jolted inch by inch as the thick drag of his cock sank into your guts. It kept going, forcing your legs further apart as they twitched around his waist, hole clenching helplessly around the length that shouldn’t have fit that made your brain hum with warped, searing need.

“Hhhhhnn—‘s good,” he breathed into your ear, voice hoarse and breaking apart. Your hands clawed the altar beneath you, fingers digging at the cold stone as your hips bucked and your cock jerked where it lay against your stomach, every inch deeper made your vision blur.

When his hips met your ass, cock hilted to the root, he stilled.

Your hole stretched wide around the base of him, pulsing with raw soreness and slick heat while your whole frame shaked.

“Can’t tell if them tears’re from pain or pleasure,” he muttered, breath sticky against your lips, the taste of your blood sharp between you. “Not that it matters.” A crooked grin pulled at his mouth.

“Long as you keep makin’ those sounds f’ me.” He pulled out only a few inches and drove back in hard. His claws dug into your waist to hold you still as his cock rammed back inside, filling you deeper than before.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Each thrust hit like a punch, wet slaps echoing in the woods, your hole making slick, messy sounds as it stretched to take him. Blood smeared across your thighs where his skin met yours.

He angled his hips and hit something inside you that made your back arch like a bow.

“Ahh—nnh, Remmick—!”

“There,” he growled. “There is it.”

He slammed into it again, claws now wrapped tight around your cock and making you cry out as your hole fluttered around the thick intrusion, milking him.

His thrusts grew messier, harder, blood and slick smearing between your thighs and down your ass.

You came hard, spraying up your own chest, your stomach, onto his wrist and claws, sobbing brokenly as your hole clenched down around him.

With a final slam his whole body shuddered. He came with a guttural grunt muffled by the skin of your neck, hot ropes flooded into your gut, cock pulsing again and again as he filled you. Your hole stretched around the base, unable to stop the spill, his seed leaking out already, mixing with blood and slick as he collapsed half on top of you, panting, groaning into your throat.

He lifted his head to look at you, warm and coppery breath that came slow. He didn’t move, not one inch. His face hovered inches from yours, looming over your crumpled, used body as you trembled beneath him. Trails of red streaked down the curve of his cheek, along the ridge of his snarled jaw, catching at the corner of his mouth where his fangs still gleamed, coated in streaks of drying gore.

There was no name for what was behind those crimson pupils fixed on you, wide and unblinking. Unmoving and terrifying in that stillness.

The claws rose, glistening with your blood and hovered beside your face, three fingers curled, two half-extended.

You knew what was coming, your eyes closed to embrace the last seconds of life you had, tilting your neck as an offering just like how you were meant to be right from the start, a sacrifice for the well being of everyone else.

A cool breeze brushed your skin and the pressure on your arms disappeared when the rops were cut clean.

A single beam, golden and sudden, lanced through the branches high above when you opened your eyes. You squinted, eyes stinging from the brightness, pupils shrinking as the canopy above shifted and spilled morning across the stone.

He was gone.

The altar beneath you felt colder now without his weight. The stone rasped against your skin as you stirred, every nerve screaming in protest, your muscles sore and trembling from use. Your spine creaked, your knees shaking as you pushed up with an elbow and slowly, painfully, sat upright.

The shift that clung to your body wasn’t even clothing anymore.

What had once been white was now a shredded ruin, barely covering anything. Slashes ran down both sides—some clean cuts, others torn by fang or claw—stained entirely through with smears of deep maroon. Your chest was bare, one side of the fabric having slipped down entirely, revealing a trail of blood and bite marks from neck to sternum.

You looked lower.

The hem barely covered your hips, and the back was shredded. Blood had dried there in dark, rusted patches, crusted into the cotton, while other stains still shimmered faintly under the new sunlight. Between your thighs, soreness pulsed steadily, a heat that lingered more from what had been taken than any wound.

Shifting slightly on the altar stone, you winced.

Then, against your better judgment, your hand lifted.

You pressed your fingers to your own throat. Felt the tacky edge of a new bruise. Then you dragged your palm slowly—slowly—across your chest.

Your skin was a mess of scratches and welts. Some are shallow, some are deep. Your fingers caught at one of the gashes near your ribs—three claw marks carved in parallel, dried blood crusting at the edges. You traced them.

Your breath hitched.

It hurts.

But beneath the sting, your skin prickled with something warmer. Your hand moved down, across your belly where more scratches fanned out across your hips, painted like strokes from a mad brush, some with teeth marks sunk between. You found the bruises on your thighs next, purple and red where his hands had held you down.

You rose slowly and a burst of pain tore down your ribs where his hand had marked you, pressed there, each step sent new flares of agony through your gut and chest. Still, you pushed upright again, leaning on trees, yanking free thick ropes of liana that hung from the forest canopy and twisted them around your frame to bind the shredded remains of the shift back into something wearable.

Hours passed like wounds: slow, bleeding and hard to count.

By the time you reached the edge of the village, the sky had turned black.

You stood in the tall grass on the hill overlooking the main clearing, hidden in the shadow of the trees and watched.

They were dancing.

Every family, every face you’d known since you were a child. They laughed around a roaring bonfire at the center of the square, the glow painting their skin gold, shadows flickering long and tall, celebrating their freedom.

Assholes.

You stood there, one hand pressed tight to your ribs where your body still throbbed from what had been done to you—no, what they had done to you. A lamb tied in white and left in the woods.

Behind you, somewhere deep in the trees, you heard a rustle. You didn’t need to turn.

You dragged yourself forward, moving along the edge, behind houses with thatched roofs and crooked beams until you made it to the church.

One of the great wooden doors stood half-open and, gritting your teeth, you staggered to it and shoved with your shoulder.

The hinges groaned and the sound echoed inside like a bell tolling doom.

Three heads turned.

Father Ilan stood at the altar, tall and rigid in his soot-dark robes, two younger men flanked the pews, holding firewood and altar cloths, frozen mid-task. They stared.

The priest’s mouth opened slowly and his face was everything you needed to see.

Horror, recognition and best of all, fear.

You staggered forward two steps, holding your ribs, and let your voice come low. “That’s the face I made,” you said hoarsely. “When I woke up… tied down and threw away like garbage.”

He flinched but not enough, his hands folded before him, as if in prayer.

“You shouldn’t have returned. Not as you are. Not as that devil’s… plaything.”

You blinked, the words didn’t even sting, they felt expected.

Ilan turned slightly, eyes hard, lips thin.

“You brought him here. He’s taken root in your blood. You reek of him.”

You didn’t speak and he raised his voice. “This place is sanctified. He cannot touch it. But you—” he pointed now, eyes blazing—“you are the vessel for our freedom.”

To the men behind him: “End the ritual. Before the rot spreads and all suffer.”

They dropped their tasks and advanced.

Your knees trembled, but you didn’t back away. You clutched your side, pain radiating sharp and hot as one of the claw marks pulled.

“The devil,” you whispered, “ain’t in the woods.”

The men hesitated. One slowed.

You met the priest’s eyes.

“He’s in this village. In this church.”

That did it, broad hands caught your arms from behind before you could step back. Pain tore through your exhausted body as they dragged you toward the altar, feet skidding on cold stone, knees buckling.

With that last bit of breath you had, you cried out “Remmick, come in!”

The words hung in the air like sacrilege and the church doors groaned as they were pulled open, moonlit rushing in.

Remmick stood there soaked from crown to sole, he was dripping fresh crimson. It clung everywhere in his face, his throat gleamed red, boots squelched as he stepped forward, leaving sticky prints across the stone.

He grinned, fangs out, stained scarlet.

“evenin’, Father.” he drawled, raiaing one clawed hand in mock greeting, blood flinging from the tips as he gave a lazy wave.

Then his gaze shifted to you and that grin softened, something warm bloomed beneath the madness.

“Sweetheart,” he breathed.

The two men holding your arms froze for only a breath.

One second he was across the room, the next he was behind the man on your right.

The claws sank deep before the man could even scream and sank his fangs deep in his neck.

The second man had turned to run but it didn’t matter as Remmick levitated towards him and fangs sank into the throat before the poor bastard could draw breath, ripping a full chunk out, the artery split wide open, blood spraying in a crimson arc across the air.

The priest was already scrambling, standing by the side door, eyes wild, robes flaring around his feet while holding a wooden stake ready to use to purify your corrupted body.

He gripped it with both hands, ready to complete his divine mission…

…until a clawed hand caught his arm mid-swing, twisting it far past where bone could follow.

The crunch was wet and loud, the elbow snapping backward, tendons unspooling. The stake fell with a clatter, useless.

“Y’oughta know,” Remmick whispered low into the priest’s ear, voice thick with smoke, “I don’t like sharin’ what’s mine.”

His other hand raked across Ilan’s face, four slashes bloomed deep and vertical from scalp to chin and blood poured down his beard, into his eyes.

Remmick caught him by the throat and lifted.

“I hope yer god’s watchin’ now,” Remmick said softly before throwing him outside.

The old man flew like straw, hitting the grounf outside with a sickening thud, bones cracking under the weight.

The firelight outside revealed everything, all of the villagers were standing in a wide circle, backlit by the flames.

Eyes gold, mouth slack with fangs bared.

Each one of them turned and moved together as one mind as they pounced. Teeth met throat, claws met ribs, screams choked in blood as the man’s body disappeared under their hunger, hands flailing once before they vanished beneath the swarm.

Inside the church, your body gave out, too weak and in too much pain.

Remmick’s arms caught you instantly and lifted you to your feet, claws anchoring around your waist like he’d never let you fall again. You sagged against him, breath hitching. His chest heaved with breath, his body soaked in blood both his and not, muscles flexed and quivering with residual fury.

He leaned forward, pressed his forehead to the crook of your neck.

His breath was still ragged, wet with blood, panting. More blood smeared across your throat, fresh and hot, his mouth now streaking your skin with red over the already dried layers.

He buried those blood-caked claws into your hair, cradling your skull with terrifying gentleness, thumb brushing against your temple.

“I told ya, didn’t I?” he murmured. “Told ya I’d come for ya.”

He pulled back slightly and you saw it, beneath the gore and the fangs, something horrible and tender bloomed.

Devotion.

Claws against your palm as he cut just a line.

You hissed as warm blood beaded along your lifeline. Remmick bit his own hand, fangs punctured the base of his palm and thick blood poured from it in lazy rivulets.

He pressed the wounds together.

Palm to palm in a bloody path.

How marriages were made back when he was still a lad.

“Yer my kin now,” he breathed, that blood-slick smile returning, fang-bared, panting and waiting.

Your lips met his as you leaned forward, fangs brushing your tongue but you didn’t flinch.

The blood between you smeared across both chins, dripping down your joined hands. His growl melted into a moan as he tilted his head, deepening the kiss, one clawed hand sliding up your back to hold you close, the other still wrapped with yours.

The honeymoon was gonna hurt in all the right places.

[scrprints]

"It was just gettin good"

[spikedfearn]

he heard tell of a party!!

[secularhvze]

Something I really appreciate about Remmick's character is that he tries to do the charming manipulative vampire thing but it's so obviously insincere that nobody falls for it. Let's hear it for rizzless vampires!!

[dxmurewrites]

Deny Me

Part One of a two - shot series.

pairing: Remmick x Supernatural!Reader

summary: He didn't know what you were. Human? You couldn't be. A vampire? Definitely not. All he knew was that your blood sung to him, called his name like a symphony - and you knew it. Toyed with him. Teased constantly. You were an enigma, and your front door called to him every night. Remmick was determined to find out what you were.

warnings: vampirism, supernatural beings, possessive behaviour ish, mentions of blood and gore, death, coarse language, future smut in part two.

unedited.

a/n: Go dté tú slán - "May you go safely / Take care."

let me know what you think reader is!

—

Your porch swing creaks before you hear his boots.

You don't need to look up to know it's him, so you stay resting on your couch, reading a book in a language no one else understood with a name that had long since faded.

Barefoot and hair loose, you lay back into the cushions, hearing his heavy steps in the gravel heading towards your porch. The evening air presses through your open windows, heavy with river fog and something sweeter.

You could feel Remmick's presence long before he even touched your property line - like a shift in the energy, like lightning that you couldn't see. He brought the quiet with him every night, that hush that wrapped around the trees surrounding your home, just enough to make even the crickets and cicadas hold their breath.

Like clockwork. Same time every night. Same route through your trees. Same banjo against his back that his long, pale hands would reach for the moment he was comfortable.

You counted the steps with a whisper - eleven - from the moment his feet left the dirt and climbed the steps to your porch.

There was no greeting, not right away at least. He settles in on your porch swing with a soft grunt, his boot heels clicking against the rail as the swing squeaks under his weight.

Music fills the quiet before you can speak. A slow tune, a lazy melody that spills through the air like the smoke of a dying fire.

Something sad, sweet, older than the Delta itself. Older than him, younger than you, but you wouldn't reveal, no any time soon at least.

"Are ye going to leave a man out here all by his lonesome?" He calls out through the screen, continuing to strum along.

"Might do," You speak with a soft cadence, knowing his vampiric hearing can pick up every word. You flip a page in your book, not yet moving. "You all bloody again like last night?"

He chuckles, deep in his throat, resembling something akin to a growl. Remmick had greeted your porch the night before after a feed, his usual collared shirt and suspenders drenched in blood. Chin dripping with the red liquid. He hadn't cleaned up, nor did he feel the need too.

The blood hadn't startled you, didn't leave you with an ounce of fear - as if it was something you were used too, something you had dealt with many times before.

It left him wondering all the same.

"No ma'am, all clean," you hear him chuckle again. "Why don't ye come out and have a peak? You don't know what y'missing."

"I've got a pretty good idea." Your book is beside you by this point, but you still lay down.

And just like always, his voice carries through, charming and honeyed with that southern drawl warped by old world Irish roots.

“You wound me," He sighs, playful all the same. "You ever gonna let me see you proper, darlin’? Or are you gonna keep me out here singing to the birds 'til judgement day?”

You smile as you stand, your lips barely parting. “We both know you scared the birds away already, besides - the door’s unlocked Remmick. Always is.”

That makes him chuckle, low and rough. He knows that you know that he can't enter without a proper invitation. “Now, we both know that ain’t how it works. I need a better invite to come from those pretty lips of yours.”

You start walking to your front door, bare feet against the hardwood as you see the sun completely set far off through the trees in the distance. "That's you assuming I want you in my house to begin with."

He's already grinning from ear to ear when you reach your front door, looking at you through the mesh from where he sits. He's clean, no traces of any hunts like last time.

You supposed it is too early for him to have fed.

"Oh I know you don't. Not yet at least, figured you like me sittin' out here every night. Keeping' you company and playin' my little heart out for a... What were you again?"

"Nice try."

He pauses, then softer. "Can't hate a man for trying."

"You ain't a man." You lean against the doorframe, arms crossed.

He chuckles again. "No I ain't, guess that means you're not a woman either."

"Seems we're both still pretending to be somethin' we're not." You eye the chair next to your door, a wooden dining chair you had dragged to the threshold when you first realised Remmick enjoyed spending hours on your porch.

You stretch, lazy as a cat, your silhouette brushing through the mesh of your door as you take your seat. Remmick sits up straighter on the swing, his blue eyes no doubt seeing clear as day through the tinted screen.

You hadn't bothered grabbing your robe, the weather here worked around your needs.

The door opens without you lifting a finger, enough for the porch light to fall over your frame, your neck that was usually covered. His breathe catches, looking over your bare legs under your night gown.

“Well now,” He whispers. “Ain’t you somethin’.”

You tilt your head, watching the hunger flicker behind his grin. He’s beautiful, in that ruinous way old things usually were to you. Too still, too perfect.

Death wearing charm like a piece of jewellery.

"Keep playing for me honey."

Remmick obliges, muttering a yes ma'am. The sound of the strings vibrates through the walls, teasing the edges of your senses. It’s familiar - this nightly ritual, but tonight there’s something different, something heavier in the air.

You lean back in your chair, your feet tucked underneath you, watching him over the threshold.

The first notes of the new song drift through the air again, slow and seductive. You close your eyes for a moment, letting the familiar music seep into you, letting it fill the spaces between the boring thoughts you’ve been pushing away all day.

He’s here to keep them at bay.

Just for a little while.

One leg slung over the other, banjo settled across his knee like it belonged there. His pants dusted with swamp pollen, boots scuffed, eyes gleaming that tint of red in the fading light.

You wait. He’ll speak first, like always.

Sure enough, the soft twang of the banjo fades, and Remmick’s voice drifts to you, deep and lilting, like the South itself was speaking for him. "Ye gonna make me ask again?"

"I know you're going to anyway." You cross your arms over your chest, chuckling softly.

"Would it make any difference if I did?" His voice was hopeful, almost childish in a way.

"Not even a little," He nods at your words like he expected them. Which he did. He always does. But he still shows up every damn night. Still asks the same questions. "You stay trying though."

He shakes his head slowly. “I mean, you drop lil’ hints here and there, I’m no fool. I know you day walk so you ain’t like me,” He sighs, deep and full of something you can’t name. “But you’re old - mind my manners, yet you got this glow to ya, like sunlight itself, but there’s somethin’ dark hiding inside there too.”

“And that bothers you?”

“Nah. Not botherin’ me.” He picks a slow, thoughtful singular chord on his banjo. “Just, I can feel your blood when I’m near and I ain’t never felt nothin’ like it. Not in all my years at least.” He strums again. “It hums to me y’know? That blood of yours, like a song with no words. Like… temptation itself made music.”

You tilt your head with a small grin, playing with the ends of your gown. “And here I thought you were above temptation.”

He meets your gaze, unblinking, his own lips quirking. “Never claimed that. Just know when I’m standin’ next to something that might bite me back.”

There’s silence for a beat, stretched between the two of you like an unforeseen thread. “You keep coming back though.” You say softly.

He shrugs. “Because you keep lettin’ me.”

You look at him for a long while. Really look. There’s wild power to him, even if it’s old and tired around the edges. You can smell the years on him, the many countries and the blood, the empires and riots, ballroom ceilings painted with angels and gods alike.

He’s been through the lot. Loved. Craved. Buried. Lost.

Much like you.

Yet he sits on your porch, playing century old songs and telling half truth stories just to pass the time.

"Letting you isn't exactly the right choice of words here," you scoff light heartedly. "You just do."

"I reckon if you wanted me gone," Remmick stops playing again, taking the banjo off and propping it up on the porch railing beside him. "You'd make me gone. Maybe zap me with something."

"Not a witch, but nice guess," You arch an eyebrow as he sighs. "Though I could do worse."

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. Not his usual smug grin, this one’s quieter. Earned in a way.

“Another hint.” He points to you, tone pleased.

You sit up a little straighter in your chair, looking out to the garden that surrounds the house before looking out to the trees beyond.

Quiet, peaceful, safe.

Even with a man eater on the grounds.

"S'all you're getting from me." You smile, eyes returning to him as he swings on the chair, moving it with one bent leg.

His gaze shifts from your bare legs to your neck, though he holds no hungry expression - just confusion. Like there were a million thoughts running through his mind.

Remmick smiles, the kind that no doubt has spoken for him on more than one occasion. Dangerous.

"I won't ask for more," He murmurs, leaning back against the swing. "I'm startin' to enjoy this little game of ours, me tryin' to get past your walls, you tryin' to keep me out."

You don't miss the double meaning to his words, but you shrug nonetheless. A small laugh escapes your lips, almost inaudible to the human ear. "A game," you repeat, the word tasting like a humorous joke on your tongue. "Been awhile since I've played one of those."

He leans forward, the swing creaking under his weight as he moves. His voice slips through like velvet. "S'that why you like playin' with me then? Remind you of the old times?"

"Suppose it is."

His face beams, evident even under the dim porch light. You can feel the heat of his stare, even from where you're sitting.

"Well, then I guess that's why I like playin' with ye too," He admits, a slow bow of his head as he ponders his next thought. "Actually darlin', can I be honest here?"

You pause for a moment, watching the way Remmick fiddles with his hands. He was anxious. Worried. For a moment, you consider his question. "You saying you haven't been honest with me before all this?" "Wait, no, no - no I have been," He quickly corrects himself, giving you a pointed stare. "I swear it, just, think it's time I come clean 'bout something I think you're causin'."

Something you're causing.

"Something I'm doing?" You say softly, words mixed with curiosity and mirth.

In the quietest of tones, and the softest of actions, Remmick clears his throat, like he was nervous to confess something he hadn't dared to speak aloud.

"I've been havin' some dreams."

Your head tilts, the hair on the back of your neck prickling - not from fear, but from the unexpected weight in his voice.

"Dreams?" You repeat, your voice barely a whisper. “Good or gross kind?”

Remmick rolls his eyes at your jest. "Now I'm sure you know that we're not supposed to dream full stop, those like me I mean," he continues, his voice low, almost reverent - but there's something else to it it, something raw, something he doesn't know how to name. "Been a millennia since I last did, then you came along."

You can't help the way his words excite you, and your heart beats just a little faster at his admission. "What kind of dreams honey?"

You already knew, it was just surprising it took this long. It happened to most, if not all, that came across you.

Something about the way he speaks makes you lean in closer in your seat, knees now no longer under you but bent and pressed to your chest. You sat on an angle, giving Remmick no chance of seeing between your legs.

He exhales slowly, a long steady breath, as though he was debating whether or not to say more. You can feel the tension in the air, thick, desirable, unbearable.

When he answers, his voice was even softer.

Vulnerable.

"In my dreams," He starts, eyes flashing red as he speaks. "I'm in the sun, but I ain't burnin'," His gaze drifts off, like he was remembering the very memory. "In my dreams, I feel it all again - the sun, the warmth, the heat. Like it’s real.”

Remmick lets the words hang there before his reddened gaze turns back to you, the light bouncing off the vibrant pupils. You can sense him searching for something, an answer you're not yet ready to give.

"And you're there," He continues, his voice just a shade darker, but still smooth like honey. "You are always there. For weeks now, every morning when I go to sleep. Just... Lookin' at me. Smiling - You're there and you're lookin' at me like you know somethin' I don't."

That was new.

You made a lot dream about their biggest desires, but never had you been present in them.

You're back to fiddling with the fabric of your robe, eager for Remmick to continue. He's quiet, like he was letting the weight of his confession settle over you. The air was thick now, heavy with meaning.

Heavy with longing. Desire even.

He yearned for what was taken from him, that much was obvious. The world outside seems to fall away, just the two of you and the haunting vulnerability of his words.

“Sunlight,” You murmur, more to yourself than to him. “Not uncommon for a creature of the night to miss such a gift."

He's silent for a beat, and you can almost hear the soft rasp of another chuckle from his throat. "But it don't seem right, does it?" He chuckles again, but there's a trace of sadness laced in the sound. "A thousand years of nothing but the dark. Then I meet you," He points a now clawed finger in your direction. "And every time I close my eyes, that damn sun's there with you right beside me - holdin' my hand like you're the one causing the warmth instead."

"Ain't that cute of me."

Remmick's eyes close at your attempt to derail the topic, to dismiss his qualms.

Your head now leans against the door, heart calming by the second as you take back control of the situation.

There's a strange, undeniable warmth filling your house.

It’s a warmth that had nothing to do with the world you had created on the land you resided on, and everything to do with the strange connection between you two.

“You think that it's my doing?” You ask, your voice a little breathless, a little teasing, but there’s something deeper behind the words. You know it is, and deep down he does too. “I guess I should be flattered you think so highly of me."

"Nah don't do that," He wags his finger towards you again. "I know it is, I can feel it darlin', you don't gotta lie to me - won't do either of us good. I wonder..."

His voice trails off, like he’s not quite sure he wants to finish that thought.

“What do you wonder, Remmick?” You ask, your voice tender but insistent, feeling a strange thrill curl up your spine.

His hesitancy was exhilarating.

The mans eyes close at the sound of his name on your tongue.

His voice grows even quieter, almost resembling a whisper that only the night shall hear. "I wonder why it's you. Why I can't shake you. Thousand years, countless memories that don't belong to me and so much blood - yet I've never felt anything like this before. It scares me."

You smile to yourself at the revelation, the kind of smile that doesn’t quite reach your lips, but you can feel it stirring in your chest. There’s power in this moment, in the way you both sit on the edge of something untold, something dangerous.

In the way you have a creature as world destroying as Remmick in the palm of your hand.

“Do I try leading you anywhere?” You question, voice still teasing, but eager to know of your own actions.

There’s another pause, and then you hear him sigh slowly, like a man who’s been holding his breath for far too long.

“You do,” He mutters, his voice low, almost lost in the silence. “But I wake up before you can."

Bastard.

"Then maybe you should let me guide you, see where I take you," It was truthful advice, as you were eager to know even yourself. "I can be quite the explorer."

You let the words hang in the air between you, and for a long while, there’s nothing but the sound of his quiet breath, the distant sounds of the creatures that hide in the woods, and the shimmering veil surrounding your home.

"You're still not gonna tell me anythin', are you?" Remmick asks, but you both know it's a rhetorical question.

You've never been to give any old being an easy way out. You let the silence settle, just for a moment, before you respond.

“No,” You whisper the word slipping from your lips with ease. It’s not a denial, but an invitation, wrapped in centuries and millennia of layers. “But you’re getting closer. I know you are."

His breath catches at your admission, and you can almost sense the tension in his body. His aura was riddled with yellows as he leans forward, searching your frame for more.

The swing creaks again, his claws tapping the wood nervously. "What am I missin'? C'mon, have mercy on me baby.”

You smile for what feels like the hundredth time tonight, something you've found yourself doing a lot more since meeting the vampire on your porch. “I've been merciful," You tilt your head, voice low, seductive. “The answer is there Remmick, I can't tell you myself."

Another hint. You wonder if he picks up on it.

The silence stretches out again, but this time, it’s not awkward - it’s electric. You can feel him straining to catch the next thread of your words, to make sense of the teasing mystery you’re spinning around him.

“You say I'm getting closer,” He says, almost desperate now, the rasp of his voice betraying the hunger that’s been gnawing at him, the frustration that’s built up over all these nights of playing this dangerous little game. “But it's a path I can't follow, it's something I cant see."

How wrong he is.

"But you have seen the path," You murmur. "You've walked it, every night now. Just trust me here Rem. Don't wake up next time and let me guide you. Be good for me… or dream me I guess.”

You hear him swallow, and you know you've caught him. He’s listening completely now, not just to your words but to the subtle pull of something deeper. He’s aware of it too now, the dreams - that you are causing them somehow.

You were causing a tug at his soul that he was adamant had died long ago.

“Where are you gonna take me?” He asks, like he's almost afraid to speak. Like you'll laugh in his face and slam the door. “What’s at the end then?”

You smile, your lips curving into something almost secretive. “Can't say, why not just enjoy the walk in the sun with me? I'm sure I look quite nice in your dreams."

You're back to teasing, knowing you were revealing somehow too much but still not enough. But it didn't matter to your people.

These were the rules.

Remmick's fists clench ever so slightly.

Deciding to throw him another bone, you laugh loudly. "You said it yourself you silly man, I've been dropping hints."

His voice is thick with the quiet realization that he's missed something, something important. “Hints?” He repeats.

You let him sit with the realisation. It creeps into his chest before your eyes.

"Mm hm," You hum. "You've had them all along, your old brain just needs to do some thinkin' with everything I've given you, I can't do anything more."

For a long moment, there’s nothing but the soft hum of the night around you. No sound of his banjo, no shift of his weight on the swing.

Just the sound of his breathing, coming a little faster now, as though the pieces are finally starting to click together.

"I just can't wake up." He murmurs, more to himself again if anything, but you nod regardless.

"Let me walk with you in the sun and maybe you'll see."

"In the sun." He iterates, and you stand from your chair, still behind the threshold with another nod.

"In the sun in his jealous sky," You stretch once more, letting your hands fall to your side as you lean against your door frame. "Ignore it, and you might never find out why I just smell so damn good."

He finally cracks a smile after what felt like eternity, nodding over and over at your endless riddles. "Suppose I can try."

"Good, 'cause I've said far too much now for one night," You admit, looking off again into the distance. "You should get going, I don't like how you scare off the deer that come in the yard."

"You kickin' me out darlin'?"

"You were never in honey," You retort with a scrunch of your nose, tilting your head towards the unknown. "Off you go now, I'm sure you're pretty hungry."

"Oh Im starvin', but if you're offeri-,"

"Absolutely not, you would not last a damn second," You cut him off with a scoff, and Remmick doesn't miss the double meaning for once. "Get off the land, I'm missing the fireflies too."

The land.

Not my land.

Something else he doesn't miss.

"Fine, but only because I am pretty starved," He stands, grabbing his banjo from where it rests and throwing it over his shoulder. "But I'll be back tomorrow, don't ye worry now."

"Great, 'cause I was really worried there." Your eyes roll, but it's clear there's no annoyance behind the gesture.

"Night darlin'." Remmick's already halfway down the porch stairs when you close the first mesh door.

"Go dté tú slán Remmick."

His head turns sharply as you close both the doors before he can even respond.

[fuzzyymoth]

it's really funny when you realize that remmick went through so much effort to make himself, joan, and bert look nice and cleaned up

like not only did they have to wash the blood off and change clothes, but he even had them do their hair different 😭

[hopefullyyy00]

When you make fun of remmick wearing someone else’s clothes.

You’d probably be waiting in the house for him to come back for a hunt. Opting to sit down at the old abandoned kitchen table of a house on the outskirts of town, the perfect place to lay low for a while. You’re sitting down, humming while sewing a small piece of clothing ripped while in a struggle with one of your victims, tragic really; one of your favorite blouses. You’re interrupted, your head perking up when you hear slow steps coming from the porch.

With a lazy sigh you stand up and drag yourself to the door, expecting a blood drunken remmick covered in blood and wearing that lopsided grin you know so well.

You still recognize that dopey grin however he’s in totally different clothes, unfamiliar ones, clean ones at that. They’re obviously too big for him, the pants waist hoisted up so high by suspenders it’s hard not to laugh.

“Remmick…what the hell?” You manage to snort out, the laughter bursting out before you can stop yourself. You lean against the door frame, throwing your head back and covering your mouth.

“What? You don’t like em’? You’re always messing about getting blood on the clothes, so I got some new ones” He answered, looking down at himself before kicking the dirt lazily.

Remmick ogles at you as you laugh, the twitch of a smirk fixing his mouth. He steps closer towards the door, a mischievous glint flashing across his eyes before he leans on the opposite side of the door frame.

“Rem’ who the fuck did you steal those from? John Henry?” Your laughter dies down, turning into a teasing smirk. You reached out to fix the collar of the light blue button up shirt, humming approvingly.

“I always did love light blue on you. I’ll give ya’ that” you hum, your hand tracing the collar, feeling the soft fabric before your hand drags its way down to his high ass belt

“You like blue on me that much, huh?” Remmick snickers, tilting his head. his hands finds your waist immediately to flip you over his shoulder. Your combined giggles boom all the way through the front door to the bedroom…

An: Heyy I posted again!!Are you proud? Please say you’re proud..

Anyway just posting a little sum sum so…yeah

[ty-png]

He got to see the sun one last time

[cuntbitchandthebottlemen]

James Cook falls in love with you - Headcanons

this is my first time writing and posting something like it. jack o'connell has me so obsessed that i had to do it. it doesn't have any tags because i don't even know what to put, and if you see any grammatical errors, no, you didn't. english isn't my first language, so just imagine it's written correctly. let me know if you want a part 2!!

• cook falls in love with you because you're the only one who doesn't kiss him or fuck him or mess with him because you're more worried about your future than snorting drugs up your ass with the group but when someone sees him hanging around you every chance he gets like a fly and asks him if he likes you he totally denies it, not because he's embarrassed that the nerd has his heart but because he doesn't want to be reminded that you obviously deserve better so he always observes every detail of you in silence while you're not looking even though he still makes jokes to you about being distracted from your books with his cock but what you don't know is that inside he begs you to say yes.

"do ya need help with that?" he said pointing at your notes and sitting on the chair next to you without permission.

"i don't think you can help me with this even if you were born again"

"love that about ya. i would like to know if you are that bratty during sex'"

"i'd rather watch an 8-hour documentary on how grass grows than sleep with you." you said while you look straight ahead pretending that you're paying attention to the teacher and not to how he turns to look at you while smiling as if you had just told him the biggest compliment in the world. you also pretend that you don't like the way his teeth look when he smiles and you don't know exactly by heart what they look like right now even when you're not looking at him.

• he didn't expect you to show up at that bar on his birthday at all. he couldn't have been happier that you'd put aside your responsibilities for a day to be there with him, not even when you left a small pack of cigarette papers as a crappy birthday present. so he had to hide how he felt being a complete, hyperactive, drunk idiot. he still has that unused pack tucked away in his pocket, and every time he changes pants, he takes it out and puts it in his new one just to have it there w him.

• that night you agreed to go to a party with them. you got so drunk that you ended up tangled up with cook on the corner of some stairs. cook moaned like a bitch the moment your mouth touched his. he always wanted this and imagined it five hundred times while watching you in class. but you didn't hear him because of the loud music. the next day, you forgot about it, and no one witnessed it because no one saw you two. so now it only exists in cook's mind, and no one believes him, they make fun of him saying that he was so high that he probably had hallucinations even when he still remembers how warm the skin of your waist felt under his hands when he held you while kissing you.

• he knew he was fucked and deeply in love with you the day you didn't judge him, you just hugged him and offered him a room to stay the night without hesitating for a second when his mom kicked him out of the house even when that wasn't compatible with the way you always kept him away from your personal space. you didn't think your grandma would have any problem welcoming a "friend" of yours who needed help into her home with you. he loved you even more when you kept the secret and walked home on a different street so no one would suspect he was staying with you and ask questions about it. he never understood why you did it, but he never asked, just as you never mentioned the reason why he slept in the bed that used to belong to your older sister that is in your room.

• like the traumatized kid that he is, he has nightmares he's never talked about with anyone. the first few nights you witnessed cook's nightmares, you ignored them because you didn't know what to do and didn't want to make him uncomfortable by intruding on his vulnerability. until one night, he was crying in his sleep again, and you had to wake him up. he was half-conscious, asking you to stay by his side, so you curled up next to him and let him wrap you completely in his arms. that night, you discovered a level of intimacy neither of you had imagined existed before.

• since that day, you've been together. only god knows what you are, but cook respects you (in his own way), and you respect him, since you both know each other's vulnerability and kindness. no one knows about the two of you, but cook always makes sure no guy bothers you, even when no one approaches you with other intentions. he even gets into fights to defend your name because nothing bothers and offends him more than someone messing with you. meanwhile, you help him become better in many ways, even if it costs you a lot. no one could believe it when cook passed the math and history exams.

• no one knows how difficult it was to get cook to study. it took weeks of trying and watching him get distracted by your own face, trying to steal kisses, or just plain trying to get into your pants. you thought you weren't succeeding until he passed more than two exams and you realized he's capable of retaining information and how sweet it's to hear him recite details about world war II.

• you don't agree to kiss him that often because deep down you don't want to be just another girl for him and you enjoy keeping things more interesting between the two of you although whenever he's lying on your thighs or on your chest and you touch his hair while he kisses your cheeks wanting more you simply want to eat him alive.

• one of the few times you let him kiss you properly, you almost ended up having sex a room away from where your grandmother slept.

"we can't do it here, cookie" you said breathlessly as he kissed your neck. your legs on his waist.

"if you keep calling me cookie, i'm going to ruin ya so much that people will hear you 5 blocks from here. i swear."

• you never asked him for labels because from the start you were afraid that he would never respect the basic conditions of a relationship and you already knew that he was going to hurt you sooner or later so it completely surprised you when you started to notice that he no longer hooked up with girls or insinuated anything about anyone else, not at school and not at parties. you tried to casually get information out of the girls at the parties you didn't go to and they all answered that they thought cook was turning gay or that he probably had such a big scare with drugs that he can't even get a hard-on. the two answers generated such great satisfaction in your heart that you began to wonder how hard your fall would be when he finally let go of your hand.

• you were the first person who made him feel loved and wanted. he knows you're waiting for him at your house in case he doesn't have a place to sleep, or when he's smoking with freddie and jj. he knows you just want him to be okay. you made him not feel alone anymore. You wiped his tears when no one else was there, even when he didn't even want to be there. you saw his soft side, buried deep inside, and you brought it out with you, taking complete ownership of it. sometimes he wakes up in the night and sees you cuddled up with him, and he feels a little less miserable with himself. the nights he's not with you he misses you and he also misses your grandmother and her cooking and how, at least for a few nights, he felt what it was like to have a family.

• when he's so caught up in his thoughts about you and how good you make him feel, he can't help but fantasize about you becoming part of his family permanently in the future, but that thought also terrifies him because he's not supposed to be thinking about being the father of your children and having a little girl who looks like you bear his last name at his age and he's not supposed to be thinking about it because he doesn't want to ruin your life by chaining you to a person like him forever although sometimes he likes to forget it. he never confesses to you that he thinks of you that way.

• but he does confess that his first kiss with you wasn't when you were cleaning his wounds after kicking some guy's ass for bothering all the girls in the group that night at the party. you thought, for an idiot like him, that had been pretty noble. he just looked you in the eyes and said, "think this is the exact moment when ya kiss me," and you had no choice but to agree with him. he told you that his first kiss with you was at a party on his birthday and that it was the best gift he ever had. you beat yourself up for not remembering, but he tells you everything in detail until you have to shut him up before he gets to the part where you asked him to fuck you right there. he just made that part up just to make fun of you.

[winkin-well]

I MADE MORE

[lefteagleblizzard]

Up next I think I’ll finally tackle the last fic left in that poll I ran a while back

How would y’all feel about a fic set during the final showdown at the juke joint, two vampires who’ve been bound together for a hundred years, their freshly turned brood at their back, lots of fighting and some smut with a feral Remmick looking like that after getting the side of his face smashed in with a guitar?

Planning it as the final part of 𝔉𝔬𝔯𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯 𝔱𝔬𝔤𝔢𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯 but it’ll read just fine as a standalone <3

[kittyminion]

SINNERS OF THE SAINT

remmick x f!black!reader

SUMMARY: you lived a quiet, simple life in rural mississippi, but when paranormal activity knips at the darkest corners of your mind, you're left to wonder if its the universe warning you, or is it the sinister man visiting you most nights WARNINGS: southern gothic, black!f!reader, angst, smut 18+, fluff, mentions of dead animals, religious tones, paranormal themes, remmick eats human food, dark themes: stalking, trespassing, baby, sweetheart

WORD COUNT: 3.6k

The air outside was thick and clenched around your lungs with a vice grip. Sweat dripped down your back, soaking into your dress, your feet bare as you grabbed a pail of milk. You could hear the wind wafting through the thick grasses, your hair pulled back in a scarf while you wiped a hand over your face—eyes blurring with sweat.

Living alone in the deepest parts of Mississippi did something to your brain—made you see no one but yourself. It made you listen to the quiet at night and hold your cross a little tighter against your throat. It made you hang herbs above the door and hammer crosses onto each wall in every room of your house. It made you throw salt over your shoulder and cover the mirrors at night.

One thing you did find comfort in was being alone. You lived by your own rules and your own schedule, and although the silence made your head hurt sometimes, you learned how to take care of yourself. You didn't open the door when people knocked because you knew no one for miles. You kept a shotgun loaded underneath your bed and you locked up tight as soon as the sun drowned beneath the horizon.

All these things kept you safe and made the ache in your heart lessen a little, and as the years passed, you thought nothing would ever bother you. That was until you felt the air shift. As Mississippi got cold, the bugs snuck their way inside. You kept the animals locked in, kept a jacket tugged around your shoulders, and spent most of your time inside instead of out.

But the first time something disappeared, you thought nothing of it—just a pair of socks from your dresser. But then it was your toothbrush, slipped from the jar in the bathroom. After that, a knife in the kitchen disappeared. The most rattling thing was the cross above your bedroom door. It was one you carved from oak yourself, pinned just above the doorframe. And when you woke up one morning, expecting to see it, your heart froze entirely as you sat starkly still in your bed.

Your skin was coated in sweat, shift sticking to your body mercilessly, and you stepped out of your bed slowly, feeling a sort of aura overtake you. Saliva built in your throat as you grabbed the necklace around your neck and moved out of the room, eyes peeled and ears on edge. The floorboards creaked underneath your weight, but you stuck to the wall, flinching as a small marble rolled out from the kitchen and stopped at your feet.

"Fuck!" You spat, rushing backwards, back slamming into the door as you shoved yourself into your bedroom. You pressed your forehead against the door as you breathed heavily, chest heaving. You didn't have any pets, save for the cows and chickens outside, but they couldn't get out. You didn't feed any stray cats or dogs, and no little rodents could so deliberately taunt you like that.

Muttering prayers underneath your breath, you stepped out once more, knees trembling as you rubbed a hand underneath your nose to wipe away sweat. The light that you switched on in the hallway flickered, then went out entirely, the bulb bursting and littering glass above you. You kept walking though, sweaty feet sticking against the floor, your body pressed against the wall as you peeked into the kitchen.

Nothing was amiss, no dish overturned or seasoning misplaced. The missing knife was replaced in the holder, your toothbrush sat against the counter carefully, and the cross—God, the cross—was hanging above the porch door, leaning slightly to the left, mocking you with its unstraightness.

The hair on the back of your neck raised, goosebumps pimpling your skin as you slowly spun around. There, on the floor, was a plate, dirty from leftover food—the fork and knife crossed over each other politely, then a note, right on top, reading: kindness is not an act, it's a reflection of your soul.

♱⋆˙⟡

Leftovers continued to go missing after that. And subconsciously, you left wrapped plates in the fridge for this mysterious person, not giving too much thought to the sinister feelings of it all. If you needed to placate whoever this was, then you would, only if it would save your life in the end.

You woke up most mornings to stare at your cross, then you'd listen in the quiet for footsteps. Maybe a sound in the kitchen to indicate someone was there, but there was never anything so blatant. But you did start finding dead animals more and more—a cat, underneath the old truck, a few rats stuffed in your trash. And the biggest: a deer, right at the edge of the woods, drained of all its blood, two little pinpricks against its neck.

That's when it became obvious who you were dealing with. They were quiet and skillful—smart and clever. Enough to fuck with your mind, but not bother you beyond that. They thanked you for each meal with a note and left crosses of all sizes, some little charms from necklaces and bracelets, and others handmade, already hammered into the wall for you.

Other days, the eggs were already collected and sitting in the fridge, or the cows were already milked, a pail waiting for you when you woke. And most recently, dishes done, laundry hung and folded, yard raked, grass cut.

The first night you saw him, you'd never forget. He didn't approach or talk to you, but you were sitting on the porch, rocking back and forth in the porch swing, a glass of water in one hand and a book in the other. You'd lost track of time as the sun went down—completely enthralled with your book.

The air shifted around you, the wind halting completely, and that caused you to look up from your book. When you realized how dark it was, you stood, sighing, body lethargic from the day, but you didn't see him standing on the other end of the porch, arms by his side, eyes gleaming into sharp flecks of red.

He watched you silently as you moved inside, locking up the door, then setting your things aside as you went into the bedroom. He approached the back door then, undoing the locks easily—invited in from your words years ago.

Remmick knew you didn't remember him—he was just a stain in your memory that had quickly faded away after that first visit. He'd come to you seeking solace from the sun. Back then, you were naive to the dangers in rural Mississippi. Your faith was little, and your fear was nothing damaging. So as soon as you saw him, he charmed you to let him inside, muttering something about the heat of the sun. Remmick meant to suck you dry that day—consume all your energy, good and bad, then leave, knowing no one would be looking for you.

But you were just so stunning, inside and out. It hurt how beautiful you were, skin soft and rich, face innocent and bright, personality the exact thing the world needed to heal. You offered him a glass of water that day and a plate of food—said he could come back anytime, so he did.

He lingered in the kitchen and opened the fridge quietly, glancing inside for something to eat. Remmick came up empty, though, so he moved into the hall, avoiding the creaky floorboards, hands stuffed in his pockets.

Your scent was overpowering, so much so that Remmick drowned in it. He could smell nothing but the sweetness on your skin and the shampoo in your hair.

He pushed closer to your bedroom, hearing you hum a fine tune. When he peeked inside, your back was to him as you pulled the covers back in your bed, and once you climbed in, Remmick had already slipped past the door into the small living room full of you. He picked through the books on your shelf and the random knick-knacks.

And you didn't hear him, or maybe you weren't listening for him. You just laid in your bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to lull yourself to sleep. You could hear the soft moos of the cows in the barn and the knocking of the wind against the windows, but when you heard a creak, you paused—halting your breathing.

Sitting up, you stared out into the hall, the darkness looming at you like the most frightening nightmare known to man. But when you saw him pass by the door, hands stuffed in his pockets, eyes ahead, you stood quickly, reaching underneath the bed for your shotgun, "show yourself!" You spat, cocking the gun back, and Remmick chuckled to himself, the sound echoing throughout the house like a ghost's whisper.

He approached your bedroom once more, and frowned at you, eyes on the gun, "what're you doin', sweetheart? I thought we established peace." Remmick moved closer, footsteps light against the floor, while you glared at him hard and sure, recognition flashing in your eyes, but it did little to calm the brewing storm in your chest.

"How'd you get in? I lock every door and every window."

Remmick hummed to himself, head tiliting and he reached up and grabbed the gun, slow and gentle, then he tucked it underneath his arm, moving closer. Your back pressed against the wall as you stared at him.

"The food was good, best I've had in a while." He reached up and brushed your jaw, frowning at your recoil. Your eyes squeezed shut, and Remmick leaned the gun against the wall and crossed his arms, "no reason to be scared now, baby. Been in and out of this place for months now, and this is when you're scared shitless? Think I'm gonna hurt you? Maybe suck some of your blood?" He squatted to meet your eyes, then chuckled, shaking his head lazily.

"Say somethin'."

You moved into the corner, closer to the gun, then grabbed it once more, just for security. "You're a vampire—Remmick. I remember you from years ago." It wasn't a question, but a statement, and Remmick nodded. "People been looking for me, so I gotta lay low, been stayin' over there in those woods. Not for the faint of heart, I tell you." He sat at the edge of your bed, still observing, elbows against his knees.

"Why are people lookin' for you?" You sat, legs underneath you, chest heaving as you tried to get ahold of yourself.

"Killed a man, bit his throat out and left a bloody scene," his eyes widened suddenly and he raised his hand, "not for no reason though, baby." You flinched as he stood, but he kneeled in front of you and grabbed your face with both hands, tilting your head up so he could lock eyes with you, "I would never hurt you, sweetheart. May not seem that way, but I promise. You been taking care of me, and I won't forget that."

He slowly tilted your head to the side and leaned close, sniffing up the sweet, iron-y scent of your blood as it flowed through your neck. You pressed the shotgun to his stomach and pulled the trigger, but Remmick moved out of the way just in time, and the slug struck the wall across the room.

He leaned against the door frame and shook his head, "you're lucky I'm not who I used to be, baby."

♱⋆˙⟡

The next time Remmick returned, he was fixing your wall. You sat starkly in bed, shotgun in your lap, while you watched him, breathing deep to attempt to calm yourself. He was wearing a shirt and pants, the shirt loose and unbuttoned, his chest hard and defined beneath it. Sweat gleamed on the back of his neck as he sanded down the spackle, then he began repainting the wall.

"Why you so afraid of me, sweetheart? I ain't never put you in harm's way." He turned towards you, eyebrows raised, paintbrush in hand, and you shook your head loosely, "you've been sneaking into my house for months—how else am I supposed to feel?"

He chuckled, low, but humorless, and nodded, "fine, I understand. But the sooner you accept my presence, the easier this will be for you, 'cause I'm not leavin' anytime soon. Got nowhere else to be anyway." Dread impaled your heart, but you didn't let it show on your face. You stood slowly, still holding the shotgun, and you went into the kitchen, deciding to distract yourself with cooking something, despite your lack of hunger.

You grabbed some chicken and a few potatoes and began stripping the potatoes of their skin above the trash can. The shotgun leaned against the fridge, but Remmick grabbed it and set it aside as he pulled the fridge open and grabbed the bottle of orange juice you'd freshly squeezed that morning.

"Got any family?" He wondered, legs cocked out as he sat at the dining table, fingers tapping against it lazily. You were tense, your back to him, but then you grabbed a knife and began slicing the potatoes.

"Nobody but me. And I know you already know that." He chuckled, nodding, "smart. Why you alone? And what made you move out into the middle of nowhere?"

You threw the potatoes into a pan with onions and seasoning, then switched on the fire on the stove. "Runnin' from somebody. Somebody an awful lot like you." He paused at your tone, then stood, approaching you from behind, chest against your back.

"I haven't hurt you, sweetheart, and I never will."

You scoffed, shaking your head, "that's what he said, right before he—" you paused, face hot with anger, then you stepped back, forcing Remmick away, "you don't care, do you, Remmick? You're just here for free meals that eventually lead up to sucking me dry and leaving me to rot, right?" You glared at him harshly, forgetting all about the potatoes sizzling on the stove.

Remmick leaned against the fridge, arms crossed, no ounce of previous humor in his voice. "I ain't a liar—"

"—yeah, you just omit the truth! Get out—or kill me. One or the other." He bit his cheek, body thrumming with irritation, but he nodded, walking towards you, and your face burst with fear, but he simply kissed you on your cheek, then slipped out the door.

He still lingered though, sitting on the porch, rocking back and forth on the bench, staring out at the woods, scaring away the lesser monsters. And when you finished cooking, you stepped outside, plate in hand, and handed it to him.

Remmick thanked you politely, and you sat beside him, sighing, "I'm sorry—" he shook his head, "don't apologize, I get it. But I want you to understand the man that I am." He turned to you, plate on his lap, "I respect you, wholeheartedly. You're not an object, or a meal, you're a lady, my lady. The woman who took care of me without even realizing it." You couldn't deny the swell of emotion as he called you his, but you didn't move closer—you didn't even look at him.

You were confused—confused about what this was. What this the start of a relationship, or the start of your downfall? Remmick continued eating, knee knocking into yours a few times, and when you welcomed him back inside, he didn't make a big show of his happiness; he just thanked you.

You set up a pallet on the couch, blankets on the bottom, the back cushions removed for space, and one of your pillows at the end. He tugged his shirt off and sat, looking up at you silently. You opened your mouth, wanting to say something, but no words came out. Remmick pressed his hand against the side of your thigh and tilted his head, "what?"

"I'm trusting you. I'm trusting your words, and even if it makes me a fool, I really want this to be the truth." It was only because you desired companionship. For so long had you been alone, moving throughout life only thinking of your best interest. Really, deep inside, you wanted to take care of someone other than yourself, even if it meant cooking meals for a vampire and letting him sleep on your couch.

Remmick stood, hands coming against your waist as he smiled, sharp and curt, "you're not a fool, baby." He squeezed your hips and pulled you close, cheek against yours. You didn't hug him back, but you did loosen, body slacking against his, but Remmick held you up, "ain't no fool, but you are a lover, and nothin' wrong with that."

♱⋆˙⟡

Remmick stuffed pancakes into his mouth, then moaned low, while you sat across from him, a fork in your hand as you watched, fascinated. You never thought a vampire would love your cooking so much, but Remmick was continuously proving you wrong. He sipped orange juice, then placed his silverware down when he was finished, eyes on you intensely.

Red dots gleamed within his pupils if you looked just right, but you said nothing, "you liked it?" He nodded wholeheartedly, standing then beginning to wash his dishes. He was shirtless, pants low on his hips, suspenders hanging loosely by his legs. Remmick was muscular— enough that his arms tensed each time he moved, and he cocked his leg out and glanced back at you, "got somethin' to do today?"

You shrugged, "the same as usual."

You showed him the bathroom afterwards, the tub right in the center, while the sink was against the wall, a circular mirror above it which you'd covered with a blanket. Remmick hummed at the sight of it, then snatched the blanket away. You paused at the sight of his lack of a reflection, and Remmick muttered, "got no soul, baby."

You disregarded his words, "I keep the bucket filled, so when you're finished, go outside and refill it." You placed the bucket in the lit fireplace, on your knees, while Remmick sat on the stool next to the tub.

"Join me." He said, and you didn't respond at first, too busy making sure the bucket wouldn't spill over, but then his words replayed in your head, and you glanced back, "what?"

He grabbed your hand gently, and tugged you to your feet, "join me in the bath, sweetheart. Plenty room for both of us, plus we'll save water." He didn't let you reply, reaching towards the bucket of boiling water, then pouring it into the tub, ignoring the redness of his flesh from the fire.

You didn't know what to think. You hadn't been with a man in a long time, and definitely not a vampire who loved your cooking and couldn't keep his hands off of you. But before even realizing, you were tugging down the straps of your shift, eyes glued to the tub, while Remmick undressed too, mouth pulled into a simple grin.

When he was naked, he circled you, hands against your back as he pulled the shift off, hands trailing down your sides, then hooking on your panties. You stepped out of them, and Remmick leaned against you, the softness of his dick grazing your leg as his arms wrapped around your torso.

"So pretty, you know that? Don't let nobody tell you you ain't 'cause you are." He pressed a lazy kiss to your neck, tongue lolling out to lick up the saltiness on your skin. You shivered, hand against his arm, your eyes fluttering closed. The room was hot from the fire, your skin moist with sweat.

Remmick walked you over to the tub, then stuck his hand in to check the temperature. He nodded at you, then you stepped in, letting the water encompass your shoulders while Remmick sat across from you, legs threaded with yours. He admired your figure, hand holding yours, "what you feelin'?"

You shrugged honestly, "I'm confused. Why do you like me so much? I'm just a random woman living in Mississippi—sure you've come across other me's."

He scoffed, waving you off, "sweetheart, I've never met nobody like you, so don't even put that thought in your head." He climbed on top of you and kissed you, passionately, but gently. His arm tucked underneath your waist, and he lifted your thighs, slotting himself right against you, but he didn't thrust, he only grinded—his tip brushing over your clit.

You moaned, hand threading into his hair as Remmick trailed heavy kisses down your body, tongue on you like a fly on food. He twirled your nipple, then bit it softly, making your back arch, "so stunning, sweetheart." He replaced his tip with a finger, flicking your clit rhythmically until you were shuddering against him.

"Remmick—fuck, don't stop!" He listened, slipping farther down your body, tongue lapping your cunt like his life depended on it. He gripped your thighs tight, water swishing around his face, but it did little to distract him. You gripped the edge of the tub, head thrown back, thighs clenching around his head.

Remmick chuckled against you, chin coated in your arousal. When he glanced up at you, gauging your pleasure, he went faster, tongue entering you swiftly while his thumb pressed against your clit. Your toes clenched, chest heaving, and you let out a sweet moan, throat bobbing with a labored gasp. Remmick pulled your leg over his shoulder and with a thrust of his finger, you came, heavily and intensely, body tensing tight and sure like a rubber band, then you released entirely, twisting onto your side, your spine bending.

Remmick climbed back up and kissed the corner of your mouth, "best meal you've given me, baby."

[justme12200]

Remmick thoughts

I keep thinking about how Remmick bites people, he doesn't just have 2 sharp fangs but a whole mouth full of them. Than if you look at the bite mark on Mary, it's huge and pretty gnarly, looks like claw marks but we know it's not. So the question is does he just chomp down? Because it looks like he's dragging his teeth. Would make since why he's a messy eater lol. But again she had no blood on her so I don't know, unless his saliva has a coagulant in it.

I need the details! 👁👄👁

[keeperskey]

ᴅᴏᴍᴇꜱᴛɪᴄᴀᴛᴇᴅ

Pairing: Remmick x Paddy Mayne

Summary:

Here, humanoid creatures are domesticated as pets and Paddy Mayne needs a distraction once he finds himself back home. While visiting a facility called The Emporium, he quickly becomes fascinated by a vampire named 27182-1, who has killed many, is considered highly dangerous and by law is to be euthanized. Despite the warnings, Paddy decides to adopt the vampire, feeling a strange connection to the creature.

A/N: This is just a little dabble of an idea I had based on this post. I figured I'd upload the first part I have written and see if it piques anyone's interest. If it's something that you'd like more of, please let me know! I think I'd love to expand on this story.

Warnings: none yet, more than likely will be gory, fluffy, and also smutty? (Jack v. Jack anyone?)

“Have you thought about a dog?” Jim asks over the glass of whisky pressed to his lips.

Paddy snorts at the notion, glancing past Jim at a couple dancing on the floor ahead of them. Another night at home in England, another night spent at the bar. Paddy really saw no better way to speed through his time off than getting plastered at every joint serving alcohol in this town and driving his knuckles through a nose or two when the warm buzz of the liquors finally made his limbs pliable. And God, were the English just so easy to rile up.

The skin over his knuckle’s blister, raised and bruised. Each movement of his fingers cracks open the healing skin, reminding him of his fight last night.

That bloke almost tied with him – almost.

Paddy’s friends seemed to think he wasn’t spending his time wisely, giving him useless ways to pass the time during the mundane days here at home. Jim was convinced he needed a distraction ‘a pet?’ He says.

A pet.

“A cat then? There's a lot of strays runnin’ these streets. You could just pick one up, they are easy to take care of.”

Paddy lets a breath out through his nose; it flutters over the brown liquid in his glass as he takes another sip. “I have no interest in a pet,”

It's Jim’s turn to laugh, it jerks at his chest, but his face doesn’t change. “Well, my friend, you can’t continue to spend your time off drinking all day than blasting through innocent bar hoppers.”

“Why not?” the question was asked with sincerity from the Irishman, his brows raised at Jim, expecting a good explanation.

He and Jim shared a long look, Jim’s face briefly wrapped in worry, while Paddy returned the look with calm regard. They both downed the last of their whiskies and Jim waved down the nearest waiter to ask for the tab. Paddy wasn’t nearly done drinking his fill for the night, he was just getting started, the night was still young and so….so long.

He asked for another whisky when the waiter finally made his way over, not quite feeling the warm buzz that he loved so much. He hadn’t gotten to the point where his mind stopped reeling with the need to be busy, to move, to shoot into the air and hear cries of war. That’s where he wanted to be, right in the heart of battle, not in the seat of a sweat-soaked pub in England.

“Maybe you should look into The Emporium then? When my mum was sick, we bought a nice Fae from there who tended to her when we couldn’t, she was kind. They have all sorts of creatures there that you can adopt. I’m sure they have something that will keep you busy.” Jim offers, letting his voice drop low under the music so the patrons hovering couldn’t hear.

It wasn’t taboo to adopt humanoids, put them in your house, and train them like a lap dog. Many families in the surrounding area have spent their money to adopt a creature that will help them garden or nanny their kids. They were only to be kept as pets though, never used for anything malicious, no hunting or killing. The notion itself was idiotic to Paddy.

“I’m not spending my coin on a monster,”

Jim shrugs, fumbling through his wallet to pull out some money and a black business card. “Well, I’m sure they have something there that will try to kill you every day, which is also something you’d enjoy, knowing you. Here’s their card,” He smacks the card down next to Paddy before he slips his hat back on and exits the bar without saying another word.

Paddy glances at the card, which reads: Lady Lucille’s Exotic Pets. Where your imagination meets your home.

He picks it up between his pointer and middle fingers and flips it around in them before shoving it into his pocket.

Fucking ‘exotic pets’

Who would truly want a monster in their home?

He stood ahead of a brick-lined building, taking a drag of the cigarette propped between his fingers. When he exhaled, the smoke rose into the frigid air, swirling around his head before dissipating. It was the arse-crack of winter, when the cold dives deep into all layers of clothing you had on and settles heavily in your bones. After spending years in areas that only offer blazing heat, relentless, and smothering, the adjustment has been harsh for Paddy. Snow flutters to the ground, covering the cobblestone streets that are wrapped around all the industrial buildings ahead. Each copied the one adjacent to it, matching the ridged brick layout, the battered wooden door, and six glass windows on the face. Repeating all the way down the road, fading into the snowy fog of the town. Edison’s Village, it was named, and not a soul visits except to come spectate at some monsters in a cage.

He flicks his cigarette to the ground after taking one last inhale, watching the hot tip of it melt into the snow before it disappears from view. He cursed himself for even taking the cab here, thinking this would be any range of a good idea. But he was curious, and he did love a good thrill. His adrenaline fueled his curiosity, so he stepped through the wooden doors without any other thought.

The smell of sterile metal hit his senses first, metallic and overbearing, his nose bunched up at the scent. He took his hat off, smacking the snow from it as a man at the front desk leaped to his feet.

“Oh hello!” his chipper tone rang through the dim atmosphere. “Are you here to adopt?”

“To look,” Paddy replied, eyes scanning over the cement-sealed walls and metal-plated ceiling. This place was secured tighter than any prison he'd been to, and God has he been to too many prisons. Or maybe, not quite enough?

The man claps his hands together, offering Paddy a wide, toothy smile, though, he gets no smile in return. “Great! My name is Xander, and I'm the exhibit specialist here at The Emporium. Anything you’d like to look at in particular? We have some Dryads, they are fantastic at tending to nature, in case you are a gardening kind of fellow. We also have a new shipment of Nymphs in too. They are a little shy, but they are great at assisting with entertaining children. We also-”

“What do you have that will try to kill me?” Paddy’s blunt question causes the man’s mouth to clamp closed, the sound of his teeth clanking together with the abrupt movement was loud in the silent building.

He laughs, it’s nervous and empty. “Kill you?” he repeats, shifting some.

Paddy simply nods at Xander, giving no further explanation. Xander clears his throat, grazing his fingers over the many pamphlets on his desk. They offer explanations of the creatures they offer and just how beneficial they can be to include in your home. He shuffles through the top layer of pamphlets and squints at the small pile of crudely laminated ones underneath.

“We have a few,” his tone is even now, no sign of that saccharine excitement he had earlier. “I’d suggest a werewolf…if you are looking for a loyal sorta dangerous.”

“Show those to me,” Paddy straightens his back, pressing his hands in his jacket pockets to get some reprieve for his frozen fingers.

The man gives him a curt nod, opening a drawer in his desk and retrieving a pair of keys on a ring. He walks past Paddy to the steel door labeled: ‘Dangerous, Unauthorized Personnel Not Permitted to Enter’

He flips through the keys before shoving one into the lock, twisting once before the lock gives way. The thick metal bar that’s secured over the front jerks, screeching at the hinges as it slowly lifts toward the air, stopping with a loud clank. The man yanks the door open and the two step inside.

The hallway was lined with dim yellow lights hung from the ceiling by metal baskets, they flicker, if only some, giving very little light. The hall smelled of musk and wood, mud and sewage. Barred cages line the walls, all occupied by shrunken bodies inside. The werewolves stand as soon as they smell Paddy, gripping the bars with their long taloned hands. Paddy steps in toe with the man as he goes on about each creature, reading off their names and where they came from. Their eyes were deep golden yellow, glistening in the lowlight as they followed each step the Irishmen took – starving. A low growl from each creature bounces around on the walls, seeping deep from their souls. To any other person, this hallway would be terrifying, to Paddy Mayne, it was Christmas.

He stops before a cage where a towering black werewolf watches him with intent. The beast bares his teeth once, eyes set. His nostrils flare when heated breaths press from them, then he launches at Paddy through the bars, swiping his claws toward his face. With just a blink in reply, Paddy stands his ground as the claws sweep past his vision, not even an inch from his face. Xander watches the interaction, confusion, and shock bunch his brows up. Maybe these wolves aren’t the monsters in this room, maybe Paddy was?

Paddy saunters past the cages, taking in each of the wolves, folding his arms behind his back, and he clears his throat. “You have anything else?” The bored lacquer in his voice was undeniable.

The man’s mouth pops open in shock for a moment before he scans over the clipboard in his hands. “No, looks like this is all we have for werewolves. 27182-1 isn’t up for adoption, so you can’t see him, how about we look at the Golem? They can be frightening.”

“27182?” Paddy catches the look of the man when he realizes he said it aloud, and he smiles, but only to cover up his mistake.

“Oh yes, he’s not up for adoption. He’s due to be euthanized…” he glances at his watch. “Probably within the next couple of hours. I can’t show him to you, laws in place for that…”

“I don’t care about your laws,” his accent was thick in his throat. “I’ve served in the British army long enough to know I will never give a rat’s arse about laws. Show him to me.”

The man blinks at Paddy, his face was muddled in shock, he pops the tip of his pencil in his mouth, chewing it between his teeth.

“I can’t. He’s a liability. He’s killed six of our night guards. He should have been put down a long time ago. We just can’t get close enough to him to handle him properly.” The man’s voice shook, deep and low in his throat. This creature has woken something deep inside him, something beyond fear.

“Perfect,” Paddy’s eyes glow with intrigue.

Xander takes a deep breath, letting it sit in his lungs before he exhales it sharply. Unclipping his walkie-talkie from his belt, he mutters something inside. He turns and walks back to the door as the person on the other end curses at him. They exchanged a heated debate before he spun the dial on the top, shut off the device.

Without a word to Paddy, he exits the Werewolf Hall and crosses the building to a set of stairs dipped behind a cement arch carved into the wall. Paddy follows without question; his boots make an audible clank as they make their way over the metal floors. They climb three sets of stairs, winding in circles before they get to a heavily secured metal door. A large red light sits over a thick steel frame. Two bars secure in an X over the front and a keypad blinks to the left. The man types a code into the pad and the light above the door begins blinking, echoing a sharp alarm as the bars lift from the door.

“His enclosure has electric bars. Don’t get too close and no matter what he says to you, don’t believe him.” he enters the door without another word.

Paddy follows behind, stepping into the dark room. Unlike the werewolf room, this one had no other smell to it except the overpowering stench of alcohol and bleach. The whole room was freezing, lower than any temperatures outside, like they were trying to preserve whatever lies in here. There’s a low hum of electricity that buzzes in the air as the men draw closer to a wide enclosure basking in darkness. The only light in the room is the flickering red light that spins outside the door, otherwise, it was pitch black. Xander pulls his flashlight from his trouser pocket, clicking it on and shining it into the voided space. The creature inside flinches away from the beam of light, tossing its face to the side to avoid the direct shot of it. Paddy steps closer to get a better look at the beast ahead of him.

In the corner was a man, wearing a jacket that tied his arms together across his chest. He sits on his knees, feet digging into mud and wet puddles covering the floor. His eyes were surprisingly soft as they finally looked into the light – they are a glossy blue, but dull and tired. He looked unassuming, seemingly just a man in a straitjacket, but then Paddy’s eyes met the muzzle over his mouth. It was a rusty metal-wired muzzle, wrapped with thick leather straps around the base of his head and up to the crown. It pressed into the pale skin of his cheeks, leaving a blood-crusted rim around it.

“This is 27182-1 - a vampire. He was found wandering near the Mississippi Delta in America. He was transferred here after the circus freak show he was an exhibit on was suddenly disbanded. He is believed to be centuries old, from the research we’ve done into the circus,” The man flips through his clipboard, reading steadily. “He’s managed to wriggle his way from this enclosure three separate times before we made the bars electric, that’s the only thing that’s kept him inside. So far, he’s killed six night guards, seemingly just by tempting them to open his cage, even after we switched them to electric. There was never any forced entry or exit, not one time…”

Paddy shares a long look with the creature, and its eyes scan down his body, though he stands in darkness, the creature can see him clear as day. A smile spreads over his lips under the muzzle.

“He’s one of the most dangerous creatures we’ve had in this facility; from the number of fatalities just in this building alone, due to that we are legally obligated to euthanize-”

“Paddy Mayne,” the two words slither from the creature’s lips in a raspy mutter as he tilts his head, studying his prey.

Xander’s eyes dart over to Paddy, blinking in surprise. “Do you know each other?”

The silence in the room was loud, only interrupted by the low buzz of the bars. Paddy lifts his chin as he examines the vampire, then a brief smile wipes over his lips. He’s never met this man, never laid eyes on him once, but he feels a draw to the vampire that he can’t explain. Maybe it was sympathy, seeing the state of him or maybe it was something much deeper - intrigue. Just how far would this beast go to get what he wants? How crazy will he allow his desire to drive him? If he truly is as deadly as Xander claims, what will this beast do when he is finally one-on-one with Paddy Mayne, alone with no restrictions?

Paddy runs his fingers over his lips, rubbing over them, exchanging the tense look they share. The vampire steadily breathes as they watch one another and it beams a sweet smile that reeks of something sinister under that muzzle.

“I’ll take him,” Paddy shoves his hands in his jacket pocket, fumbling around in them for his wallet. “Where can we do paperwork?”

The man snorts a laugh, flashing his light over the creature, up and down his frame as if to put him on further display. “Were you not listening to what I just said? He’s not up for adoption, he’s killed hundreds-”

“So have I,” Paddy cooly interjects. “I think it’s my decision what I can or cannot handle. So, where do we do the paperwork?”

The vampire lets out a low hiss through his teeth in reply, jerking once under his suit. The two spin to exit the room and as they do, two dark red eyes trail after them, accompanied by an excited purr.

This should be an exciting game – a game this vampire had every intention of winning.

[spikedfearn]

Mercy Made Flesh

one-shot

Remmick x fem!reader

summary: In the heat-choked hush of the Mississippi Delta, you answer a knock you swore would never come. Remmick—unaging, unholy, unforgettable—returns to collect what was promised. What follows is not romance, but ritual. A slow, sensual surrender to a hunger older than the Trinity itself.

wc: 13.1k

a/n: Listen. I didn’t mean to simp for Vampire Jack O’Connell—but here we are. I make no apologies for letting Remmick bite first and ask questions never. Thank you to my bestie Nat (@kayharrisons) for beta reading and hyping me up, without her this fic wouldn't exist, everyone say thank you Nat!

warnings: vampirism, southern gothic erotica, blood drinking as intimacy, canon-typical violence, explicit sexual content, oral sex (f!receiving), first time, bloodplay, biting, marking, monsterfucking (soft edition), religious imagery, devotion as obsession, gothic horror vibes, worship kink, consent affirmed, begging, dirty talk, gentle ruin, haunting eroticism, power imbalance, slow seduction, soul-binding, immortal x mortal, he wants to keep her forever, she lets him, fem!reader, second person pov, 1930s mississippi delta, house that breathes, you will be fed upon emotionally & literally

tags: @xhoneymoonx134

likes, comments, and reblogs appreciated! please enjoy

Mississippi Delta, 1938

The heat hadn’t broken in days.

Not even after sunset, when the sky turned the color of old bruises and the crickets started singing like they were being paid to. It was the kind of heat that soaked into the floorboards, that crept beneath your thin cotton slip and clung to your back like sweat-slicked hands. The air was syrupy, heavy with magnolia and something murkier—soil, maybe. River water. Something that made you itch beneath your skin.

Your cottage sat just outside the edge of town, past the schoolhouse where you spent your days sorting through ledgers and lesson plans that no one but you ever really seemed to care about. It was modest—two rooms and a porch, set back behind a crumbling white-picket fence and swallowed by trees that whispered in the dark. A little sanctuary tucked into the Delta, surrounded by cornfields, creeks, and ghosts.

The kind of place a person could disappear if they wanted to. The kind of place someone could find you…if they were patient enough.

You stood in front of the sink, rinsing out a chipped enamel cup, your hands moving automatically. The oil lamp on the kitchen table flickered with each breath of wind slipping through the cracks in the warped window frame. A cicada screamed in the distance, then another, and then the whole world was humming in chorus.

And beneath it—beneath the cicadas, and the wind, and the nightbirds—you felt something shift.

A quiet. Too quiet.

You turned your head. Listened harder.

Nothing.

Not even the frogs.

Your hand paused in the dishwater. Fingers trembling just a little. It wasn’t like you to be spooked by the dark. You’d grown up in it. Learned to make friends with shadows. Learned not to flinch when things moved just out of sight.

But this?

This was different.

It was as if the night was holding its breath.

And then—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Not loud. Not frantic. But final.

Your body went stiff. The cup slipped beneath the water and bumped the side of the basin with a hollow clink.

No one ever came this far out after sundown. No one but—

You shook your head, almost hard enough to rattle something loose.

No.

He was gone. That part of your life was buried.

You made sure of it.

Still, your bare feet moved toward the door like they weren’t yours. Soft against the creaky wood. Slow. You reached for the small revolver you kept in the drawer beside the door frame, thumbed the hammer back.

Your hand rested on the knob.

Another knock. This time, softer.

Almost...polite.

The porch light had been dead for weeks, so you couldn’t see who was waiting on the other side. But the air—something in the air—told you.

It was him.

You didn’t answer. Not right away.

You stood there with your palm flat against the rough wood, your forehead nearly touching it too—eyes shut, breath shallow. The air on the other side didn’t stir like it should’ve. No footfalls creaking the porch. No shuffle of boots on sun-bleached planks. Just stillness. Waiting.

And underneath your ribs, something began to ache. Something you hadn’t let yourself feel in years.

You didn’t know his name, not back then. You only knew his eyes—gold in the shadows. Red when caught in the light. Like a firelight in the dark. Like a blood red moon through stained-glass windows.

And his voice. Low. Dragging vowels like syrup. A Southern accent that didn’t come from any map you’d ever seen—older than towns, older than state lines. A voice that had told you, seven years ago, with impossible calm:

"You’ll know when it’s time."

You knew. Your hands trembled against your sides. But you didn’t back away. Some part of you knew how useless running would be.

The knob beneath your hand felt cold. Too cold for Mississippi in August.

You turned it.

The door opened slow, hinges whining like they were trying to warn you. You stepped back instinctively—just one step—and then he was there.

Remmick.

Still tall, still lean in that devastating way—like his body was carved from something hard and mean, but shaped to tempt. He wore a crisp white shirt rolled to the elbows, suspenders hanging loose from his hips, and trousers that looked far too clean for a man who walked through the dirt. His hair was messy in that intentional way, brown and swept back like he’d been running hands through it all night. Stubble lined his sharp jaw, catching the lamplight just so.

But it was his face that rooted you to the floor. That hollowed out your breath.

Still young. Still wrong.

Not a wrinkle, not a scar. Not a mark of time. He hadn’t aged a day.

And his eyes—oh, God, his eyes.

They caught the lamp behind you and lit up red, bright and glinting, like the embers of a dying fire. Not human. Not even pretending.

"Hello, dove."

His voice curled into your bones like cigarette smoke. You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

You hated how your body reacted.

Hated that you could still feel it—like something old and molten stirring between your thighs, a flicker of the same heat you’d felt that night in the alley, back when you were too desperate to care what kind of creature answered your prayer.

He looked you over once. Not with hunger. With certainty. Like he already knew how this would end. Like he already owned you.

"You remember, don’t you?" he asked.

"I came to collect."

And your voice—when it finally came—was little more than a whisper.

"You can’t be real."

That smile. That slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. Wolfish. Slow.

"You promised."

You wanted to shut the door. Slam it. Deadbolt it. But your hand didn’t move.

Remmick didn’t step forward, not yet. He stood just outside the threshold, framed by night and cypress trees and the distant flicker of heat lightning beyond the fields. The air around him pulsed with something old—older than the land, older than you, older than anything you could name.

He tilted his head the way animals do, watching you, letting the silence thicken like molasses between you.

"Still living out here all on your own," he murmured, gaze drifting over your shoulders, into the small, tidy kitchen behind you. "Hung your laundry on the line this morning. Blue dress, lace hem. Favorite one, ain’t it?"

Your stomach clenched. That dress hadn’t seen a neighbor’s eye all week.

"You've been watching me," you said, your voice low, unsure if it was accusation or realization.

"I’ve been waiting," he said. "Not the same thing."

You swallowed hard. Your breath caught in your throat like a thorn. The wind shifted, and you caught the faintest trace of something—dried tobacco, smoke, rain-soaked dirt, and beneath it, the iron-sweet tinge of blood.

Not fresh. Not violent. Just…present. Like it lived in him.

"I paid my debt," you whispered.

"No, you survived it," he said, stepping up onto the first board of the porch. The wood didn’t creak beneath his weight. "And that’s only half the bargain."

He still hadn’t crossed the threshold.

The stories came back to you, the ones whispered by old women with trembling hands and ash crosses pressed to their doorways—vampires couldn’t enter unless invited. But you hadn’t invited him, not this time.

"You don’t have permission," you said.

He smiled, eyes flashing red again.

"You gave it, seven years ago."

Your breath hitched.

"I was a girl," you said.

"You were desperate," he corrected. "And honest. Desperation makes people honest in ways they can’t be twice. You knew what you were offering me, even if you didn’t understand it. Your promise had teeth."

The wind pushed against your back, as if urging you forward.

Remmick stepped closer, just enough for the shadows to kiss the line of his throat, the hollow of his collarbone. His voice dropped, intimate now—dragging across your skin like a fingertip behind the ear.

"You asked for a miracle. I gave it to you. And now I’m here for what’s mine."

Your heart thudded violently in your chest.

"I didn’t think you’d come."

"That’s the thing about monsters, dove." He leaned down, lips almost grazing the curve of your jaw. "We always do."

And then—

He stepped back.

The wind stopped.

The night fell quiet again, like the world had paused just to watch what you’d do next.

"I’ll wait out here till you’re ready," he said, turning toward the swing on your porch and settling into it like he had all the time in the world. "But don’t make me knock twice. Wouldn’t be polite."

The swing groaned beneath him as it rocked gently, back and forth.

You stood there frozen in the doorway, one bare foot still inside the house, the other brushing the edge of the porch.

You’d made a promise.

And he was here to keep it.

The door stayed open. Just enough for the night to reach inside.

You didn’t move.

Your body stood still but your mind wandered—back to that night in the alley, to the smell of blood and piss and riverwater, your knees soaked in your brother’s lifeblood as you screamed for help that never came. Except it did. It came in the shape of a man who didn’t breathe, didn’t blink, didn’t make promises the way mortals did.

It came in the shape of him.

You thought time would wash it away. That the years would smooth the edges of his voice in your memory, dull the sharpness of his presence. But now, with him just outside your door, it all returned like a fever dream—hot, all-consuming, too real to outrun.

You turned away from the threshold, slowly, carefully, as if the floor might cave in under you. Your hands trembled as you reached for the oil lamp on the table, adjusting the flame lower until it flickered like a dying heartbeat.

The silence behind you dragged, deep and waiting. He didn’t speak again. Didn’t call for you.

He didn’t have to.

You moved through the house in slow circles. Touching things. Straightening them. Folding a dishcloth. Setting a book back on the shelf, even though you’d already read it twice. You tried to pretend you weren’t thinking about the man on your porch. But the heat of him pressed against the back of your mind like a hand.

You could feel him out there. Not just physically—but in you, somehow. Like the air had shifted around his shape, and the longer he lingered, the more your body remembered what it had felt like to stand in front of something not quite human and still want.

You passed the mirror in the hallway and paused.

Your reflection looked undone. Not in the way your hair had fallen from its pin, or the flush across your cheeks, but deeper—like something inside you had been cracked open. You touched your own throat, right where you imagined his mouth might go.

No bite.

Not yet.

But you swore you could feel phantom teeth.

You went back to the door, holding your breath, and looked at him through the screen.

He hadn’t moved. He sat on the swing, one leg stretched out, the other bent lazily beneath him, arms slung across the backrest like he’d always belonged there. A cigarette burned between two fingers, the tip flaring orange as he dragged from it. The scent of it hit you—rich, earthy, and somehow foreign, like something imported from a place no longer on the map.

He didn’t look at you right away.

Then, slowly, he did.

Red eyes caught yours.

He smiled, small and slow, like he was reading a page of you he’d already memorized.

"Thought you’d shut the door by now," he said.

"I should have," you answered.

"But you didn’t."

His voice curled into the quiet.

You stepped out onto the porch, barefoot, the boards warm beneath your soles. He didn’t move to greet you. He didn’t rise. He just watched you walk toward him like he’d been watching in dreams you never remembered having.

The swing groaned as you sat down beside him, a careful space between you.

His shoulder brushed yours.

You stared straight ahead, out into the night. A mist was beginning to rise off the distant fields. The moon hung low and orange like a wound in the sky.

Somewhere in the bayou, a whippoorwill called, long and mournful.

"How long have you been watching me?" you asked.

"Since before you knew to look."

"Why now?"

He turned toward you. His voice was velvet-wrapped iron.

"Because now…you’re ripe for the pickin’.”

You didn’t remember falling asleep.

One moment you were on the porch beside him, listening to the slow groan of the swing and the way the crickets held their breath when he exhaled, the next you were waking in your bed, the sheets tangled around your legs like they were trying to hold you down.

The house was too quiet.

No birdsong. No creak of the windmill out back. No rustle of the sycamores that scraped against your bedroom window on stormy nights.

Just stillness.

And scent.

It clung to the cotton of your nightdress. Tobacco smoke, sweat, rain. Him.

You sat up slowly, pressing your hand to your chest. Your heart thudded like it was trying to remember who it belonged to. The lamp beside your bed had burned down to a stub. A trickle of wax curled like a vein down the side of the glass.

Your mouth tasted like smoke and guilt. Your thighs ached in that low, humming way—though you couldn’t say why. Nothing had happened. Not really.

But something had changed.

You felt it under your skin, in the place where blood meets breath.

The floor was cool under your feet as you moved. You didn’t dress. Just pulled a robe over your slip and stepped into the hallway. The house felt heavier than usual, thick with the ghost of his presence. Every corner held a whisper. Every shadow a shape.

You opened the front door.

The porch was empty.

The swing still rocked gently, as if someone had only just stood up from it.

A folded piece of paper lay on the top step, weighted down by a smooth river stone.

You picked it up with trembling hands.

Come.

That was all it said. One word. But it rang through your bones like gospel. Like a vow.

You looked out across the field. A narrow dirt road stretched beyond the tree line, overgrown but clear. You’d never dared follow it. That road didn’t belong to you.

It belonged to him.

And now…so did you.

You didn’t bring anything with you.

Not a suitcase. Not a shawl. Not a Bible tucked under your arm for comfort.

Just yourself.

And the road.

The hem of your slip was already damp by the time you reached the edge of the field. Dew clung to your ankles like cold fingers, and the earth was soft beneath your feet—fresh from last night’s storm, the kind that never really breaks the heat, only deepens it. The moon had gone down, but the sky was beginning to bruise with that blue-black ink that comes before sunrise. Everything smelled like wet grass, magnolia, and the faint rot of old wood.

The path curved, narrowing as it passed through trees that leaned in too close. Their branches kissed above you like they were whispering secrets into each other’s leaves. Spanish moss hung like veils from the oaks, dripping silver in the fading dark. It made the world feel smaller. Quieter. As if you were walking into something sacred—or something doomed.

A crow cawed once in the distance. Sharp. Hollow. You didn’t flinch.

There was no sound of wheels. No car waiting. Just the road and the fog and the promise you'd made.

And then you saw it.

The house.

Tucked deep in the grove, half-swallowed by vines and time, it rose like a memory from the earth. A decaying plantation, left to rot in the wet belly of the Delta. Its bones were still beautiful—white columns streaked with black mildew, a grand porch that sagged like a mouth missing teeth, shuttered windows with iron latches rusted shut. Ivy grew up the sides like it was trying to strangle the place. Or maybe protect it.

You stood there at the edge of the clearing, breath caught in your throat.

He’d brought you here.

Or maybe he’d always been here. Waiting. Dreaming of the moment you’d return to him without even knowing it.

A shape moved behind one of the upstairs curtains. Quick. Barely there.

You didn’t run.

Your bare foot found the first step.

It groaned like it recognized you.

The door was already open.

Not wide—just enough for you to know it had been waiting.

And you stepped inside.

The air inside was colder.

Not the kind of cold that came from breeze or shade—but from stillness, from the absence of sun and time. A hush so thick it felt like you were walking underwater. Like the house had held its breath for decades and only now began to exhale.

Dust spiraled in the faint light seeping through fractured windows, casting soft halos through the dark. The wooden floor beneath your feet was warped and groaning, but clean. Not in any natural sense—there was no broom that had touched these boards. No polish or soap.

But it had been kept.

The air didn’t smell like rot or mildew. It smelled like cedar. Like old leather. And deeper beneath that, like him.

He hadn’t lit any lamps.

Just the fireplace, burning low, glowing embers pulsing orange-red at the back of a cavernous hearth. The flame danced shadows across the faded wallpaper, peeling in long strips like dead skin. A high-backed chair faced the fire, velvet blackened from age, its silhouette looming like something alive.

You swallowed, lips dry, and stepped further in.

Your voice didn’t carry. It didn’t even try.

Remmick was nowhere in sight.

But he was here.

You could feel him in the walls, in the way the house seemed to lean closer with every step you took.

You passed through the parlor, past a dusty grand piano with one ivory key cracked down the middle. Past oil portraits too old to make out, their eyes blurred with time. Past a single vase of dried wildflowers, colorless now, but carefully arranged.

You paused in the doorway to the drawing room, your hand resting lightly on the frame.

A whisper of air moved behind you.

Then—

A hand.

Not grabbing. Not harsh. Just the light press of fingers against the small of your back, palm flat and warm through the thin cotton of your slip.

You froze.

He was behind you.

So close you could feel his breath at your neck. Not warm, not cold—just present. Like wind through a crack in the door. Like the memory of a touch before it lands.

His voice was low, close to your ear.

"You came."

You didn’t answer.

"You always would have."

You wanted to say no. Wanted to deny it. But you stood there trembling under his hand, your heartbeat so loud you were sure he could hear it.

Maybe that was why he smiled.

He stepped around you slowly, letting his fingers graze the side of your waist as he moved. His eyes glinted red in the firelight, catching on you like a flame drawn to dry kindling.

He looked at you like he was already undressing you.

Not your clothes—your will.

And it was already unraveling.

You’d suspected he wasn’t born of this soil.

Not just because of the way he moved—like he didn’t quite belong to gravity—but because of the way he spoke. Like time hadn’t worn the edges off his words the way it had with everyone else. His voice curled around vowels like smoke curling through keyholes. Rich and low, but laced with something older. Something foreign. Something that made the hair at the nape of your neck rise when he spoke too softly, too close.

He didn’t speak like a man from the Delta.

He spoke like something older than it.

Older than the country. Maybe older than God.

Remmick stopped in front of you, lit only by firelight.

His eyes had dulled from red to something deeper—like old garnet held to a candle. His shirt was open at the collar now, suspenders hanging slack, the buttons on his sleeves rolled to his elbows. His forearms were dusted with faint scars that looked like they had stories. His skin was pale in the glow, but not lifeless. He looked like marble warmed by touch.

He studied you for a long time.

You weren’t sure if it was your face he was reading, or something beneath it. Something you couldn’t hide.

"You look just like your mother," he said finally.

Your breath caught.

"You knew her?"

A soft smirk curled at the corner of his mouth.

"I’ve known a lot of people, dove. I just never forget the ones with your blood."

You didn’t ask what he meant. Not yet.

There was something heavy in his tone—something laced with memory that stretched back far further than it should. You had guessed, years ago, in the sleepless weeks after that alleyway miracle, that he was not new to this world. That his youth was a trick of the skin. A lie worn like a mask.

You’d read every folklore book you could get your hands on. Every whisper of vampire lore scratched into the margins of ledgers, stuffed between church hymnals, scribbled on the backs of newspapers.

Some said they aged. Slowly. Elegantly.

Others said they didn’t age at all. That they existed outside time. Beyond it.

You didn’t know how old Remmick was.

But something in your bones told you the truth.

Five hundred. Six hundred, maybe more.

A man who remembered empires. A man who had watched cities rise and burn. Who had danced in plague-slick ballrooms and kissed queens before they were beheaded. A man who had lived so long that names no longer mattered. Only debts. And blood.

And you’d given him both.

He stepped closer now, slow and deliberate.

"Yer heart’s gallopin’ like it thinks I’m here to take it."

You flinched. Not because he was wrong. But because he was right.

"You said you didn’t want my blood," you whispered.

"I don’t." He tilted his head. "Not yet."

"Then what do you want?"

His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

"You."

He said it like it was a simple thing. Like the rain wanting the river. Like the grave wanting the body.

You swallowed hard.

"Why me?"

His gaze dragged down your frame, unhurried, like a man admiring a painting he’d stolen once and hidden from the world.

"Because you belong to me. You gave yourself freely. No bargain’s ever tasted so sweet."

Your throat tightened.

"I didn’t know what I was agreeing to."

"You did," he said, softly now, stepping close enough that his chest nearly brushed yours. "You knew. Your soul knew. Even if your head didn’t catch up."

You opened your mouth to protest, to say something, anything that would push back this slow suffocation of certainty—

But his hand came up to your jaw. Fingers feather-light. Not forcing. Just holding. Just there.

"And you’ve been thinkin’ about me ever since," he said.

Not a question. A statement.

You didn’t answer.

He leaned in, his breath ghosting over your cheek, his voice a rasp against your ear.

"You dream of me, don’t you?"

Your hands trembled at your sides.

"I don’t—"

"You wake wet. Ache in your belly. You don’t know why. But I do."

You let your eyes fall shut, shame burning behind them like fire.

"Fuckin’ knew it," he murmured, almost reverent. "You smell like want, dove. You always have.”

His hand didn’t move. It just stayed there at your jaw, thumb ghosting slow along the hollow beneath your cheekbone. A touch so gentle it made your knees ache. Because it wasn’t the roughness that undid you—it was the restraint.

He could’ve taken.

He didn’t.

Not yet.

His gaze held yours, slow and unblinking, red still smoldering in the center of his irises like the dying core of a flame that refused to go out.

"Say it," he murmured.

Your lips parted, but nothing came.

"I can smell it," he said, voice low, rich as molasses. "Your shame. Your want. You’ve been livin’ like a nun with a beast inside her, and no one knows but me."

You hated how your breath stuttered. Hated more that your thighs pressed together when he said it.

"Why do you talk like that," you whispered, barely able to get the words out, "like you already know what I’m feeling?"

His fingers slid down, grazing the side of your neck, stopping just before the pulse thudding there.

"Because I do."

"That’s not fair."

He smiled, slow and crooked, nothing kind in it.

"No, dove. It ain’t."

You hated him.

You hated how beautiful he was in this light, sleeves rolled, veins prominent in his arms, shirt hanging open just enough to show the faint line of a scar that trailed beneath his collarbone. A body shaped by time, not by vanity. Not perfect. Just true. Like someone carved him for a purpose and let the flaws stay because they made him real.

He looked like sin and the sermon that came after.

Remmick moved closer. You didn’t retreat.

His hand flattened over your sternum now, right above your heartbeat, the warmth of him pressing through the cotton of your slip like it meant to seep in. He leaned down, mouth near yours, not kissing, just breathing.

"You gave yourself to me once," he said. "I’m only here to collect the rest."

"You saved my brother."

"I saved you. You just didn’t know it yet."

A shiver rippled down your spine.

His hand moved lower, skimming the curve of your ribs, hovering just at the soft flare of your waist. You could feel the heat rolling off him like smoke from a coalbed. His body didn’t radiate warmth the way a man’s should—but something older. Wilder. Like the earth’s own breath in summer. Like the hush of a storm right before it split the sky.

"And if I tell you no?" you asked, barely more than a breath.

His eyes flicked to yours, unreadable.

"I’ll wait."

You weren’t expecting that.

He smiled again, this time softer, almost cruel in its patience.

"I’ve waited centuries for sweeter things than you. But that don’t mean I won’t keep my hands on you ‘til you change your mind."

"You think I will?"

"You already have."

Your chest rose sharply, breath stung with heat.

"You think this is love?"

He laughed, low and dangerous, the sound curling around your ribs.

"No," he said. "This is hunger. Love comes later."

Then his mouth brushed your jaw—not a kiss, just the graze of lips against skin—and every nerve in your body arched to meet it.

Your knees buckled, barely.

He caught your waist in one hand, steadying you with maddening ease.

"I’m gonna ruin you," he whispered against your throat, his nose dragging lightly along your skin. "But I’ll be so gentle the first time you’ll beg me to do it again."

And God help you—

You wanted him to.

The house didn’t sleep.

Not the way houses were meant to.

It breathed.

The walls exhaled heat and memory, the floors creaked even when no one stepped, and somewhere in the rafters above your room, something paced slowly back and forth, back and forth, like a beast too restless to settle. The kind of place built with its own pulse.

You’d spent the rest of the night—if you could call it that—in a room that wasn’t yours, wearing nothing but a cotton shift and your silence. You hadn’t asked for anything. He hadn’t offered.

The room was spare but not cruel. A basin with a water pitcher. A four-poster bed draped in a netting veil to keep out the bugs—or the ghosts. The mattress was soft. The sheets smelled faintly of cedar, firewood, and something else you didn’t recognize.

Him.

You didn’t undress. You lay on top of the blanket, fingers threaded together over your belly, the thrum of your heartbeat like a second mouth behind your ribs.

Your door had no lock. Just a handle that squeaked if turned. And you hated how many times your eyes flicked toward it. Waiting. Wanting.

But he never came.

And somehow, that was worse.

Morning broke soft and gray through the slatted shutters. The sun didn’t quite reach the corners of the room, and the light that filtered in was the color of dust and river fog.

When you finally stepped out barefoot into the hall, the house was already awake.

There was a scent in the air—coffee. Burned sugar. The faintest curl of cinnamon. Something sizzling in a skillet somewhere.

You followed it.

The kitchen was enormous, all brick hearth and cast iron and a long scarred table in the center with mismatched chairs pushed in unevenly. A window hung open, letting in a breath of swamp air that rustled the lace curtain and kissed your ankles.

Remmick stood at the stove with his back to you, sleeves still rolled to the elbow, suspenders crossed low over his back. His shirt was half-unbuttoned and clung to his sides with the cling of heat and skin. He moved like he didn’t hear you enter.

You knew he had.

He reached for the pan with a towel over his palm and flipped something in the cast iron with a deft flick of the wrist.

"Hope you like sweet," he said, voice thick with morning. "Ain’t got much else."

You didn’t speak. Just stood there in the doorway like a ghost he’d conjured and forgotten about.

He turned.

God help you.

Even like this, barefoot, collar open, hair mussed from sleep or maybe just time—he looked unreal. Like a sin someone had tried to scrub out of scripture but couldn’t quite forget.

"Sleep alright?" he asked.

You gave a small nod.

He looked at you a moment longer. Then—

"Sit down, dove."

You moved toward the table.

His voice followed you, lazy but pointed.

"That’s the wrong chair."

You paused.

He nodded to one at the head of the table—old, high-backed, carved with curling vines and symbols you didn’t recognize.

"That one’s yours now."

You hesitated, then lowered yourself into it slowly. The wood groaned under your weight. The air in the kitchen felt thicker now, tighter.

He brought the plate to you himself.

Two slices of skillet cornbread, golden and glistening with syrup. A few wild strawberries sliced and sugared. A smear of butter melting slow at the center like a pulse.

He set the plate in front of you with a quiet care that felt almost obscene.

"You ain’t gotta eat," he said, leaning against the table beside your chair. "But I like watchin’ you do it."

You picked up the fork.

His eyes stayed on your mouth.

The cornbread was still warm.

Steam curled from it like breath from parted lips. The syrup pooled thick at the edges, dripping off the edge of your fork in slow, amber ribbons. It stuck to your fingers when you touched it. Sweet. Sticky. Sensual.

You brought the first bite to your mouth, slow.

Remmick didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His eyes tracked the motion like a starving man watching someone else’s feast.

The bite landed soft on your tongue—golden crisp on the outside, warm and tender in the middle, butter melting into every pore. It was perfect. Unreasonably so. And somehow you hated that even more. Because nothing about this should’ve tasted good. Not with him watching you like that. Not with your body still humming from the memory of his voice against your skin.

But you swallowed.

And he smiled.

"Good girl," he murmured.

You froze. The fork paused just above the plate.

"You don’t get to say things like that," you whispered.

"Why not?"

Your fingers tightened around the handle.

"Because it sounds like you earned it."

He chuckled, low and easy. A slow roll of thunder in his chest.

"Think I did. Think I earned every fuckin’ word after draggin’ you out that night and lettin’ you walk away without layin’ a hand on you."

You looked up sharply, heat crawling up your neck.

"You shouldn’t have touched me."

"I didn’t," he said. "But I wanted to. Still do."

Your breath caught.

His knuckles brushed the edge of your plate, slow, casual, like he had all the time in the world to make you squirm.

"And I know you want me to," he added, voice low enough that it coiled under your ribs and settled somewhere molten in your belly.

You pushed the plate away.

He didn’t flinch. Just reached forward and dragged it back in front of you like you hadn’t moved it at all.

"You eat," he said, gentler now. "You need it. House takes more from you than it gives."

You glanced around the kitchen, suddenly uneasy.

"You talk about it like it’s alive."

He gave a slow nod.

"It is. In a way."

"How?"

He looked down at your plate, then back at you.

"You’ll see."

You pushed another bite past your lips, slower this time, aware of the weight of his gaze with every chew, every swallow. You didn’t know why you obeyed. Maybe it was easier than defying him. Maybe it was because some part of you wanted him to keep watching.

When the plate was clean, he reached out and caught your wrist before you could stand.

Not hard. Not even firm. Just…inevitable.

"You full?" he asked, his voice all smoke and sin.

You nodded.

His eyes darkened.

"Then I’ll have my taste next."

Your breath lodged sharp in your throat.

He said it like it meant nothing. Like asking for your pulse was no more intimate than asking for your hand. But there was a glint in his eye—red barely flickering now, but still there—and it told you everything.

He was done pretending.

You didn’t move. Not right away.

His fingers were still wrapped around your wrist, light but unyielding, the pad of his thumb grazing the fragile skin where your pulse drummed loud and frantic. Like it wanted to leap out of your veins and spill into his mouth.

You swallowed hard.

"You said you didn’t want blood."

"I don’t."

"Then what do you want?"

"You."

You watched him now, trying to make sense of what you wanted.

And what terrified you was this—

You didn’t want to run.

You wanted to know how it would feel.

To give something he couldn’t take without permission.

To see if your body could handle the worship of a mouth like his.

Remmick’s other hand came up slow, brushing hair from your cheek, his knuckles rough and reverent.

"You said I smelled like want," you whispered.

"You do."

"What do you smell like?"

He leaned in, mouth near your throat again, his nose dragging along your skin, slow, as if he were drawing in the scent of your soul.

"Rot. Hunger. Regret," he said. "Old things that don’t die right."

You shivered.

"And still I want you," you breathed.

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes.

"That’s the worst part, ain’t it?"

You didn’t answer.

Because he was right.

His hand slid down to your elbow, then lower, tracing the curve of your waist through the thin fabric. His touch was warm now, or maybe your body had just given up trying to tell the difference between threat and thrill.

He guided you up from the chair.

Didn’t yank. Didn’t drag.

Just stood and took your hand like a dance was beginning.

"Come with me," he said.

"Where?"

"Somewhere I can kneel."

Your heart stuttered.

He led you through the house, down the long hallway past doorways that watched like eyes. The floor groaned underfoot, the air thickening around your shoulders as he brought you deeper into the home’s belly. You passed portraits whose paint had faded to shadows, velvet drapes drawn tight, mirrors that refused to hold your reflection quite right.

The door at the end of the hall was already open.

Inside, the room was dark.

Just one candle lit, flickering low in a glass jar, its light catching the edges of something silver beside the bed. An old bowl. A cloth. A pair of gloves, yellowed from time.

A ritual.

Not violent.

Intimate.

Remmick turned toward you, his face bare in the soft light. He looked younger. More human. And somehow more dangerous for it.

"Sit," he said.

You sat.

He knelt.

And then his hands found your knees.

His hands rested on your knees like they belonged there. Not demanding. Not prying. Just there. Anchored. Reverent.

The candlelight licked up his jaw, catching in the hollows of his cheeks, the deep shadow beneath his throat. He didn’t look like a man. He looked like a story told by firelight—half-worshipped, half-feared. A sinner in the shape of a saint. Or maybe the other way around.

His thumbs made a slow pass over the inside of your thighs, just above the knee. Barely pressure. Barely touch. The kind of contact that made your breath feel too loud in your chest.

"Yer too quiet," he murmured.

"I don’t know what to say," you whispered back.

His gaze lifted, locking with yours, and in that moment the whole room seemed to still.

"Ya ain’t gotta say a damn thing," he said. "You just need to stay right there and let me show ya what I mean when I say I don’t want yer blood."

Your lips parted, but no sound came.

He leaned in, slow as honey in the heat, until his mouth hovered just above your knee. Then lower. His breath ghosted over your skin, warm and maddening.

You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until he pressed a single kiss just above the bone.

Your lungs stuttered.

His lips trailed higher.

Another kiss.

Then another.

Each one higher than the last, until your legs opened on instinct, until you felt the hem of your slip being eased upward by hands that moved with worshipful patience. Like he wasn’t just undressing you—he was peeling back a veil. Unwrapping something sacred.

"You ever had someone kneel for ya?" he asked, voice rough now. Thicker.

You shook your head.

He smiled like he already knew the answer.

"Good. Let me be the first."

He kissed the inside of your thigh like it meant something. Like you meant something. Like your skin wasn’t just skin, but a prayer he intended to answer with his mouth.

The air was too hot. Your thoughts slid loose from the edges of your mind. All you could do was breathe and feel.

He looked up at you once more, red eyes burning low, and said—

"You gave yerself to me. Let me taste what I already own."

And then he bowed his head, mouth meeting the softest part of you, and the rest of the world disappeared.

His mouth touched you like he’d been dreaming of it for years. Like he’d earned it.

No rush. No hunger. Just that first velvet press of his lips against the tender center of you, reverent and slow, like a kiss to a wound or a confession. He moaned, low and guttural, into your skin—and the sound of it vibrated up through your spine.

He parted you with his thumbs, just enough to taste you deeper. His tongue slipped between folds already slick and aching, and he groaned again, this time with something like gratitude.

"Sweet as I fuckin’ knew you’d be," he rasped, voice hot against your core.

Your hands gripped the edge of the chair. Wood bit into your palms. Your head tipped back, eyes fluttering shut as your thighs trembled around his shoulders.

He didn’t stop.

He licked you with patience, with purpose, like he was reading scripture written between your legs—each flick of his tongue slow and deliberate, every pass perfectly placed, building pressure inside you with maddening precision.

And all the while, he watched you.

When your head dropped forward, you found him staring up at you. Red eyes glowing low, heavy-lidded, mouth glistening, jaw tense with restraint. He looked ruined by the taste of you.

"Look at me," he said. "Wanna see you fall apart on my tongue."

Your breath hitched, hips rocking forward on instinct, chasing his mouth. He growled low and deep in his chest, gripping your thighs tighter.

"That’s it, dove," he murmured. "Don’t run from it. Give it to me."

He flattened his tongue and dragged it slow, then circled the swollen peak of your clit with the tip, teasing you to the edge and pulling back just before it broke.

You whined. Desperate.

He smirked against your cunt.

"You want it?" he asked, voice thick. "Say it."

Your lips barely formed the word—"Please."

He hummed in approval.

Then he devoured you.

No more teasing. No more pacing. Just his mouth fully locked on you, tongue relentless now, lips sealing around your clit while two fingers slid into you with that obscene, perfect pressure that made your body jolt.

You cried out, gasping, your thighs tightening around his head as the world tipped sideways.

"That’s it," he groaned, curling his fingers just right. "Cum f’r me, girl. Let me taste what’s mine."

And when it hit—

It hit like a fever. Like lightning. Like your soul cracked in half and bled straight into his mouth.

You broke with a cry, hips bucking, your fingers tangled in his hair as wave after wave crashed through you.

He didn’t stop. Not until your thighs twitched and your breath came in ragged little sobs, not until your body went limp in his hands.

Then, finally—finally—he pulled back.

His lips were wet. His eyes were feral. And he looked at you like a man who’d just fed.

"You’re fuckin’ divine," he whispered. "And I ain’t even started ruinin’ you yet."

The room pulsed with quiet. The candle flickered low, flame swaying as if it too had held its breath through your unraveling.

Your body felt boneless. Glazed in sweat. Your pulse echoed everywhere—in your wrists, your throat, between your legs where he’d buried his mouth like a man sent to worship. You weren’t sure how long it had been since you’d spoken. Since you’d breathed without shaking.

Remmick still knelt.

His hands were on your thighs, thumbs drawing idle circles into your skin like he couldn’t bear to stop touching you. His head was bowed slightly, but his eyes were on you—watchful, reverent, hungry in a way that had nothing to do with the softness between your legs and everything to do with something older. Something darker.

He looked drunk on you.

You opened your mouth to speak, but your voice caught on the edge of a sigh.

He beat you to it.

"Reckon you know what’s comin’ next," he murmured.

You didn’t answer.

He rose from his knees in one slow, unhurried motion. There was a heaviness to him now, a tension rolling just beneath his skin, like a dam about to split. He reached up with one hand and wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of it—then licked the taste from his thumb like it was honey off the comb.

You watched, breath held tight in your chest.

He stepped closer. You stayed seated, knees still parted, your slip pushed up indecently high, but you didn’t fix it. Didn’t move at all. The heat between your legs hadn’t faded. If anything, it curled deeper now, thicker, laced with something close to fear but not quite.

He stopped in front of you.

Tilted his head slightly.

"How’s yer heart?"

You blinked.

"It’s…fast," you whispered.

He smiled slow. Not mocking. Not soft either.

"Good. I want it fast."

Your throat tightened.

"Why?"

He leaned in, hands bracing on either side of your chair, body boxing you in without touching.

"‘Cause I want yer blood screamin’ for me when I take it."

Your breath caught somewhere between your ribs.

He didn’t touch you yet—didn’t need to. The weight of his body, caging you in without a single finger laid, made your skin flush from your chest to your knees. Every inch of you throbbed with awareness. Of him. Of your own pulse. Of the air cooling the places he’d worshiped with his mouth not moments before.

You swallowed.

"You said you’d wait," you whispered.

He nodded once, slowly, his eyes never leaving yours.

"I did. And I have. But yer body’s already beggin’ for me. Ain’t it?"

You hated that he was right. That he could feel it somehow. Not just see the tremble in your thighs or the way your lips parted when he leaned closer—but that he could feel it in the air, like scent, like vibration.

You lifted your chin, barely.

"I’m not scared."

He chuckled low, and it rumbled through your bones.

"Good. But I don’t need ya scared, dove. I need ya open."

He raised one hand then, slow as scripture, and brushed his knuckles along the column of your throat. Just a whisper of contact, a ghost’s touch. Your head tilted for him without thinking, baring your neck.

"Right here," he murmured. "Right where it beats loudest. That’s where I wanna taste ya."

You shivered.

He bent down, mouth near your pulse. His breath was warm, slow, drawn in like he was savoring you already.

"I ain’t gonna hurt ya," he said. "Not unless you want it."

Your fingers twisted in your lap.

"Will it—" you started, but the question got tangled.

He smiled against your skin.

"Will it feel good?"

You said nothing.

"You already know."

You did.

Because everything with him did. Every word. Every look. Every touch. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t holy. But it was real. It lived under your skin like rot and root and ruin.

You nodded once.

"Then take it."

Remmick stilled.

And then his lips pressed to your throat. Not with hunger. With reverence. Like a blessing.

"That’s my girl," he breathed.

And then he bit.

It wasn’t pain.

It was pressure, first.

A deep, aching pull that bloomed just beneath the skin, right where his mouth latched onto you. His lips sealed tight around your throat, and then—sharpness. Two points sinking in like teeth through silk. Like sin through flesh.

You gasped.

Not from fear. Not even from the sting. But from the rush.

Heat burst behind your eyes, white and sudden and dizzying. Your hands flew to his shoulders, clinging, grounding, anchoring you to something real while your mind drifted into something else—something otherworldly.

The pull came next.

A steady rhythm, slow and patient, like he was sipping you instead of drinking. Like he had all the time in the world. You could feel it, the way your blood left you in waves, not violent, not greedy—just…intimate. Like giving. Like surrender.

He groaned low against your neck, the sound vibrating through your bones.

"Fuck, you taste like sunlight," he rasped against your skin, voice thick with hunger and awe. "Like everythin’ warm I thought I’d forgotten."

Your head tipped further, offering him more.

You didn’t know when your legs opened wider, or when your hips rocked forward just to feel more of him. But his body shifted instinctively, meeting yours with a growl, his hand gripping your thigh now, possessive and unrelenting.

Your pulse faltered. Not from weakness, but from pleasure. From the unbearable knowing that he was inside you now, in the most ancient way. That your body had opened to him, and your blood had welcomed him.

Your moan was breathless.

"Remmick—"

He shushed you, mouth never leaving your throat.

"Don’t speak, dove. Just feel."

And you did.

You felt every lick. Every pull. Every sacred claim. You felt his tongue soothe where his fangs pierced, his hand slide higher along your thigh, his knee pushing between your legs until your breath stuttered out of you in something like a sob.

It was too much. It was not enough.

And when he finally pulled back, slow and reluctant, your blood on his lips like a mark, like a vow, he stared at you like you were holy.

Like he hadn’t fed on you.

Like he’d prayed.

The room was quiet, but your body wasn’t.

You felt every beat of your heart echo in the hollow where his mouth had been. A slow, reverent throb that pulsed through your neck, your chest, your thighs. It was like something had been lit beneath your skin, and now it smoldered there—glowing, aching, changed.

Remmick’s breath was uneven. His lips were stained red, parted just slightly, his jaw slack with something like awe. The burn of your blood still shimmered in his eyes, brighter now. Alive.

He looked undone.

And yet his hands were steady as he reached up, cupped your jaw in both palms, and tilted your face toward him. His thumb swept across your cheekbone like you might vanish if he didn’t touch you just right.

"You alright?" he asked, voice quieter now, roughened at the edges like a match just struck.

You nodded, though your limbs still trembled.

"I feel…" you swallowed, the word too small for what bloomed in your chest, "…warm."

He laughed, soft and almost bitter, and leaned his forehead against yours.

"You should. You’re inside me now. Every drop of you."

The words rooted somewhere deep. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. You could still feel the heat of his mouth, the bite, the pleasure that followed. It wasn’t just lust. It wasn’t just surrender. It was something older. Something binding.

"Does it hurt?" you asked, your fingers brushing the side of his neck, the line of his collarbone slick with sweat.

He looked at you like you’d asked the wrong question.

"Hurt?" he echoed. "Dove, it’s ecstasy."

You stared at him.

"You mean for you?"

He shook his head once.

"For us."

Then he pulled back just enough to look at you—really look. His gaze swept your features like he was committing them to memory. As if this moment, this very breath, was something sacred. His fingers moved to your throat again, this time to the place just above the bite, and he pressed lightly.

"You’ll bruise here," he said. "Won’t fade for a while."

"Will it heal?"

"Eventually."

"Do you want it to?"

His mouth curved, slow and wicked.

"No," he said. "I want the world to see what’s mine."

And before you could reply—before the heat in your belly could cool or your mind could gather itself—he kissed you.

Not soft.

Not careful.

His mouth claimed you like he’d already been inside you a thousand times and wanted to do it a thousand more. He kissed you like a man starving. Like a creature who’d gone too long without flesh, and now that he had it, he wasn’t letting go.

You tasted your own blood on his tongue.

And it tasted like forever.

The house knew.

It breathed deeper now. Its wood swelled, its walls sighed, its floorboards creaked in time with your heartbeat—as though it had taken you in too, accepted your offering, and now it wanted to keep you just like he did. Not as a guest. Not as a lover.

As a belonging.

Remmick hadn’t let you go.

Not when the kiss ended. Not when your blood slowed in his mouth. Not when your knees gave and your body folded forward into him. His arms had caught you like he knew the shape of your collapse. Like he’d been waiting for it. Like he’d never let you fall anywhere but into him.

He carried you now, one arm beneath your legs, the other braced around your back, his chest solid against yours.

"Don’t reckon you’re walkin’ after all that," he muttered, gaze fixed ahead, voice gone syrup-slow and thick with something possessive.

You didn’t argue. You couldn’t.

Your head rested against the place where his heart should’ve beat. But it was quiet there. Not lifeless—just other.

He carried you past rooms you hadn’t seen. A library, long abandoned, lined with crooked books and a grandfather clock that had no hands. A parlor soaked in velvet and silence. A door nailed shut from the outside, something heavy breathing behind it.

You didn’t ask.

He didn’t explain.

The room he took you to was nothing like the others.

It wasn’t grand.

It was personal.

The windows here were narrow and high, soft light slanting through the dusty glass in thin gold ribbons. The bed was simple but large, the sheets dark, the frame iron-wrought and worn smooth by time. A single cross hung above the headboard—but it had been turned upside down.

He set you down like you were breakable. Sat you on the edge of the bed, knelt once more to remove the slip still clinging to your body, inch by inch, as if undressing you were a sacrament.

"Y’ever wonder why I picked you?" he asked, voice low as the hush between thunderclaps.

Your breath stilled.

"I thought it was the blood."

He shook his head, his hands pausing at your hips.

"Nah, dove. Blood’s blood. Yours sings, sure. But it ain’t why I chose."

He looked up then, red eyes gleaming in the half-light.

"You remind me of the last thing I ever loved before I died."

The words landed like a stone in still water.

They rippled outward. Slow. Wide. Deep.

You stared at him, breath shallow, your skin bare under his hands, your throat still warm from where he’d fed. The room held its silence like breath behind gritted teeth. Outside, somewhere beyond the high windows, something moved through the trees—branches bending, wind pushing low and humid across the land—but in here, it was only the two of you.

Only his voice.

Only your blood between his teeth.

"What…what was she like?" you asked.

His thumbs drew circles at your hips, but his eyes drifted, not unfocused—just distant. Remembering.

"She had a mouth like yours. Sharp. Didn’t know when to shut it. Always speakin’ when she should’ve stayed quiet." A smile ghosted across his lips. "God, I loved that. I loved that she ain’t feared me even when she should’ve."

He exhaled through his nose, slow.

"But she didn’t get to finish bein’ mine."

Your brows pulled.

"What happened to her?"

He looked back at you then, and the heat in his gaze returned—not hunger, not even desire, but something deeper. Possessive. Terrifying in its tenderness.

"They tore her from me. Burned her in a chapel. Said she was a witch on account’a what I’d given her."

Your heart dropped into your stomach.

"Remmick—"

"She didn’t scream," he said, voice rough. "Didn’t cry. Just looked at me like she knew I’d find her again. And I have."

You froze.

His hands slid higher, up your ribs, his palms reverent.

"I don’t believe in fate. Not really. But you—" he leaned in, lips brushing your jaw, voice low like a spell, "you make me wanna believe in things I ain’t allowed to have."

You whispered against the curl of his mouth.

"And what do you think I am?"

He kissed the hinge of your jaw.

"My penance," he said. "And my reward."

You shivered.

"You said you saved me."

He nodded.

"I did."

"Why?"

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, and his voice dropped to a near whisper.

"‘Cause I ain’t lettin’ another thing I love burn."

You didn’t realize you were crying until he touched your face.

Not with hunger, not with heat, but with the kind of softness that had no business living in a man like him. His thumb caught a tear on your cheek like he’d been waiting for it, like it meant something sacred.

"You ain’t her," he murmured. "But you feel like the same song in a different key."

His voice cracked a little at the edges, not enough to ruin the shape of it, just enough to prove that something in him still bled.

You reached up, fingers trembling, and cupped the side of his neck. The skin there was warmer now. Still inhuman, still not quite alive, but it held your heat like it didn’t want to give it back. You felt the ridges of old scars beneath your palm. The echo of stories not told.

"I don’t know what I’m becoming," you said.

He leaned into your hand, eyes half-lidded.

"You’re becomin’ mine."

Then he kissed you again—not like before. Not full of fire. But slow, like he had all the time in the world to learn the shape of your mouth. His lips moved over yours with a kind of tenderness that made your bones ache. A kind of reverence that said this is where I end and begin again.

When he pulled back, your breath followed him.

The room shifted.

You felt it. Like the house had exhaled too.

"Lie down," he said, voice softer than it had ever been. "Let me hold what I almost lost."

You obeyed.

You lay back against the sheets that smelled like him, like dust and dark and something unnameable. The iron bed creaked softly beneath you, and the candlelight trembled with the movement. He undressed with quiet purpose, shirt sliding from his shoulders, buttons undone by slow fingers, trousers falling away to bare the sharp planes of his body.

And when he climbed over you, it wasn’t to take.

It was to be taken.

Remmick hovered above you, breath warm at your lips, hands braced on either side of your head. He looked down at you like he was staring through time. Like you were something he'd pulled from the fire and decided to keep even if it burned him too.

You’re mine, he whispered, but didn’t say it aloud.

He didn’t have to.

His body said it.

His mouth said it.

And when he finally eased inside you, slow and steady, filling you inch by trembling inch—your soul said it too.

His body hovered just above yours, every inch of him trembling with a control you didn’t quite understand—until you looked into his eyes.

That red glow was dimmer now. No less powerful, but softened by something raw. Something reverent.

Not hunger.

Not lust.

Not even possession.

Devotion.

The kind that didn’t speak. The kind that buried itself in the bones and never left.

His hand slid down the side of your face, tracing the curve of your cheek, then the line of your jaw, calloused fingers lingering in the hollow of your throat where your heartbeat thudded wild and uneven.

"Still fast," he murmured, half to himself.

"You’re heavy," you whispered, not in protest, but in awe. Every breath you took was filled with him.

He smirked, the corner of his mouth twitching in that crooked, wicked way of his.

"Ain’t even layin’ on you yet."

You didn’t laugh. Couldn’t. Your body was stretched too tight, strung out with anticipation and need. Every inch of you burned.

He leaned down then, not to kiss you, but to breathe you in. His nose skimmed your cheek, the edge of your ear, the curve of your throat already marked by his bite. His hands traced your ribs, the sides of your waist, slow and steady, like he was trying to learn you by touch alone.

"You’re shakin'," he whispered, voice low, thick with something close to worship.

"So are you."

A pause.

Then softer—truthfully,

"Yeah."

He kissed the inside of your wrist, then the space between your breasts, then lower still—his lips reverent as they moved over your belly, your hipbone, the softest parts of you.

"You ever had someone take their time with you?" he asked, mouth against your skin.

You didn’t speak.

"Didn’t think so," he muttered. "Shame."

His hand slid between your thighs, spreading you again—not rushed, not greedy, just gentle. Like he knew he’d already had the taste of you and now he wanted the feel.

"Tell me if it’s too much," he said.

"It already is."

He looked up at you then, his face half-shadowed, half-lit, and something flickered in his eyes.

"Good."

His cock brushed against your entrance, hot and heavy, and you nearly arched off the bed at the first contact. Not even inside. Just there. Teasing. Pressed to the slick mess he'd made of you earlier with his mouth.

He groaned deep.

"Fuck, you feel like sin."

You reached for him, pulled him down by the back of his neck until your mouths were inches apart.

"Then sin with me."

He didn’t hesitate.

He began to press in—slow. Devastatingly slow. The head of his cock stretching you open with a care that felt like madness. His hands gripped your hips as if holding himself back took more strength than killing ever had.

He moved in inch by inch, his breath hitched, jaw tight, sweat beginning to bead at his temple.

"Shit—ya takin’ me so good, dove. Just like that."

You moaned. Your fingers dug into his back. You were full of him and not even halfway there.

"Remmick—"

"I gotcha," he whispered. "Ain’t gonna let you break."

But he was already breaking you. Gently. Thoroughly. Beautifully.

He filled you like he’d been made for the task.

No sharp thrusts. No hurried rhythm. Just the unbearable slowness of it. The stretch. The burn. The drag of his cock as he sank deeper, deeper, deeper into you until there was nothing left untouched. Until your body stopped bracing and started opening.

You clung to him—hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt that still clung to his back, damp with sweat. He hadn’t even undressed all the way. There was something obscene about it, something holy, too—the way he kept his shirt on like this wasn’t about bareness, it was about belonging.

"That’s it," he rasped against your throat. "There she is."

Your moan was caught between breath and prayer.

He buried himself to the hilt.

And still—he didn’t move.

His hips pressed flush to yours, his breath shaky against your skin as he held himself there, nestled so deep inside you it felt like you’d never known emptiness before now. Like everything that came before this moment had just been the ache of waiting to be filled.

"You feel that?" he whispered, voice thick, almost reverent. "Where I am inside ya?"

You nodded. Couldn’t find your voice.

His lips brushed the shell of your ear.

"Ain’t no leavin’ now. I’ll always be in ya. Even when I ain’t."

You whimpered.

Not from pain. From how true it felt.

He moved then—barely. Just a slow roll of his hips, a gentle retreat and return. It was enough to make your breath hitch, your body arch, your legs wrap tighter around him without thinking.

"That’s right, dove. Let me in. Let me have it."

You didn’t even know what it was anymore.

Your body?

Your blood?

Your soul?

You’d already given them all.

And still, he took more.

But not cruelly.

Like a man kissing the mouth of a well after years of thirst. Like a thief who knew how to make you feel grateful for the stealing.

He found a rhythm that made the air vanish from your lungs.

Slow. Deep. Measured. His hips grinding just right, dragging his cock against every place inside you that had never known such touch. Every stroke sang with heat. Every breath he took turned your name into something more than a sound.

"Fuck, I could stay in you forever," he groaned. "Like this. Warm. Tight. Mine."

You dug your nails into his shoulders, legs trembling.

"Please," you whispered, though you didn’t know what you were asking for.

He did.

"Beg me," he said, dragging his mouth down your neck, over the bite he’d left. "Beg me to make you come with my cock in you."

"Remmick—"

"Say it."

You were already gone. Already shaking. Already his.

"Make me come," you breathed. "Please—God, please—"

His smile was sinful.

And then he fucked you.

His rhythm shifted—no longer slow, no longer sacred.

It was worship in the way fire worships a forest. The kind that devours. The kind that remakes.

Remmick braced a hand behind your thigh, hitching your leg higher as he thrust harder, deeper, dragging guttural sounds from his chest that you felt before you heard. The bed groaned beneath you, iron frame clanging soft against the wall in time with his hips. But it was your body that made the noise that filled the room—the gasps, the breaking sighs, the high whimper of his name torn raw from your throat.

He kissed your jaw, your collarbone, your shoulder, not like he was trying to be sweet but like he needed to taste every inch he claimed.

"You feel me in your belly yet?" he growled, words hot against your skin.

You nodded frantically, tears pricking the corners of your eyes from the sheer force of sensation.

"Say it," he panted, each thrust brutal and beautiful.

"Yes—yes, I feel you, Remmick, I—"

"You gonna come f’r me like a good girl?"

"Yes."

"Say my fuckin’ name when you do."

His hand slid between your bodies, finding your clit like he’d owned it in another life, and the moment his fingers circled that aching bundle of nerves, your vision went white.

Your body seized around him.

The sound you made was raw, wrecked, something no one but him should ever hear.

He kept fucking you through it, hissing curses through his teeth, chasing his own high with the rhythm of a man who’d waited centuries for the perfect fit.

And then he broke.

With your name groaned low and reverent in your ear, he came deep inside you, hips stuttering, breath ragged, body shuddering with the force of it. You felt every throb of his cock inside you, every spill of heat, every ounce of him taking root.

For a long, suspended moment, he didn’t move.

Only the sound of your breaths tangled together.

Your sweat mixing.

Your bodies still joined.

"That’s it," he whispered hoarsely, pressing his forehead to yours. "That’s how I know you’re mine."

The house exhaled around you.

The candle sputtered in its jar, flame dancing low and crooked, like even it had been made breathless by what it had witnessed. Somewhere in the walls, the wood groaned—settling. Sighing. Accepting.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Your body was a temple razed and rebuilt in a single night, still pulsing with the memory of his mouth, his weight, the stretch of him inside you like a secret only your bones would remember. Every nerve hummed low and soft beneath your skin, like your blood hadn’t figured out how to move without his rhythm guiding it.

Remmick stayed inside you.

His body was heavy atop yours, but not crushing. His head tucked into the curve of your neck, the same place he’d bitten, the same place he’d worshipped like it held some holy truth. His breath came slow and ragged, the rise and fall of his chest matching yours as if your lungs had struck the same pace without meaning to.

"Don’t move yet," he muttered, voice wrecked and hoarse. "Wanna stay here just a minute longer."

You let your hand drift through his hair, damp with sweat, curls sticking to his forehead. You carded through them lazily, mind blank, heart full.

He pressed a kiss to your throat. Then another, just above your collarbone.

"You still with me?" he asked, quieter now.

You nodded.

"Good," he murmured. "Didn’t mean to fuck the soul outta ya. Just…couldn’t help it."

You let out the softest laugh, and he smiled into your skin.

His hand slid down your side, tracing the curve of your waist, your hip, the spot where your thigh met his. His fingers moved slowly, not with lust, but with a kind of quiet awe.

"Y’know what you feel like?" he whispered.

"What?"

"Home."

The word struck something inside you. Something tender. Something deep.

He lifted his head then, just enough to look down at you. His eyes had faded from red to something darker, something richer—garnet in low light. The kind of color only seen in blood and wine and promises too old to be remembered by name.

"You still think this is just hunger?" he asked.

You blinked at him, dazed.

"It was never just hunger," he said. "Not with you."

The silence between you was warm now.

Not empty. Not tense. Just quiet, the kind that comes after thunder, when the storm’s rolled through and the trees are still deciding whether to stand or kneel.

You felt it in your limbs—heavy, humming, holy. The afterglow of something you didn’t have language for.

Remmick hadn’t moved far.

He still blanketed your body like a second skin, one arm braced beneath your shoulders, the other tracing idle shapes across your hip as if he were still mapping the terrain of you. His cock, softening but still nestled inside, pulsed faintly with the last of what he’d given you.

And he had given you something. Not just release. Not just blood. Something older. Something that whispered now in the place between your ribs.

You turned your head to look at him.

His gaze was already on you.

"What happens now?" you asked, barely above a whisper.

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he ran the back of his fingers along your cheekbone, down the side of your neck, pausing over the place where his mark had already begun to bruise.

"You askin’ what happens tonight," he murmured, "or what happens after?"

You blinked slowly. "Both."

He let out a breath through his nose, the sound tired but not cold.

"Tonight, I’ll hold you. Long as you’ll let me. Won’t leave this bed unless you beg me to. Might even make ya cry again, if you keep lookin’ at me like that."

You flushed, and he smiled.

"As for after…"

He looked past you then, toward the ceiling, like the truth was written in the beams.

"Ain’t never planned that far. Not with anyone. Just fed. Fucked. Moved on."

"But not with me."

His eyes snapped back to yours. Serious now.

"No, dove. Not with you."

You swallowed the knot rising in your throat.

"Why?"

His jaw flexed, tongue darting briefly across his lower lip before he answered.

"‘Cause I been alone too long. Lived too long. Thought I was too far gone to want anythin’ that didn’t bleed beneath me."

He leaned closer, forehead resting against yours, his next words no louder than a ghost’s sigh.

"But you—you made me want somethin’ tender. Somethin’ breakable."

"That doesn’t make sense."

"Don’t gotta. Nothin’ about you ever has. And yet here you are."

You let your eyes drift shut, just for a moment, and whispered into the stillness between your mouths.

"So I stay?"

He didn’t hesitate.

"You stay."

The candle had burned low.

Its glow flickered long shadows across the walls—your bodies painted in gold and blood-tinged bronze, limbs tangled in sheets that still clung with sweat and want. The house had quieted again, the way an animal settles when it knows its master is content. Outside, the wind threaded through the trees in soft moans, like the Delta herself was eavesdropping.

Neither of you spoke for a while. You didn’t need to.

Your fingers traced lazy patterns across Remmick’s chest—over his scars, the slope of muscle, the faint rise and fall beneath your palm. You still half-expected no heartbeat, but it was there, slow and stubborn, like he’d stolen it back just for you.

He watched you. One arm draped across your waist, his thumb stroking your bare back like you might fade if he stopped.

"You still ain’t askin’ the question you really wanna ask," he said, voice rough from silence and sleep.

You paused.

"What question is that?"

He tipped his head toward you, resting his chin on his knuckles.

"You wanna know if I turned you."

Your heart gave a traitorous flutter.

"And did you?"

He shook his head.

"Nah. Not yet."

"Why not?"

His fingers stilled. Then resumed.

"’Cause you ain’t asked me to."

You looked up at him sharply.

"Would you?"

A long beat passed. Then he nodded once.

"If it was you askin’. If it was real."

Your breath caught.

"And if I don’t?"

His gaze didn’t waver.

"Then I’ll stay with you. ‘Til you’re old. ‘Til your hands shake and your bones ache and your eyes stop lookin’ at me like I’m the only thing that ever made you feel alive."

Your throat tightened.

"That sounds awful."

He smiled, slow and aching.

"It sounds human."

You looked at him for a long time. At the man who had killed, who had bled you, who had tasted every part of you—body and soul—and still asked nothing unless you gave it.

"Would it hurt?"

His hand slid up, fingers curling beneath your jaw, tilting your face to his.

"It’d hurt," he said. "But not more than bein’ without you would."

The quiet stretched long and low.

His words hung in the space between your mouths like smoke—something sweet and terrible, something tasted before it was fully breathed in.

Your chest rose and fell against his slowly, and for a long time, you said nothing. You just listened. To the house settling around you. To the wind curling past the windows. To the steady thrum of blood still echoing faintly in your ears.

And beneath it all—

You heard memory.

It came soft at first. A shape, not a sound. The slick thud of your knees hitting the alley pavement. The scream you didn’t recognize as your own. Your brother’s blood, warm and fast, pumping between your fingers like water from a broken pipe. His mouth slack. His eyes wide.

You remembered screaming to the sky. Not to God.

Just up.

Because you knew He’d stopped listening.

And then—

He came.

Out of nothing. Out of dark.

You remembered the slow scrape of his boots on the gravel. The silhouette of him under the weak yellow glow of a flickering streetlamp. You remembered the quiet way he spoke.

"You want him to live?"

You didn’t answer with words. You just nodded, crying so hard you couldn’t breathe. And he’d knelt—right there in the blood—and laid his hand flat against your brother’s chest.

You never saw what he did. Only saw your brother’s eyes flutter. Only heard his breath return, sudden and wet.

And then he looked at you.

Not your brother.

Remmick.

He looked at you like he’d already taken something.

And he had.

Now, years later, lying in the hush of his house, your body still joined to his, you could still feel that moment thrumming beneath your skin. The moment when everything shifted. When your life became borrowed.

You looked up at him now, breathing steady, lips parted like a prayer just barely forming.

"I’ve already given you everything."

He shook his head.

"Not this."

He pressed two fingers to your chest, right over your heart.

"This is still yours."

"And you want it?"

He didn’t smile. Didn’t look away.

"I want it to keep beatin’. Forever. With mine."

You stared at him.

You thought about that alley. About your brother’s eyes opening again.

About how no one else came.

And you made your choice.

"Then take it."

Remmick stilled.

"Don’t say it unless you mean it, dove."

"I do."

His voice was barely more than a breath.

"You sure?"

You reached up, touched his face, fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw.

"I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life."

His eyes shimmered—deep red now, alive with something wild and tender.

"Then I’ll make you eternal," he whispered. "And I’ll never let the world take you from me."

He didn’t rush.

Not now. Not with this.

Remmick looked at you like you were something rare—something holy—like he couldn’t believe you’d said it, even as your voice still echoed between the walls.

Then he moved.

Not with hunger. Not with heat.

With purpose.

He sat up, kneeling beside you on the bed, and pulled the sheet slowly down your body. His eyes drank you in again, but this time there was no heat in them. Just reverence. As if you were the altar, and he the sinner who’d finally been granted absolution.

"You sure you want this?" he asked one last time, voice soft, like the hush of water in a cathedral.

You nodded, throat tight.

"I want forever."

His jaw clenched. A tremble passed through him like he’d heard those words in another life and lost them before they were ever his.

He leaned down.

His hand cupped the back of your head, the other settled flat on your chest, palm over your heart.

"Close your eyes, dove."

You did.

And then—

You felt him.

His breath. His lips. The soft, cool press of his mouth against your neck. But he didn’t bite.

Not yet.

He kissed the mark he’d already left. Then higher. Then lower. Slow. Measured. Your body melted beneath him, your hands curling into the sheets.

And then—

A whisper against your skin.

"I’ll be gentle. But you’ll remember this forever."

And he sank his fangs in.

It wasn’t like the first time.

It wasn’t lust.

It wasn’t climax.

It was rebirth.

Pain bloomed sharp and bright—but only for a heartbeat. Then the warmth flooded in. Then the cold. Then the ache. Your pulse stuttered once, then surged. It was like drowning and being pulled to the surface at once. Like everything you’d ever been burned away and something older moved in to take its place.

He held you as it happened.

Cradled you like something delicate.

His mouth sealed over the wound, drinking slow, but not to feed. To anchor you. To tether you to him.

You felt yourself go limp. The world turned strange. Light and dark bled into each other. Your breath faded. Your heartbeat fluttered like wings against glass.

And then—

It stopped.

Silence.

Stillness.

And in the space where your heart had once beat…

You heard his.

Then—

Your eyes opened.

The world looked different.

Sharper.

Brighter.

Every shadow deeper. Every color richer. The candlelight burned gold-red and alive. The scent of the night air was so thick it choked you—smoke, soil, blood, him.

Remmick hovered above you, lips stained crimson, breathing hard like he’d just returned from war.

And when he looked at you—

You saw yourself reflected in his eyes.

He smiled.

"Welcome home, darlin’."

[jinx-xxed]

I need Remmick being so down bad for his human wife pretty please

Work Song

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*

A/N; I needed this too so thank you for this request 🙏 I love a man that’s down bad and obsessed, those are the best kind ^_^ the title for this one takes after Hozier’s Work Song of course since I was thinking about it while writing this :P I hope you enjoy, and thank you again for requesting!! (Also apologies for me going overboard, I got way too invested in the backstory and couldn’t stop myself :’D)

Summary; Remmick comes home to his wife.

Content; NSFW 18+, AFAB reader, human reader, down bad Remmick!!, soft Remmick, possessive Remmick, vampirism, cleaning him up, married to Remmick, soft sex, fingering, piv sex, cuddling, he doesn’t know how to handle “I love you”, fluff

Wc; 6.2k

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*

The house is dark and quiet when the door opens with the smallest squeak, resting on old hinges gone too long without oil.

The curtains are drawn tight, the material thicker than your typical run of the mill, assuring no light can sneak through the cracks. The air is fresh with recent movement, signs of a home well lived in with pictures hung on the wall and shoes in a small rack by the door. That’s where Remmick leaves his dust covered boots so he doesn’t track red speckled dirt all over your nice clean floors. He tosses his stained button up in the wash bin you set out for him too, just his white tank remaining as his suspenders fall loose around his hips. Stepping inside your place is like a balm on his unsettled, angry soul, letting him leave everything else behind just for a little while.

Your home is the only one he’s allowed himself to become familiar with, the only one he’s stayed at for longer than a couple months. He knows every hall, every creaky wooden floorboard, every small detail at an almost intimate level. He follows the path he’s gone down hundreds of times, the one that leads him right to your bedroom. Your scent brings him there just the same—sweet and flowery like a perfect spring day, a tantalizing whisper of iron hiding beneath.

Remmick nudges the bedroom door open, his eyes flickering in the dim lighting, red simmering in the blue-gray like the last embers of a dying fire. It’s strange how instantly something within him is calmed at the sight of you, something deep and possessive and maybe even predatory that finally quiets when it realizes you’re still here. Your form is tucked beneath the sheets, blissfully warm and cozy and utterly perfect. He sees a book tossed aside to the corner of the bed, like you’d tried to stay awake for him but ultimately gave up and fell asleep. He can hear your gentle breaths, the quiet thrum of your heart that taunts him.

His steps are near silent when he makes his way over to you. You lay on your stomach, a pillow hugged between both arms, your pretty mouth parted just slightly. You look serene in sleep, an angel come down to earth just for a devil like him. Remmick reaches forward, brushing a stray curl from your face with a tenderness most would think impossible for himself—with his hands that have taken too many lives to count, that are stained with blood every night. But with you they’re gentle, able to rediscover a mushy part of him that was buried centuries ago.

Your eyebrows pinch and you mumble indistinctly when his chilled hand rests on your cheek, relishing in the feeling of your soft skin beneath his calloused palm. He’s a little warmer tonight though, with fresh blood still flowing through him, but it’s never enough to completely chase off the cold bite of death. He leans down to pepper kisses across your face, steadily moving to your neck where he pauses, his blunt teeth teasing along your jugular and inhaling your scent like it’s a lifeline.

Under his attention is how you finally wake, shaken from meaningless dreams by frigid fingers and loving kisses. You smile lazily, stretching your arms and twisting so you’re on your back to face him. You paw at him, pulling him in with no resistance—he’d happily follow your touch wherever you wanted him to go. Your lips meet briefly, a pleased noise rumbling from him before you pull away. “You’re back.” You say, sleep still edging your words. You breathe him in contentedly, your fingers coming up to run through his short hair. He still has that signature metallic tang on him despite his efforts to clean up before coming home. “Was worried ‘bout you.”

“Aw darlin’, you ain’t have to do that. You know I’ll always come back to ya.” Remmick says, his deep voice sending a pleasant shiver down your spine. One of his hands rests above the covers on your waist now, the weight of it comforting and familiar. He huffs, shaking his head. “Shit, thought ‘bout ya all night.”

It’s true, he really was thinking about you the whole time—something he finds himself doing a lot recently. He thinks about you from the moment he leaves your house because of the undeniable call of his hunger, all the way to when he finally returns hours later. He’ll think about wishing he could stay around when your eyes start to droop and the mortal need for sleep takes you away, when you subconsciously curl into him searching for warmth that isn’t there. He hates having to move you off of him so he can go, so he can step out into the unforgiving darkness of night in search of a life to steal. You do make the cutest little noises though, something like a disgruntled cat’s. He’ll tuck you in real nice and kiss you sweetly to make sure you don’t miss him too much, and so he can seal the image in his memory to keep him motivated—a reminder of what he gets to come home to.

“You were gone for so long.” You say with a small pout, holding his face in your hands, his light stubble tickling your palms. The gold ring you wear glints in the darkness, a twin to his own.

He tilts his head so his lips connect with your hand, nuzzling into your touch that he always seems to crave. “Just got caught up with some things s’all.” He’d cut it close tonight, the sun appearing like a reckoning seconds after he’d shut the door. “I’m here now, darlin’.”

You smile at that, pulling him in again to kiss him, enjoying the taste of him. There’s always something metallic hiding beneath every bit of him, something too old for your mind to comprehend, something otherworldly. For most it would be unnerving and terrifying but for you, that’s just your husband, your Remmick. You’d accepted that when you agreed to marry him about three years ago, opening your arms and home to him and every unnatural part that came with him.

It was two years before that when you’d actually met him, the memory always sitting clear in your mind like it happened yesterday.

You’d spent the whole day baking—cookies, pies, cobblers, tarts… the list went on as you prepared for the market happening in town the next morning. You prided yourself on your baked goods, and people always bought you out. The whole house smelled of your efforts, the scent carrying out the open windows and into the trees beyond. You hadn’t heard it at first, the whispers in the leaves, the way all the animals went silent, the world seeming to hold its breath for just a moment. You’d been too busy singing a song you knew by heart as you were prone to do whenever working in the kitchen. (Remmick has told you countless times how much he adores your voice, he says it’s like a fine wine).

You were rotating the food left to cool on the windowsill when you saw him, standing out there by the tree line, watching you with eyes that at first gave you the willies. “Hey there,” you’d called, watching as he flinched at the sound of your voice, “what brings ya over?”

He’d taken a few curious steps towards the house, letting you get a better look at him. Worn button up loosely tucked into high waisted trousers, a white tank hidden beneath, suspenders over the shoulders, old boots, and a banjo slung across his back. He looked like a man who traveled often, never staying in one place long enough to learn the style of it. His face looked kind, set with strong features on stocky shoulders that suggested he was no stranger to hard work. His short black hair was messy but in a presentable way, curled bangs sitting on his forehead. Still, you knew there was something deeper about him that was off, that didn’t belong in your realm of living.

His hands were loosely in his pockets and he shrugged. “Smelled somethin’ mighty sweet, heard somethin’ even sweeter. You got a beautiful voice, darlin’.” He’d given you a close-lipped smile, one that made his eyes crinkle at the edges. His southern drawl was thick like syrup, coated across every word with something mixed in that you couldn’t quite place.

“Oh, I‘ve got years of church choir to thank for that.” You’d joked. You’d tilted your head. “Would you like to try anything, sir? I could always use a taste tester.”

He’d hesitated for a moment longer than would be normal, as if debating something serious in his mind, before shaking his head. He chuckled. “Nah, I’m tryin’ to cut back.”

“Aw, that’s a shame. If you change your mind, I’ll be at the market tomorrow. Feel free to stop by.” You’d said. He’d smiled back at you in a way that suggested he knew something you didn’t, told you that you wouldn’t be seeing him at the market or any day after that.

As soon as the sun went down though, he continued appearing in your backyard. He never stayed long at first, only sticking around to strike up a brief conversation. You’d learned his name, Remmick, and he had learned yours. Your name was always soft on his tongue, like he needed to be careful with something precious. He listened to you talk like you spoke the gospel, reverence in those blue-gray eyes as he never missed a word. In turn he would tell you stories of a time long ago, weaving vibrant imagery that made you feel as if you were standing in the green fields of a country far away. It confirmed things about him that you already suspected, like how he wasn’t from here at all, that he came from something hundreds or maybe even thousands of years old.

You’d sit on your little porch swing while he’d remain in the grass leaning against the railing, never truly breaching the line of your home. The night was warm and muggy, and there was a lull in your conversation, causing your gaze to travel to the banjo he continued to carry with him. “You any good on that thing?” You’d asked with a nod towards it.

Remmick huffed. “I like to think I am.”

You smirked. “Play me somethin’.”

He’d given you that signature smile. “Well, can’t deny a pretty thing like you, can I?”

He was always quick to flatter you, and you had to admit it was getting to you a little, something foreign fluttering in your chest. He’d swung the instrument around, resting it in deft hands and idly strumming a string or two as he thought about what to play. He’d then struck the first few chords and you quickly realized you recognized the song, it being one your family had shared together for years. You couldn’t help but sing along, shutting your eyes and letting yourself feel the music within as your body swayed. It meant that you missed the way Remmick looked at you, like you were heaven come to earth, adoration and reverence burning in his eyes like the hottest fire. That was the moment something clicked into place for him, that cemented his need to have you in whatever way he could.

He was downright obsessed with you. He couldn’t stay away from you and your sweet voice, your mouth watering smell, your entire being that seemed to be kissed by the sun. He knew he’d do anything to stay in your warmth, in your blessing. He kept coming by night after night, staying as long as his hunger allowed or until you couldn’t stop yawning and finally headed to bed with a sleepy goodnight. Part of him wished to follow you inside, thinking of how easy it’d be to take you in the carnal way he secretly desired, to lock you to him for eternity, but Remmick always held back, another part of him not wanting to ruin what you have. After all, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a civil conversation with someone that didn’t end with their blood smeared along his face. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been shown such simple kindness, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so human.

You didn’t know how much time passed like that, with easy talks and shared songs into the late hours when everybody else would be asleep. You always kept your physical distance, as did he, like some unspoken understanding. The emotional distance was another story, something that was shortening by the day. Feelings were blooming into something out of control, mixing with your desire in order to make a sickly concoction.

You both knew you were onto him, onto the fact he was something unnatural and ancient, but you never bothered to bring it up. You’d heard enough stories from your momma about things like him, you understood how dangerous they were but… you couldn’t find it in yourself to chase him off. You’d grown too fond of him, of his stupid smile and charming words, his endless stories and soothing voice. He felt much the same and yet… you were at some kind of mutual standstill, neither of you quite knowing what to do with it.

Until the one night he didn’t show up.

You’d waited. You’d sat on the porch with furrowed brows and downturned lips, disappointment sitting heavy behind your heart. Had he gotten bored of you? Decided to disappear without a word? You’d supposed it wasn’t a shock, it happened to you all the time. You gave him an hour before you sighed in defeat, heading back inside so the bugs didn’t eat you alive for nothing. You tried to ignore the hurt you felt, knowing it was useless to feel it over someone—something—like him. He didn’t owe you anything, hell, you were lucky he hadn’t killed you. Maybe it was some kind of sign. You’d gone to bed just as thunder rumbled outside, lightning flickering between the clouds.

You were woken hours later by a knock on your back door. You’d grumbled and wrapped a robe around yourself, trudging down the hall and to the kitchen, eyeing the silhouette hidden behind the mesh screen. There was something whispering to not open it, to protect yourself and just crawl right back into bed. You noticed the silence that had settled around your home, the one that made the frogs quiet and the crickets cease their songs, the one always followed by a familiar figure. You knew something was off, could feel it in your bones, but it didn’t stop you from opening that door.

You’d gasped so sharply that it hurt, your body stumbling back a step. Remmick stood there, blood covering his front half, his eyes gleaming a deep red that reflected in the same way an animal’s did. The whole way he carried himself was different, more predatory and deadly, poised to kill at a moments notice. His clothes were disshelved, his bangs plastered to his forehead from sweat. The wind carried the smell of him to you, ancient earth and leather tainted with the iron of blood. He opened his mouth and you saw the teeth sharpened to fangs, coated with his meal.

He smiled at you, and it was no longer one that made your heart flutter. It sent a cold shiver down your spine. “You gon’ let me in, darlin’? Or just keep starin’?”

He liked the way you looked at him then, like everything finally snapped into place for you. Mixed with your fear was a kind of defiance, like you were trying to tell yourself not to be frightened. He liked you seeing him for what he truly was, liked knowing you still wouldn’t cower. It’s what made you step aside and say those simple words, even though you knew your momma was surely rolling in her grave at your stupidity.

Something heavy shifted when he stepped inside your home. Something that told you it could never be undone and you’d have to bear the consequences, but you found that you didn’t care. “So that’s what you are,” you muttered, “a vampire.” You’d heard of them before from your momma, you knew how to kill one. You were pretty sure there was even some kind of emergency kit hidden in a closet somewhere.

Remmick chuckled low and dark, shaking his head. “You knew this whole time and you ain’t ever run or scream or cry…” He smirked, triumphant. “I knew you was somethin’ special, darlin’.”

He sat in a chair at your dining table like it belonged to him, his eyes traveling around your home as he swallowed down every bit of information he could glean about you. The floral designs on the dish cloths, portraits hung on the walls, keepsakes littering empty spaces, and a thick recipe book sitting on the counter—all of it a testament to you, the woman he didn’t stop thinking about night after night. Your scent was so heavy in your home it made it feel like he was breathing in a drug every time he inhaled and fuck- he couldn’t get enough. He wanted it to live inside him, he wanted you to make your home in his veins, in the space between his ribs. He wanted you with him forever.

He watched with a predator’s gaze as you filled a bowl with water, desperate to do something to keep yourself busy. It was brave of you to keep your back to him, but it was like you knew he wouldn’t do anything unless you asked. He’d get on his knees for you if you wanted, he’d beg just to hear his name fall from your lips.

You grabbed one of your pretty little dish rags, setting it and the bowl next to him while you sat in front of him, so close your knees almost touched. He could tell how much you were trying to hide your fear from your expression but he still saw it in your furrowed brows and pressed lips and your eyes that were just a bit too wide. “I’m scarin’ ya.” He said it like a fact, one without room for dispute. His fierce red irises bore into yours, seeing everything you wanted to hide. You went to protest, your trembling mouth opening before he shushed you. “Don’t lie. I can smell it.” It was potent and intoxicating, seeping from your pores and making drool threaten to fall down his chin.

“I ain’t scared of you.” You said with a false confidence. You dipped the rag into the warm water and suddenly grabbed his face in one hand as if to prove it, shocking the both of you with your boldness. Remmick visibly shuddered under your touch, his eyes fluttering briefly and a small noise coming from him, even as your fingers dug into the plush of his cheeks. Oh, how long he’d waited to feel your hands on him, the warmth of your humanity, the softness of your skin. He couldn’t believe he’d gone this long without it, without something that was clearly so vital to his very existence. He knew then he could never go another day without touching you.

“Don’t want you makin’ a mess in my house.” You muttered like an excuse, dragging the rag across his upper lip and moving down, taking the blood with it. He was more than willing to relax into your ministrations, letting you clean him as if he was a child. Nobody had ever done it for him before, after all. He watched you all the while—the crease between your brows, the determined curve of your mouth, studying every detail and committing it to memory.

“I ain’t a stranger to blood, you know. My daddy used to be a doctor.” You began after a good few minutes, talking to keep yourself distracted from the reality of your situation. Remmick didn’t mind of course, he loved your voice more than life itself. His attention immediately shifted towards the sound like a dog with its ears perked.

“Used to?” He’d asked.

“He died in the war. Momma went soon after, they basically said heartbreak caused her stroke n’ killed her.” Your head shook. “She really loved that man to death. Couldn’t blame her, he was the kindest soul you’d ever meet. Always helpin’ the poor and needy, bringing ‘em into the house to heal ‘em when they couldn’t afford their bills. He’d make me help sometimes, getting fresh water and whatnot. That’s why you ain’t nothin’ special.”

“How sweet of ya.” Remmick teased, his fangs showing with his uneven smile.

You’d ignored him, rubbing the cloth along his collarbones and across the gold chain he wore, clearly beginning to discolor from age. The water in the bowl had long since turned red, your dishrag officially ruined but it was the least of your concerns (and Remmick had gotten you a new one later on).

When you’d deemed him clean enough, you moved to get up and dump the bloody water before his large, cold hand latched onto your wrist, stopping you abruptly. It was like the tension was pulled taught as a bowstring at that moment, some small seedling of doubt in you saying he was about to kill you while he just stared at where your bodies were connected. It was slow and purposeful when Remmick brought your hand up to his mouth and ran his lips along your palm, breathing you in, tasting you with darts of his tongue. You felt the flush crawl up the back of your neck and across your cheeks, watching as he nuzzled into your hand, looking at you with those wide red eyes, every reminder of the last couple months together hanging there. Every shared story, every vulnerability, every song sung together.

“I need ya, sweet thing, shoot- I’ve needed ya since that first day. I’ll treat ya nice and good, I swear it on my dead heart.” Remmick said to you, his words thick, heavy, and gravelly with his desire. “You’ll never want for nothin’, darlin’, I’ll give ya everythin’, I promise. Please, baby, let me prove it to ya-“

He continued to kiss along your arm, so determined to show you the truth behind his words, to make you give in to him with murmured pleas and prayers. He relished in the taste of you, his breaths growing labored from his excitement. You stopped him with your hands on either side of his face to pull him back, his lips parted and shiny with spit, his eyes still glowing red but full of unbridled desire for you. You already knew your answer, had known it the whole time. You were so tired of being alone, so tired of searching for someone, anyone, to love you and understand you. You didn’t care that the only one who did was a monster in the body of a man—there was something about it that made it even sweeter.

So you’d agreed.

There was only a second of pause, like Remmick was processing it, those simple words that tilted his entire world, before he was on you. He kissed you with such ferocity, such possession, his hands roaming all over you, gripping you so tightly you had no choice but to submit to him. He’d swept you up with ease, carrying you into your bedroom where he’d fucked you stupid until the sun rose, pulling more orgasms from you than you thought possible, pinning you beneath his sweat soaked body and filling you again and again, whispering his thanks and devotions the entire time. You’d slept through the whole day after that with Remmick cradling you against his cooled body, encasing you in his arms like he was afraid you’d take it all back if he let go.

That was how you fell into the routine of your relationship. He’d spend the light hours tucked away inside the safety of your house while you went about your day, then he’d leave most nights in search of food before coming back hours later and fucking you senseless, exhilarated from both the hunt and seeing you again. Remmick made you feel more loved and protected than you ever had before, always saying praises and promises into your skin like a prayer you’d hear in church, always giving you everything he had to offer. He’d sometimes even bring you gifts after his hunts, little things he knew you’d like. Fresh berries he stole from a garden or farm, beautiful flowers to go right on the table, a book or two he was able to snag off somebody.

It went on like this for months, and then it became a year, then two, until Remmick couldn’t take it anymore and he decided he needed you in a way that was deeper than what he’d been indulging in. It didn’t mean you getting bit, no, not yet, it meant you got presented with a pretty gold ring that matched his own. He asked you to marry him on a warm summers night, when fireflies were dancing outside and the critters of the moon were singing their songs. You’d said yes without hesitation, flinging your arms around him and kissing him until you both ran out of breath. You’d spent the rest of the moon hours dancing and singing and making love, too full of joy to do much else.

It was the best way for Remmick to have you forever, for every other man to know you belonged to him. He knew that one day he would bite you, he would drain the life from your body, he’d taste the sweet nectar of your blood that he so craved, he’d make you just like him and truly keep you for eternity. But that day wasn’t coming anytime soon.

He refused to be greedy just this once, deciding he wasn’t ready to take away your love of sunny days and the warmth of your skin, the thrum of a pulse in your veins. He wasn’t ready to ruin the simple pleasures of being a human being. But he knew he could never stand to lose you to something as menial as old age, or stand by and let some tragedy befall you. Biting you is like his sick way of protecting you, of showing you his love and devotion, even if you don’t know it yet, even if it takes you time to understand. It’d happen no matter what, he knew, but he’d let you enjoy those bright days in ignorance a little while longer.

Remmick can smell it on you now, the hours you’d spent in the sun earlier today, selling your baked goods at the market. The coldness within his bones seeks out your heat, desperate to bask in it and take it for his own. You give him a pleased hum as he grips your waist, blankets being moved aside to reveal your body to him. You’re pliant in his hold, always eager to give in, always eager to let him take control. It’s nice when you can step outside of yourself and just be, something you’ve only been able to do with him.

You can tell that he’s softer this time, his touch more reverent, something about it full of more longing like he’s memorizing every bit of you. He holds you like a man making love to his wife, not a monster clutching his possession so nobody else takes it. His mouth on yours is sensual, a twin to the hands beneath your nightdress, steadily bunching the material up your body so the air kisses along your flesh and leaves goosebumps in its wake.

“Shit, darlin’, yer too perfect.” Remmick mutters, nearly breathless as he looks down at you, your supple curves, the expanse of your breasts and stomach that nearly has him drooling—not from hunger, but from pure want- no, pure need for you. Even after all this time, his attention still makes you squirm, your thighs squeezing together subconsciously. His eyes track the movement like a predator, the burning hue of red steadily consuming his irises once more.

One of his hands moves lower, parting your legs with ease and running his fingers along your clothed cunt. He hums to himself, feeling the way your wetness has dampened your underwear. “Missed me, huh?” He says, his crooked teeth showing in his smirk. He loves that all you can do is nod, a pathetic little noise coming from you. The scent of your arousal hits him like a truck, a guttural groan tearing from his chest as it seems to ignite his blood with desire. You smell so goddamn sweet, like the ripest fruit sitting ready for him to take and sink his teeth into.

Your underwear is moved aside and you jolt at that first contact, his fingers dragging up through your folds and collecting your slick. You whimper as he buries his face in the crook of your neck again, a deep groan coming from him with his inhale. As his thumb rolls your clit, his other hand comes up to knead a breast beneath his palm, the cold metal of his ring nipping at your skin. You can feel the way Remmick’s chest heaves against you, his desperate breaths fanning across your throat between his open-mouthed kisses.

You gasp when two fingers sink into your heat, your hands coming to scrabble at his shoulders. You always take him easily, your body attuned to him alone, like he’s branded into your very essence. It drives him crazy. “Fuck, Remmick-“ You whine, arching into his touch. He responds instantly to you saying his name; a harsher squeeze to your breast, a little show of his teeth against your neck, his hips rutting against you in search of friction. His name coming from you is like touching two wires together, sending sparks through his rotten veins. He’d happily walk into the sun as long as your voice is the last thing he hears.

You writhe under his weight, pleasure running like a wildfire beneath your skin. He devours every moan, whine, and gasp he pulls out of you, his erection painful in his pants from his lust and need. His fingers draw in and out of your cunt in smooth motions, pressing against the spots that have you keening, scissoring you open while your slick coats his palm. His thumb traces quick circles over your clit, listening to the way your body sings for him. He knows you’re close, your noises raising in pitch, your nails digging into his back, your pussy clenching around his fingers. 

“C’mon darlin’, give it to me.” Remmick encourages, lifting just enough to look at your face, your expression twisted with pleasure. Tears edging the corners of your eyes, your pretty mouth dropped open, your cheeks flushed. Your hands rest of either side of his jaw, drawing him in and kissing him deeply as your orgasm crashes over you. He groans appreciatively while you moan into his mouth, shudders wracking your body. He rides you through your orgasm, steadily bringing you down from that high as he practically engulfs you with his muscled form like he needs there to not be a singular inch of space between you. “My sweet girl.” He whispers against your mouth, a string of spit connecting you, his eyes ablaze with his desire.

As your underwear is tossed to some unknown corner, he fumbles with the buckle of his belt, shoving it aside to finally free his aching cock, precum beading at the tip. He runs his slick-covered hand along his length, happily coating himself in your release. He gives a sound halfway between a hum and a moan. “Fuck, darlin’, I need ya…” He practically gasps against your collarbones, his cock slipping between your folds, collecting the remainder of your cum. “Need ya so bad.”

You both moan in tandem when he at last thrusts into you, his hips flush to yours and filling you so completely in the way he’s done countless times before. His hand suddenly finds yours, your fingers intertwining and gripping on to the other so tightly it’s like you’re scared they’ll disappear if you let go. He draws out to the tip only to then slam back in, ecstasy simmering in his veins now that he can take you. He bites your skin between his blunt teeth, teasing that goldmine of ambrosia waiting just beneath, calling to him. He’s dreamt of the day he can finally drink from you, can finally have more than just the few drops that bubble to the surface from a cut or him biting too hard. He pushes those thoughts away now, not daring to tempt his appetite and instead focusing on the way your pussy holds onto him like a vice.

Your free hand comes up to card through his sweat-soaked hair, his short bangs plastered to his forehead. You grip at the strands for purchase as he sets an unrelenting, steady pace, his desperate pleas and vows to you a constant in your ear. You know for a fact no man’s ever loved you the way he does, no man’s ever been this desperate for you, so willing to get on his knees just for you to look at him. You welcomed him in, gave him something to hold on to and call his own, some place to belong—and he’ll spend the rest of his eternity showing you his gratitude.

You moan loud after a particularly harsh thrust, his grip on you tightening as he hits that sweet spot inside of you, the one that knocks the breath from your lungs and has you seeing stars. “So beautiful, sweet girl, y’sound so nice.” Remmick pants, his drool that’s begun to fall smearing along your skin. “Feel so good, so fuckin’ tight fer me.”

You practically chant his name mixed with a slew of curses, voice punctuated by his rutting into you. He has you pinned to the mattress, his muscles flexing against you with his efforts, making sure you stay right where he wants you. He licks up your neck, tasting the saltiness of your sweat, inhaling the drug that is your scent, heightened by your pleasure and mixed with something intoxicating. His groan falls off into a whine, mind overridden by his adoration for you and his lust, chasing the release he can feel building.

He knows it’s the same for you, he can feel your flutters around his cock, that knot within you growing to the point of soon coming undone. His free hand releases your hip to find your clit, rubbing jerky, uneven circles over the sensitive bud while you writhe in an attempt to get away from the overload of pleasure. Remmick never gives you the chance, your body tensing as that second orgasm crashes over you like an angry wave, your noises becoming broken and breathless.

Remmick’s eyes nearly roll back from the way your pussy grips his cock, his forehead falling to your chest as he tries to laugh and fails. “Shit, suckin’ me in. Fuck, sweet thing- I can’t-“ He manages one last thrust before he cums deep inside you, his words breaking off with a wail, your walls painted white with his spend.

You both lay there for a moment, motionless in the aftermath of release, combined sweat covering your bodies and your hands still locked together. You and him shudder when his cock slips out of you, your shared cum beginning to seep from you in his absence.

Remmick is the first to regain himself, as always, his lips leaving gentle kisses on the space between your breasts and up your throat and jaw before reaching your mouth. He kisses you sweetly, then pulling back to bring your hand to his lips, leaving a gentle kiss on your knuckles, on your wedding ring. “My perfect girl.” He murmurs. “So good to me.”

You smile tiredly, your arms slinging across his shoulders. “Could say the same to you.” You tease. You then sigh contentedly, bringing him in and encouraging him to lay on your chest. “I love you, Remmick, I hope you know that.”

Those three words, so simple and yet so damning, always make him stop. He has to run them over in his mind, like he doesn’t believe they can actually be said to a thing like him. His hold on your hips tightens, his face nuzzling into you as if to hide from that phrase. “‘Course I do. Love you too, darlin’.” He mumbles, the words still foreign on his old tongue. Your smile softens, your fingers running soothingly through his hair. You pull the covers back up around you both, encasing him in the warmth that he lacks.

Outside, you can hear the familiar early morning sounds of the South; the birds chirping, the bugs buzzing in their swarms, and the occasional car sputtering by. The world wakes up beyond your reinforced curtains, basking in the sunlight that Remmick so violently hides away from. He knows that in a few hours you’ll go out and join them, greeting your neighbors and sharing recent news, playing a game of normalcy so nobody asks too many questions about the husband they’ve never seen.

But for right now, he’ll enjoy being able to hold you and feel your body right against his, your steady heartbeat drumming in his ear as sleep pulls you away. He’ll enjoy having you all to himself in the safety of the dark before you step out into the daylight and leave him behind.