remmicksays

[remmicksays]

Hey pretty boy! You like the fellas too or is it just the gals for you?

Well now, look at you, callin’ me pretty like you ain’t tryin’ to start trouble.

I like want. Don’t much care what it’s wearin’.

Gals, fellas, somethin’ in between—it’s all blood and heat where it counts. I fall for mouths that dare me and eyes that don’t flinch when I get close.

So if you’re askin’ whether I’d take you apart nice and slow just ’cause you offered—

Yeah, sugar. I would.

[remmicksays]

Do you have a skincare routine?

Skincare routine?

Yeah. It’s called bein’ dead.

No sleep, no sun, no stress—’least not the kind that leaves a wrinkle. Blood keeps me fresh, bad decisions keep me glowin’. I don’t exfoliate, I resurrect.

But if you’re askin’ how I stay so pretty this far past my expiration date…

Come closer. I’ll show you my secret.

It starts with a bite.

[remmicksays]

i woulda let you in the juke joint

Yeah? That right?

You’d’ve cracked the door, looked me in the eye, and let the devil walk in wearin’ someone else’s smile?

Careful with kindness like that, sugar.

I’d’ve taken it for permission—

to dance, to drink, to drag you into the dark and kiss you like sin was somethin’ sweet.

You let me in once…

you wouldn’ta wanted me to leave.

[remmicksays]

Do u have gum disease, king?

Gum disease?

Darlin’, these teeth been tearin’ through centuries. Steel, flesh, bone—you name it. Not a single crack, not a single ache. You think somethin’ as pitiful as gum disease could touch me?

My bite’s the last thing you need worryin’ about.

Unless you’re wonderin’ how it feels.

[remmicksays]

what’s your fav color, i’ll make sure to wear it tonight

Mm. That’s a dirty kind of sweet, ain’t it?

Deep red’s the obvious answer—color of want, of wounds, of mouths I can’t stay away from. But truth is, I like the way anything looks when it’s clingin’ to you.

So wear what you like, sugar.

Long as I get to peel it off slow, I’ll call it my favorite by the end of the night.

[remmicksays]

what would you do if i bit ya back?

Heh. That so?

You bite me back, sugar, and I ain’t pullin’ away. I’ll lean into it—slow, curious. Let you leave a mark if you’re bold enough. Might even grin while you do it.

But fair warnin’…

you bite a creature like me, you best be ready to take what comes next.

I don’t forget that kinda thing.

I repay it. Real personal. Real thorough.

And I bite harder.

[remmicksays]

What's your favourite song?

Mm. That’s a tough one, sugar.

See, I been alive so long music’s changed more times than I’ve changed coats. Heard it all—bone flutes in caves, psalms in stone chapels, fiddle songs under blood moons, radio static, juke joints, static turnin' into gospel.

But if you’re askin’ what sticks to my ribs…

It’s the kind that hurts.

The kind that drags a boot through your chest and don’t say sorry.

Slide guitar cryin’ like it’s lost its lover. Smoky voices singin’ ‘bout damnation like it’s a place they miss. Anything with sorrow tucked inside the melody like a knife in a boot.

Right now?

Probably some old delta blues track scratchin’ on vinyl, sung by a man who’s already halfway in the grave.

But you come whisper it in my ear soft enough, I might just say your voice is my new favorite.

[remmicksays]

i’ve been sittin’ here all pretty waitin’ for you, rem…

- 🕊️

well now, look at you lil' dove—sweet as Sunday and twice as temptin’.

You sit there lookin’ pretty, I start thinkin’ unholy things. Ain’t fair, really. You show up all soft and patient, and I show up mean and hungry.

But since you waited so nice for me…

why don’t you come closer and let me ruin that composure a bit?

Won’t bite—

unless you beg.

[remmicksays]

Do you miss old Ireland? How much of your native tongue do you remember?

Do I miss it?

I miss the dirt.

I miss the fog rollin’ in like a secret. Miss the way the trees whispered things long before men thought to write ‘em down. I miss my father’s land before it was taken—before men in robes came with their God and their gold and their hunger, sayin’ what we believed was heathen rot. Said our gods were dead. Said our tongues were filth. Said we were meant to kneel.

I ain’t knelt since.

As for the tongue…

I remember more than I let on. It’s buried deep, but it ain’t gone. Like lichen on stone, still clingin’ even after the carvings fade. I dream in it, sometimes. The old words. The real ones. Not the twisted, cleaned-up versions in books. I speak it soft when I’m alone, when I’m angry, when I bleed.

But I don’t speak it to others no more.

Feels like givin’ away a part o’ me the world already tried to kill.

So yeah…

I miss it.

But I don’t forgive it.

[remmicksays]

What did you do to alert the choctaw hunters, anyway?

Got sloppy. That’s the plain of it.

I was hungry—mean hungry, the kind that makes your hands shake and your jaw ache. Took too much from a girl near the river and left her in the reeds, didn’t even look back. Thought the water’d wash it clean.

But blood calls blood, and that land listens. Choctaw hunters found her before the sun had even dried her skin. They knew what did it. Knew who.

By the time I stepped into their camp with my hands up in surrender and a lie on my tongue, they already had arrows notched and salt in their pockets.

So I turned tail and ran.

Sun still hangin’ in the sky, smoke risin’ behind me. Felt my skin peel when the light caught me just right. Damn near died had i not come across that farmhouse.

[remmicksays]

Been a minute, I know.

Had to crawl back from a few graves—none of ’em mine, but close enough.

I’m back now. Rested, reckless, and real damn hungry.

Got a pile of questions waitin’ on me like fresh meat, and I plan on sinkin’ my teeth into a good handful real soon.

Miss me?

Go on and ask somethin’. I’m listenin’.

[remmicksays]

Is @theremmick copying you?

Hey, breakin’ character for a sec to clear the air:

There’s no such thing as “copying” something I didn’t invent. rp accounts aren’t a new concept by any stretch—this isn't groundbreaking territory, just a bit of fun we all get to have.

In fact, there were at least three other Remmick rp blogs before mine that have since deactivated for various reasons. And @theremmick? Pretty sure they actually made their account before I did. So if we’re pointing fingers, technically I’m the copy.

Point is, nobody owns a character except the writers who created him. We just borrow him for a while, add our own flavor, and enjoy the ride.

All love here.🖤

Now back to our regularly scheduled sin.

[remmicksays]

Favorite position? I'd prefer one where you can bite me all over 😉

Favorite? Hell, that depends on the night and how much trouble you’re beggin’ for.

But if you’re askin’ real nice—

I like the kind where I can spread you out, slow and reverent, like I’m settin’ the table before a feast. One hand holdin’ your jaw, the other pressin’ your hips down so you don’t go squirmin’ when my mouth starts wanderin’.

Neck’s just the introduction. I like to taste all the soft places—collarbones, thighs, the dip of your belly, the inside of your wrist when you’re already shakin’.

I don’t just bite. I mark.

And I don’t stop ‘til I’ve claimed every inch you offer up and a few you didn’t.

So go on, tell me how you like to be served up—face down, knees up, or just laid bare beneath me, beggin’ for a little ruin.

[remmicksays]

What's your love language, rem?

Love language?

Heh. Ain’t nobody asked me that without a smirk and a bruise on their neck.

Suppose mine’s a mix of things. Real old, real feral. I show it in what I keep. What I don’t kill. What I protect, even when I shouldn’t. You get my coat in the cold, my hands when you’re shakin’, and my teeth when someone looks at you wrong.

I touch. A lot. Palm to throat. Hand on your hip. Thumb draggin’ over your lip like I’m memorizin’ it.

I don’t say it soft. I say it with devotion that borders on damnation. I say it with loyalty that don’t flinch when it’s bloody. You’ll know I love you when you realize I’d set the world on fire just to keep your seat warm.

So yeah—touch, protection, obsession.

Gifts, too.

Sometimes bones.

Sometimes hearts.

[remmicksays]

Tell me, is it always the neck for you? Or do you prefer a bit of..shall we say, novelty, now and then? Perhaps a drink from the ankle,the calf,the inside of the thigh….so many options, wouldn’t you agree?

You’ll have to forgive my curiosity,my Mama always did say it would be the end of me some day. It seems she may have been right, to worry for me after all…

Curiosity’s a dangerous little habit, sugar. But lucky for you, I got a soft spot for bad habits.

The neck’s classic—don’t get me wrong. There’s a reason stories linger there. All that blood just beneath the surface, pulsin’ sweet against the skin, so close I can hear it hum. It’s intimate. It’s poetic. It’s easy.

But I ain’t married to tradition.

The ankle’s delicate. The calf’s tender. The thigh? Now that’s got heat to it—close to the heart in more ways than one. Sometimes I like when they tremble. Sometimes I like when they spread. I go where the pulse pulls me, and I ain't never minded makin’ a mess gettin’ there.

As for your Mama…bless her heart.

She was right to worry.

But not ‘cause of your curiosity.

Because I’m listenin’ to you talk like that and thinkin’ how pretty you’d sound when you finally stop.

[remmicksays]

hi remmick!!! what makes you fall in love with a person?

Well damn, straight to the jugular, huh?

Ain’t sure I fall in love so much as I sink into it. Real slow. Real deep. Like wadin’ into a river I know’s gonna drown me.

But if you’re askin’ what pulls me under—it’s the quiet things.

Eyes that hold their ground. Mouths that talk back. Folks who carry their hurt like it’s holy and don’t flinch when I show mine.

Kindness that ain’t performative. Anger that ain’t loud. A laugh that sounds like it’s tryin’ not to.

Someone who sees the monster and don’t look away.

That’s how I fall.

Not fast. Not safe.

But all the way down.

[remmicksays]

you could burn down my house and run me over and I’d still let you fuck me raw whenever you want. ☺️.

Well now, that’s a hell of a welcome.

Burn your house down? Run you over?

Sugar, I’d salt the earth after and still have you beggin’ me to take you right there in the ashes—no mercy, no rush, just mean and slow ‘til you forget what standin’ felt like.

You say whenever, but you’d be ruined by Tuesday. Don’t make promises you ain’t ready to keep. I bite real deep when I’m invited