blossomtree33
blossomtree33
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21/cancer/F
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blossomtree33 · 1 month ago
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blossomtree33 · 2 months ago
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@astoldbyaja just had to make sure you saw this 👀
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blossomtree33 · 2 months ago
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Vassar College girls practicing Greek dance c. 1923
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blossomtree33 · 2 months ago
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@astoldbyaja
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“Today is sticky, sticky business. Going to the bathroom is an escapade.” -Jack O’Connell bts from Sinners.
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blossomtree33 · 3 months ago
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fire and ice | james cook
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Cook’s interest is piqued when an old childhood friend moves in across the street.
Warning: Mature themes/language. Drug use. Sexual content.
part ten.
part eleven. bedside manner.
Tiff was for the time being, incapacitated. After another three days in a row of chronic drinking, smoking, and spliff, Tiffany had nearly overloaded her entire body, most likely with at least one count of alcohol poisoning. Her mother was concerned, fully aware of the reason for Tiff’s bedridden state in the past couple of days, but had no idea the extent to which Tiff had pushed her young body. This was the first time it seemed in forever that she wasn’t out with friends.
It was quite apparent to everyone, even Rebecca Meeks, that Tiffany had hit rock bottom. Of course, not really because any of them had deigned to look in on her. No one wanted to do that. No, it was obvious that Tiff was in a psychological purgatory purely because her lethargy for once outweighed her alcoholism, or rather, was a direct symptom of it. Tiff hadn’t left her bed for eight days, and the only human contact she’d had during that time was the occasional shouted ‘hello’, ‘goodbye’, and ‘food’s at the door’ from her mother.
Even Rebecca hadn’t seen Tiff this devoid of all life and motivation since Andrew had first passed. And even then, Tiff would get out of bed at least for a beer. She wouldn’t have admitted it aloud, but even Rebecca would have been relieved to see her daughter go out and drink, and had even gone so far as to leave a brand new, untouched and perfectly vulnerable case of Guinness, Tiff’s favorite, in the refrigerator just to see if that would put a smile on the girl’s face.
And still, nothing.
Tiff refused to get out of bed, unless to piss or vomit, or see anyone. Her friends hadn’t seen her or heard anything from her, and had gotten worried. But the only ones who seemed to actually be affected by her absence were Cook, and JJ. But Cook still survived for the time being, as long as he had something to drink or smoke. JJ, on the other hand, truly felt the weight of Tiff’s absence.
Without Tiffany around, many of his thoughtful remarks and astute observations hung in the air like cobwebs, sometimes even met with the same revulsion and inconvenience. Not to mention, JJ was concerned about the girl he’d grown to develop an affinity for, even in spite of, well, everything about her. The lady he had seen her, Tiffany was pissed, and sloppy, and simply gone. He knew it hadn’t, but JJ couldn’t help feeling at the bottom of his heart that something horrible had happened to her. He was truly concerned, and he wanted to see her.
Not even speak to her, or be entertained or consoled by her. Just see her, alive and well. And so, that brought him to her home. Surprisingly to him, Rebecca had allowed him into their home without question or protest, smiling and informing him that Tiff was in bed. JJ had cautiously walked up the stairs, lightly knocking on her bedroom door. After several moments of tense silence, he was worried he’d knocked too softly, and tried again. Still, no response.
Tentatively, JJ opened the door. Not all the way, out of politeness and fear of naked and angry girls, but just a crack so that he might get an explanation.
“Tiff? Are you in there?”
He heard nothing, and glanced at her bed. There was an unmistakable, unkempt lump under the covers. Tiff, he realized, seeing the distinct dark hair, certainly not as sleek and enticing as usual, but still every bit as comforting to him. He saw her lying there, facing the wall as she withdrew from alcohol.
“Tiff? Are you asleep?” he asked with care. “Should I come back later…?”
No response.
“I can’t tell if you’re really asleep…” he remarked, troubled by her almost unnatural stillness.
He paused for a moment, thinking.
“Are you angry?” he asked. “With me? Or anyone? Or, Cook?” he offered hopefully.
He was still met with silence.
“I get it if you’re angry,” he provided. “With me, or Cook. I’m told I’m ‘infuriating’,” he recalled.
There was a considerate beat between thoughts.
“…And Cook’s Cook,” he summarized. “You know… If you’re angry, you can talk to me. Sometimes I feel frustrated, too. When people don’t understand what I’m saying, or what I like. And if I did something, maybe I can fix it,” JJ incentivized.
Tiff just laid there in bed, a single droplet falling on her pillow. The silence between them was broken by a single, laconic rasp.
“…Go home, JJ,” she released him reluctantly.
JJ hung his head, accepting the predictable response.
“Okay. I won’t bother you,” he smiled, more for himself than anyone. “Hope you feel better soon,” he mumbled, retreating downstairs.
*****
Cook, on the other hand, had of course been looking forward to rowdy, hedonistic shenanigans for that weekend, and had been furious at Tiff for not pulling through the past week or so. But that of course did not stop him from trying to get into bed with her; this time in a slightly different way than usual.
When he had first called Tiff to see if she’d come out drinking a couple of days ago, Cook had been shocked to find out that she had fallen ill and taken to bed for days on end. So, he had stubbornly showed up at her doorstep with a bottle of stolen whiskey (Tiff had naturally been refusing to drink; it was purely for himself) and jumped into her bed, much to her dismay. That Saturday afternoon, Tiff was still asleep as Cook lay spooning her, sipping out of the bottle of whiskey.
Unlike JJ, Cook allowed her no understanding or forgiveness.
“Fuck,” he looked down at the fresh puddle of whiskey on Tiff’s pillow.
“Cook!” Tiff exclaimed angrily.
If was one thing not to do to a violently hungover girl, it was pour whiskey in her hair.
“Sorry,” he rasped at the burning alcoholic taste in his throat.
He sloppily wiped at her hair and the pillow, trying rather pathetically to remedy his carelessness. Tiff seethed as Cook set his bottle on her nightstand, snaking an arm around her body as he hummed with pleasure, chin resting on her shoulder again.
“Give a man some love, will you?” Cook asked.
He hardly finished the sentence before feeling a sharp elbow to the ribs, exclaiming in agony.
“Fine, fine!” he conceded, reaching for the bottle again.
With Tiffany in a foul mood and refusing to entertain him in any sense of the word, Cook was drinking even more heavily than usual. Having already shown up to her house sloshed out of his mind, hardly sure what half of the day it was, he had also eventually finished more than half of the brand new bottle of whiskey he’d bought himself, gulping and dry heaving throughout the evening as he attempted to drift off to sleep with Tiff. She could hear him throughout her being in and out of sleep over the course of a few rough hours of withdrawal, only making her need to vomit that much stronger.
Cook sounded like he was choking in his sleep. Tiff secretly hoped he was choking, and would at least quit hacking and die eventually. After a while of stomaching the loud noise, she exhaustedly smacked him behind her.
“If you’re going to throw up, do it in the bathroom,” she grumbled.
He didn’t acknowledge her request at all, and continued to toss and turn while still holding her sleepy form hostage. Tiff could hardly sleep even in spite of her sickness with an unrelenting Cook gagging beside her. It was sickening. Desperate and in need of lustful friction, Cook had laid rubbing up against Tiff the entire time, his possessive grip allowing her no reprieve. She tossed and turned incessantly, certainly not longing for his close proximity in that moment. She kept pushing him away, but he never acknowledged her.
Tiff would wake up seemingly every few minutes, forced to contend with his constant moving and reaching for her, especially as he got progressively more drunk throughout the night. Even in her awful state of withdrawal, it was eventually Tiff who was the more functional and sober one. As Cook half-slept in her bed that night, she kept being snapped out of her depressed stupor by his fitful sleep. To say he was drunk was a complete understatement. Cook had all but killed himself.
His eyes were dark and absent, and he was dead to the world. He truly was not present in anything he was doing. It had taken hours, but eventually, she found herself able to sleep again in spite of him. She was exhausted, needing the uninterrupted sleep. She was eventually resting, able to sleep until she was startled, awoken by a sudden, violent assault on her face. Shocked out of her unconscious state, Tiff nearly seized in her bed, heart pounding heavily in her chest. Her dark eyes widened as she jumped up in her bed, terrified in that moment as she searched the dark room for the source of her terror.
It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the thick blackness of the room; the air was like tar. Tiff panted softly as she stared at the inhuman, almost alien form beside her. Cook sat up in the bed next to her, his body bent at an unnatural angle. He looked less like himself and more like a monster formed by jagged tree branches or something. Tiff was absolutely petrified, chest heaving as she searched his black eyes in the darkness of the wee hour for any sign of life. She studied him, and only saw the whites of his open yet empty eyes, and the unnatural standing up of his mussed up hair.
James Cook leered, staring at her absently as he panted, in a cold sweat. He was fully awake, but still completely vacant, like his soul had temporarily left his body. Tiff was terrified. She couldn’t recognize him; there was nothing on his face but a threatening fear. It was like he’d woken up not recognizing her, having struck her out of pure self defense. It wasn’t until that moment that Tiff realized just how drunk Cook had gotten himself as he remained in her bed.
He was so drunk, so out of his own body, that he’d woken up in the middle of the night with no recollection of where he was or how he’d gotten there. Cook hadn’t meant to hit Tiff. It was like it wasn’t even him that had done it.
Tiff trembled as she reached for the blanket back, Cook’s widened eyes still searing into her as she turned, squeezing her eyes shut.
*****
Hours later, in the safety of the morning, Tiff had woken up to Cook grumpily searching for his bottle, needing to drink himself back to sleep until later in the day. Tiff could tell he had no memory of even waking up in the middle of the night as he hid beneath the covers, seeking the warmth of her body again.
-
part twelve.
-
@slushynoobzluvr
@prettyself
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blossomtree33 · 3 months ago
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In My Back (Remmick x Female! Reader)
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a/n: sooo uuuh... basically yeah... never in my life had i been on such a long writer's kick. idk what they put in this irish freak but im eating it up (this is a long one, like 11k words i think). Cross Posted on AO3
Warnings: Canon Violence, Carpet Munching like crazy, P in V, just... Smut y'know, Some Plot, Manipulation, General Vampire Shenanigans
Summary: Three times he comes in the night, with offers a plenty on his fingertips. The third night, he leaves you with a gift. A Devil's kiss and a taste for freedom.
MASTERLIST
"And then, when you least expect it..." your cousin's voice dips down into a menacing tone, that only serves to push a giggle out of your chest "They sink their teeth, and suck the blood straight outta your bones"
She snaps her mouth at you, teeth clinking together, and you push her away, laughing at the story. She laughs as well, dodging skillfully, as you swipe a wet rag at her. 
"Stupid" you huff, trying to act exasperated with her antics, and failing miserably, as always. "I told you not to bother me with those silly stories."
She shrugs at that, twirls around the kitchen, like a fine lady in a coarse dress, her bare feet sliding over the linoleum tiles. You watch, as she dances out of the kitchen, grabbing a muffin from the table. You almost scold her, but decide to let it go, as you usually do. It's hard to be mad at her, damn near impossible to be honest. She always had a way of melting coldness around her. 
With a small sigh, you go back to cleaning, wiping the counter and the windows, your mind wandering to your cousin's stories. It's always ghosts and goblins with her. Some new, terrifying thing, that would surely snuff sleep off your eyelids, if your feet weren't planted firmly on the ground. That's how it's always been, since the moment you both learned to crawl. She was the flying one, the one with her head in the clouds, too preoccupied with counting the stars to look down.
And you were the complete opposite. Grass at your feet, a clear road ahead of you. No wondering, no straying. 
Sometimes you envied her lightness, sometimes you remembered, it was a burden. Especially for a woman on this earth. Despite that, she never lost herself. Despite hardship after hardship, she remained strong in her openness, in her will to think beyond, what the world offered her. How she did that, after living the past she's had, was beyond you.
God must be a cruel, cruel man, you think. For condemning the most unequipped for the biggest disappointments. 
Still, you made sure, your cousin would never have to face her life alone. Not while you're still standing, unmoving, like an ancient pine tree. You would always give her shade, always protect her from the rain, pull her down if need be.  
The sun starts to set over the horizon, the last rays of light flickering behind the woods. Your house was small, and well hidden, despite its proximity to the town. Your parents knew what they were doing, choosing this place to settle down, and you couldn't be more grateful. Before your cousin begged for shelter, you lived here alone, picking up both your parents' professions. And so, along with baking and feeding the entire area, you also became mean with any car troubles. A woman's and a man's job, both of them dancing under the sweat of your brow. 
Your cousin begged you to leave that "dirty work". To focus on opening a legitimate business, a bakery at the marketplace. She cussed, cleaning out grease stains from your skirts, and you didn't have the strength, nor patience to explain to her, how you're only able to afford the soap in her hand, because the "dirty work" payed better, than any baking. 
And so, when she stops you at the door, her arms crossed in front of her chest, her nose scrunched. She's looking you over, taking in the rough gloves and the utility belt, contrasting almost comically with the flowy material of your dress. 
"Don't start" you point at her with your wrench, and she raises her hands in a mockery of surrender.
Her mouth twists in a way, that betrays her inner thoughts, betrays her need to say more. But, to your general surprise, she swallows, shaking her head. Then, her eyes find yours, and you feel the tangible warmth of comfort, at the slight, teasing pull of her mouth.
"Don't let any monsters in" she chirps behind you, as you open the door, and start walking towards your late Daddy's workshop. 
All you can do is laugh. A rough sound, deep and dark like freshly brewed coffee. A mourning dove, and a wise owl, that's what you two were. 
Lamps guide your steps through the darkness, as you make your way towards the workshop. It's a spacious raggedy shack, your father built himself, every nook and cranny marked by his strength. You feel as if you're stepping into a church, every time you slide the barn doors open. 
It takes you a moment to light the place up, as you skip around a beaten down Buick, your feet padding softly over the recently swiped floors. The silence of the night calms you down, adds a layer of something almost sacred to your work. Night birds call out in the woods, crickets chirp in the grass, and you inhale the crisp air with your whole lungs, until they hurt. Until you feel the wind in the essence of your being. As soon as the workshop is ready, you find the ghost of your father inside every clink of metal, every grease stain. 
That's why you do, what you do. That's why you hide the woman in your pocket, tug your skirts up, tie them to your belt, throw your hair out of your face. Your father's hands guide you, years spent looking over his shoulder marr your movements. It's not work anymore. It's a ceremony, a communion. 
The Mississippi heat covers you with sweat, salty drops mixing with grease and motor oil, staining your skin. And as you wipe your face with a coarse rag, you entertain the thought, that this, here, is freedom. Your own, personal brand of freedom. Or at least some ghost of it. 
That's how he first finds you. 
Skin glistening under the warm lights, making you shine in his eyes. Your breasts exposed to a scandalous degree, your skirt hiked up so high, he sees the small stretch lines on your thighs. The sight makes his mouth water, literally. Such a wild thing, the sickly sweet scent of gasoline clinging to you, as you stretch on the little stool. A groan pushes past your lips, and he has to grip the doorway with his claws, to stop himself from pouncing. Even if he can't really do it, while you're in the safety of your workshop, he feels as if he'd be able to tear down any rules of ancient times, just to taste the nectar of your blood. 
Then you start humming. Some unknown tune from far away, long ago. Your voice dripping like molasses, filling his ears with something, he was sure damnation took away. You move around the workshop, tidying up after yourself, legs strong like an ancient tree. A tantalizing image of skin, muscle and a jiggly layer of fat, that makes him want to sink his teeth in, over and over again. 
Such temptation could not be ignored. Shouldn't be. It begged him to indulge, and who is he to deny the sweet embrace of sin? 
"A woman with a wrench is such an uncommon sight these days" he starts, and skillfully dodges the aforementioned wrench, as it flies towards his head. "Now hold on there, darlin'..."
You spin around like a storm cloud, heart jumping into your throat, at the unfamiliar, male voice. He stands in the shadows, just out of reach for the outside lamp, leaning on the workshop's door frame. His face is barely visible, but you notice the paleness of his wrists, peaking at you from his front pockets. A sillhouette of a banjo on his back, tied with a frayed string, that's digging into his chest.
The world becomes quiet around you. Not a night bird, not a cricket. Just you, and him, and the increasingly fast beating of your heart.
"Who are you?" you demand, and the suspicion in your voice lets him know, he'll have to work for it "What are you doing here?"
Raising his hands in a mockery of a friendly gesture, he takes a slow step backwards, offering space. Your shoulders don't relax, hand creeping towards the folds of your skirt, where you hide a kitchen knife. One, you've never had to use, but God help you, you will. 
"Apologies, darlin'. I didn't mean to startle you" he says, keeping his tone light, as if he's just an old friend, paying you a visit "I was walkin' down to the town, but I must've lost my way."
"Yeah, you must've." you eye him cautiously, the tartness of your voice making the corners of his mouth curl. 
"Best get back on the road then."
He laughs sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck, as he swipes a look around the workplace. 
"I saw the lights, figured there might be some good folks up in 'ere" he comes even closer to the door, lingering just outside, his well worn out boots kicking at the pebbles. 
He makes a pitiful expression, as he looks up at you through his eyebrows, and for the first time, you can take a good look at his eyes. Blue, you think. But at the same time, strangely dark. It makes your eyebrows furrow, because despite your weariness, you can most certainly say, this stranger is a handsome one. With nicely toned arms, broad shoulders, and features that look warm in their softness, as well as dangerously sharp. 
You don't like it. This strange impasse, that's seized your muscles. Like a deer stuck in the crosshair of a predator, it makes your skin crawl, and your insides tighten. 
"No good folks here, just me." your voice is like a bell in his ears, slightly out of breath from all the work, and so, so dark. 
The stranger laughs, and the sound sends an onslaught of shivers up your spine. Your fingers twitch nervously.
"See now, I find that hard to believe" the lightness in his tone starts to get to you, slithering under your skin like a snake "Surely such a sweet darlin' has some good in 'er"
God dammit, the way his head tilts to the side, as if trying to coax this mystical goodness out of you, chips away at your defenses. Your brain wrestles with your natural, tart disposition, and the facts presented before you. Here he stands, a respectful distance away, his hands in view. You don't see any weapon on him, but you see the sweat clinging to his dark hair. You see the dirt on his clothes, under his fingernails, the labored breathing he tries to conceal. He seems harmless enough, but looks can be decieving, and you'll be damned if a soft smile and a twinkling eye will be your downfall.
"You a travelin' musician or somethin'?"
He laughs, in pure delight. As if the notion is something he'd never consider, but he loves it either way. His laugh makes your cheeks tingle with warmth, and you curse yourself for such a strong reaction. 
"Something like that..." he nods, eyes shining with mischief "I follow music 'ere I go."
With a defeated sigh, your shoulders slump, as you throw the dirty rag at the car.
"I'll get you some food and drink" you concede "Then, you can go on your merry way, yeah?"
"Yes Ma'am" he agrees immediately, his eyes following you, as you exit the workshop, sliding the door closed "D'you live here alone, darlin'?"
The question makes you remember the knife in your skirts, but you don't falter in your steps, as you make your way towards the front entrance to your house. It's not wise, running from a predator, if he indeed turns out to be one. 
"That's none of your business, is it?"
"Fair enough" he nods, walking behind you, teetering the line of being much too close for comfort "Though it's a curious thing, don't you agree? A woman of your young age, alone in the woods. No ring on your finger either..."
He knows you're not alone. He smelled the other woman, felt the lazy drag of blood through her veins a mile away. But you don't need to know that, nuh huh. 
Your right hand tightens into a fist on instinct, at his observation. Skipping the steps to the porch without an answer, you leave the door open for him. 
But he doesn't enter, stopping right at the entrance, his shoulder leaning on the painted door frame, mirroring his stance from before. You shoot him a questioning glance over your shoulder, and once again, he scratches the back of his neck with a sigh. Such a boyish, shy gesture. Or a camouflage. You're undecided yet. 
"Would be improper, to walk in without an invitation..." he explains, voice quiet, and almost timid. 
Something tugs at the back of your mind. The story your cousin told you just hours ago, rings out like a sermon between your ears, and gooseflesh erupts all across your arms. Stupid. Utterly stupid and impossible, and yet... Your shoulders jump up, and down, in a nonchalant shrug, before you disappear into the kitchen. No use pondering over demons. The night is scary enough without them, and strange men can be worse than all the ghouls combined. 
As soon, as you're out of sight, Remmick growls under his breath, finger scratching at the peeling paint on the entrance. He can smell you in the house, sweetness and musk, gasoline and cherry pie. Your heartbeat has calmed down significantly, but he knows, the cards he's been dealt are tricky to play. Good thing, he's a skilled gambler, and you've already extended a hand of hospitality. Already let him see a glimmer, of what's hidden under that hard shell. The sweetness of the fruit within, warmth like the sunlight he's been denied for so long. Your blood will be exquisite, he's sure of it. But before that...
There's a thrill like no other, when playing with one's food. 
"There you go" you announce, slipping out of the kitchen, your clothes in proper place this time, obscuring the sight of your bare skin from him "Water and food, for your journey"
His eyes trail over your body, before landing on the glass in your hand, along with a package, wrapped in cloth. Another smile graces his features, this time however, he looks less like a shy farm boy, and more like a pleased man. All skin, and bone, and muscle. The transformation is quite jarring, and you have to blink a couple of times, not allowing yourself to be distracted, by the gentle shadows of his eyelashes on his cheeks. 
"Thank you, lass" he answers, taking the water first, and downing it all in one go, causing a small laugh to rip through your lips, almost despite yourself.
 "Forgive me, seems I'm more parched than I thought" he inclines his head, and you hand him the package. 
This time, his fingers run the length of your palm, sweaty and rough, as they retrieve the offering, and your mind goes to some very unsightly places. His eyes trail up slowly to your face, and you swear, you can see his pupils shining, just for a split second. 
Danger. The word climbs up your spine, takes root in your mind, as his tongue slips out to wet his chapped lips. Pink, and soft. 
Don't let the monsters in, your cousin's voice follows you. But she didn't mention anything about letting the monster stay a while, right at the threshold. She didn't mention the shivers you feel, prickling at your skin under his inquisitive gaze. And she sure as shit didn't mention, how your breathing gets slower, deeper, when you recognize that traitorous need in the depths of his eyes. 
It's been a while, since you've had a man, but you still remember, what it looks like, when you're wanted. When there's hunger crackling like fireworks between two people. And the hunger this stranger exudes, is nearly overwhelming, suffocating in the best way possible. 
Time to end this, cut the weeds out, before they overpower all rational thought.
"You should get on your way" you say, and shiver at the way his eyes snap to your lips, drinking in their shape as you speak. 
"Just one more thing..." he murmurs, low in his throat, so quiet, yet so unbelievably loud in the oppressive silence of the night. 
This time you're the one wetting your lips, preparing yourself for something, although you're not sure for what. The air feels sticky, smooth like honey, passing between you and him. An intimate sort of exchange, that slowly, but surely, melts your insides. Makes you feel a bit lighter, as if your cousin's spirit has invaded your usual hardness. 
Is this how it feels to be her? And if so, when will the first crash of thunder bring you down? Just like it brought her to the ground, again and again.
The man's eyes move back to yours, capturing your gaze and holding it hostage. 
"A cigarette for the road?" his words are a whisper now, and you feel ashamed, at how long it takes you to register his words. 
When you finally do, a single arch of your eyebrow makes his lips pull into a lazy smile. One that has no right working on you as much as it does. Alas...
"I saw you smoking in the workshop" he explains.
"...Ah..."
Your hand slips into your skirts, fingers brushing over the knife handle, and you take out a half empty pack. You offer it to him, and he reaches for the cigarette, his fingers sinfully elegant, as he presses it against his mouth, licking lightly at the tobacco. Something tightens low inside you at the movement of his pink tongue. 
He's good. You'll give him that. 
"I shall be off, then" he takes a slow step backwards, keeping his eyes on you, like he tries to pin you in place. "G'night, darlin'"
As soon as his boots hit the soft ground in front of your porch, your senses come back to you like a flood, as if some ancient spell has been lifted off your shoulders, and you straighten out with a sharp breath. 
You don't know what compels you. What wild, unfamiliar force beckons you, but before you can stop yourself, you're calling out to him.
"Stranger!"
He twirls on his heel, like a dancer on a stage.
"What's your name?"
"Remmick" he answers, voice carrying through the night. 
Then, he jumps up, dances a little jig that pushes clouds of dust into the air, and you can't help yourself. You laugh. A clear, honest sound, that surprises you in it's lightness. 
Remmick bows, turns around, and walks into the shadows of the woods, leaving an indent in the shape of his curved smile in your brain. 
"Remmick..." you repeat under your breath, before shaking your head at your own antics, and closing the door of your home.
The moon laughs at you as well, her light slipping into your room through a half open window. It's not a merry laugh however. It's a mournful, hopeless one, to which you are none the wiser, falling into dream-filled sleep. And as soon, as your eyelids close, as soon as your consciousness slips, a shadow rises from the earth, hanging over you like an executor's axe. 
***
You awake in the early morning, sweat clinging to your feverish skin, your hand squeezed tightly between your thighs. You don't remember what dream has put you in this state of mess, but your limbs shake as you stand up, your heart beating right out of your chest. It's a little disappointing, really, you think to yourself, as you wash off the slick from your thighs, that you've become reduced to this so easily. Surely not because of last night's visit. You're stronger than this. Stronger than some wanton virgin, who's never felt a man before. 
And yet, as you skip into the kitchen, and prepare for the day, you can't seem to shake the image of him from your brain. Like a sickness immune to all ointments, Remmick lingers under your skin, slithering and burning. 
Your cousin joins you downstairs some time later, lured out of bed by the smell of freshly baked goods.
"Whooo! Baby!" she sighs, taking in the kitchen, her smile crinkling the corners of her eyes "You gonna sell these?" 
The sluggishness with which you turn to her, makes you realize just how distracted you've truly been. Ridiculous. You're being ridiculous, and for what?
"Yeah" you nod, wiping flour off your hands into your apron "Gonna head to town in a bit. Sure you gonna be alright on your own?" 
Your cousin rolls her eyes, and steals an apple from the fruit basket. 
"I'm not a lil' kid no more" she tells you, like she's reminding you of homework, and it's your turn to roll your eyes at her. 
Ain't you?, you wanna say, but you bite your tongue in time. She doesn't deserve your crudeness. So you cross the kitchen and peck her cheek affectionately. As if to make up for the thoughts, that are left unsaid.
"I know, I know. And you know where the shotgun is, in case trouble comes a knockin', yeah?" she nods once, with a resolute expression.
You recognize the irony in your words. Last night you practically invited a strange man into your home, just 'cause he smiled nice. In your stubborn refusal to admit your own transgression, you tell yourself, you'd shoot his ass to high heaven's, if he tried anything. Even if the notion rings hollow in your own brain. 
"What's on your mind, cuz?" 
Her voice drags you back to reality with harshness, and you take a sharp breath through your teeth. One, she immediately notices, her eyebrows scrunching into a frown. 
"Nothin'." a weak lie, a pathetic one, really "Just... Ghost and Goblins"
Concern melts into a teasing smile, as your cousin starts packing up the still steaming bread. 
"Ah..." she laughs, bright and airy "Some stranger in the night sunk his teeth into you?" 
For a moment you watch her expression carefully, trying to decipher if she knows, if she heard. Even if she sleeps long and hard, like the dead. All you can see on her face, is a smile of someone proud of her stories taking root. Relief and guilt mix in your gut, and you have to look away, before you crack. 
It doesn't matter. Nothing happened, and you'll never meet the smiling stranger again, so why do you feel so... What is it exactly that you're feeling? Disappointed? No, disappointment is for people like your cousin. For people who hope, who fly. Then what is it, biting at the back of your spine like a bloodsucking flea?
"I'll be back from town before you know it" your voice is quiet, dismissive, but she doesn't seem to hold it against you.
"Have fun" she calls after you. Then, silently, she adds "God knows you need it."
The road to town goes by smoothly, your truck jumping and bumping over stray stones. The bustle of the market welcomes you like an old friend, and just for a moment, you allow yourself to miss it. The people, filtering through the streets, laughing, talking, keeping friendly despite the underlying tensions in the air.
Your father would take you here often, while he was alive. He'd stand under the very same sign, you're lifting over your truck now, letting people come to him with business. You'd listen, like a diligent little student, soaking in the wisdom of the trade, helping him run books, count the money, catch conversations.
They all knew you here. From the very moment you've been old enough to stand on your own, you were part of something bigger, than just your family. Always your parents daughter, but so much more at the same time. And now... Now you're a ghost of your own choosing. Respected, liked even, but always on the outside, no longer part of something, but a welcomed guest nonetheless. 
Bread goes out first, then sweet rolls and pies. You've been slaving away in the kitchen since the break of dawn, but as the sunset comes closer, you'd be damned it it wasn't worth it. Soon enough, your purse is filled, and you're packing your stand back into the truck, arms burning from work. 
Wiping the sweat off your face, your neck, you make your way across the street, to the supplies store, where, as soon as the bell above rings, you're greeted by the owner. A woman, who could've been your peer, could've been a friend, if you were someone different. If you were your cousin, or at least, not a ghost.
"Look what the wind blew in." she leans on the counter, hair slipping out from under the scarf on her head "Haven't seen you in a while."
"You know me, always busy..." your eyes already scan the products, landing heavily on the prices.
She doesn't know you, though. You've never given her an opportunity to know you, and perhaps, that's why you always choose this shop. Perhaps, that's the only time you allow yourself to hope. That maybe this time, you'll be different, this time you'll let yourself be open. That's the reason you know, disappointment is for the hopeful. 
"You got some flour for me?" 
The shopkeeper nods, crosses the floor and jabs her foot into a couple of bags by the window.
"Got some milk too" she says "Hell, even some sugar, if you wanna"
To that you shake your head.
"I've got some sugar left still. And I'll pick up some eggs on the way back, from Ol' Johnson's farm"
A beat of silence.
"Oh? You haven't heard then?"
"Heard what?" you don't sound too interested, already pulling out a bunch of dollars and sliding them on the counter. 
The shopkeeper walks over to you slowly, a solemn expression on her face, and that finally gives you a pause. The sun paints the inside of the shop a deep orange color, your neck tingling with heat and sweat, hair sticking to your skin. 
"Ol' Johnson's dead. God rest his soul" the shopkeeper says, swiping a sign of the Cross over her heart, and you repeat the action, like it's second nature. 
Coldness seeps through you, a strange sort of feeling, like there's something more hidden in the revelation. Some terrible truth just waiting to bury you. You swallow thickly, trying to ground yourself. 
"What happened?"
Another moment of tension filled silence passes, as the shopkeeper takes a deep breath, eyes scrunching in sorrow. 
"His wife came back from her family down South. People said she found him, dead and burning in the morning sun."
Cold turns to freezing in your bones, brain working overtime under your skull.
"They burned him?" you ask, mindful not to sound too curious, too insensitive.
"Sheriff said they killed him first, mangled the poor man beyond recognition."
"Jesus...." you sigh, trying, and failing to push away an image of the old man's face, scorched and bloody. "What about his widow?" 
"She's staying at the Motel until they burry him. I think she'll head back South after, there ain't nothin' keeping her here anymore."
You nod solemnly at her words. A quick thought passes through you, a worry, where you'll get your eggs now. But you scold yourself hard in your mind for such heartlessness. This is not the time, nor the place for wondering about trivial matters. Not when a man's life has been snuffed out, and so brutally at that. 
"The funeral's tomorrow, if you care" the shopkeeper's words snap you back from your cold thoughts, and you realize, that yes, you do care "We'll have a small thing for him at the Joint"
"Yeah..." you speak before you have the time to think on it "I'll be there."
She helps you load your groceries into your truck, a comfortable silence settling between the two of you, and once again, you wish things would've been different. Instead, you thank her with a dollar bill, and start the car on the road back to your home, where you're not alone, but solitude still awaits. 
By the time you arrive, it's dark outside, the porch light guiding your steps. The house is quiet, your cousin asleep in her room, buried under heavy covers. You linger in her doorway for a moment, mind lost deep in thought, as you watch her peaceful form. Something tugs on your heart. Some undeniable feeling of sorrow, dragging your heart down to the wooden floors. 
What you're mourning, you're not sure. But it brings a tear to your eye nonetheless, and your feet carry you outside, into the peaceful darkness, the crisp evening air. There, you can finally breathe, you can let the tears flow easily, without worrying about your sorrow staining the warmth inside. 
Hands clutching your head, your shoulders shake in silent sobs, the heaviness, and the cold of today reaping it's spoils on your body. And you stay there, soil soaking up your tears greedily, until the steps of the porch creak loudly, tearing your heart straight from your chest. 
You shoot up, turning your whole body so fast, you nearly collide with one of the pillars supporting the roof over the porch. Hand wraps around the handle of the knife, perpetually hidden in your skirts. And then you see him.
"Heaven's you startle easy, darlin'" Remmick raises his hands, giving you a sympathetic smile. 
Here he sits, right at the porch step. The man you were sure you'd never see again, same clothes, same twinkle in his eye. He gazes at your tear stained face, with a calmness of someone who's seen more sadness, than you can comprehend. 
"The hell you doin' here?" you try to demand, but your voice is still too shaky, and your hand too weak, to hold the knife any longer. 
"Heard a bird sing in mourning" he answers, something warm slithering into his voice "Followed it's song all the way here."
You should be better than this. Stronger than this. Hell, you are stronger than this. But there's something so gentle in his presence, so different from the hunger you've felt the first time you've met. And your bones are tired, and your head is pounding, and God... 
Slowly, like a wild animal learning to trust, you sit back down on the porch, a safe distance from him. But nothing can shield you from the warmth of his body next to you. From the unexplainable sense of calm, that floods your veins with every breath you take. And the night is so quiet, not a noise around you...
"I could sing you a song" he starts, and you scoff at the notion, a wet, broken sound "Something that would lull your pain to rest..."
"I don't need cheerin' up" you cut him off, and he smiles in a way, that makes you feel exposed like a bleeding wound.
You look down at your hands, woman's hands marred with signs of hard work. No longer soft and gentle, but trembling and covered with callouses. You're proud of them, of every scar and blemish, and you wish they were clean at the same time. You wish they were made for holding silk instead. At least just for tonight, in the dead silence.
"No" he murmurs "No you don't"
His eyes meet yours, when you risk a look in his direction, and what you find, makes your heart feel light as a feather, and heavy as a stone at the same time. 
"Cheerin' doesn't bring anythin' for you, does it." he says it like it's a fact, like he knows you from within "You know the value of sufferin'."
God damn him, you think, new tears already stinging your eyes. He leans in, cold breath tickling your cheeks, and to your surprise, you don't run. You don't want to run. Not even a flinch passes you, when his fingers brush the stray hairs out your face, pushing the rest over your shoulder. 
A small hiccup rips through your throat, because you never want to be touched. Never, until now, until him. Any other boy from town would already have his neck scuffed, for even daring to get this close. But this stranger, this man, this...
"Remmick..." you whisper, something wet and broken in your tone, something you haven't heard since your mother's funeral.
He hums, deep in his chest, as if he's pleased you remember his name. As if somehow, in this state of brokenness, he's the most proud of you. Your head ducks on instinct, when he moves closer, taking a long whiff of your hair. 
"You know" he continues, low and intimate, his lips moving like the wings of a butterfly over your forehead "That tears can be sweeter, than any smile, any laughter.
Fingers pinch your chin, pulling your head up, until your glassy eyes meet his once again. For a moment, he searches your face, gaze drifting over your wet eyelashes, your trembling cheeks, your mouth opening and closing.
"Because tears are honest" he finishes, and a ragged sound of a gasp escapes through your teeth.
Your hand finds purchase on his chest, feeling the rough material of his shirt, the buttons hanging on a couple of flimsy threads. You could mend them for him, you could offer him food, drink, your bed, anything. If he'd only ask. 
But he doesn't. Instead, his large hand presses gently over the flushed skin of your cheekbone, thumb running gently under your eye, gathering saltiness as it goes. 
"Let me taste it, Sweetness" he whispers, pleading, his face leaning impossibly close "Let me taste your honesty."
His breath mingles with yours, and you can almost taste him on your tongue, so close, yet not close enough. Your fingers tighten on his chest, dragging the fabric beneath your nails, and finally he dips down. 
But before you can feel him fully, before he drinks you like communion wine, your cousin's voice rings out throughout the house.
Heart jumping into your throat, you nearly rip yourself away from him, the spell of his honeyed words gone as quick, as it appeared. You stumble back on your feet, flushed and confused, gaping at him like a fish out of water. Something flashes through his expression, quick like a band of wild horses, but you catch it, you always do.
Perhaps, just a trick of the lights, something insignificant and unreal. But just like your cousin's stories, it lingers. 
If tears are honest, then what do you call the sudden meanness in his eyes? The ghost of irritated anger, that pulls his mouth down, sets heavily over his brow? 
Danger, you brain supplies again, and as your cousin calls out your name again, dread climbs up your back. 
He repeats your name, so silent you can barely hear him, but even so, he looks victorious. Defeated, but victorious nonetheless, and your instincts kick in tenfold. The handle of the knife is cold in your grasp, a grounding weight against your hand. He doesn't move, just stares at you, expression of utter calm gracing his confusing features. 
Now that's how a proper predator looks like. Half hidden under the shadows, his mouth open and panting, as if tasting the lingering scent of you from air alone. There's no tension in his figure, only steady confidence. He's gotten your name, he's almost gotten your trust, your honesty. 
You wish you were stronger. You were taught to be stronger. 
The front door creaks open, and you turn to push your cousin back inside, scream at her to stay back, stay where it's warm, and safe. Where the darkness won't catch her. 
But just as she steps outside, her thin sleeping gown flowing around her form, your eyes flicker to the porch steps. And he's gone. 
Not a trace of the strange man, of Remmick. Only the moon and utter silence. 
"You're back" your cousin wraps her arms around your waist, tugging you inside "I fell asleep waitin', I'm sorry"
"No, I..." you try to respond, barely hearing your voice over the thundering sound of your own heart, eyes scanning the tree line, every shadow looking like him. 
"You good? You look like you've seen a ghost" 
Finally, she drags you over the threshold, closing the doors behind. 
"You've been cryin'?" 
"No it's just..." you swallow thickly, throat tight "Needed some fresh air, don't you worry your head about me"
Your cousin looks beyond skeptical, a strange reversal of your usual roles, but she doesn't push, God bless her soul. Instead, she kisses your forehead, wiping away the ghost of Remmicks lips, and at last, your shoulders relax. 
"You work too hard, y'know" she murmurs, sleep still clinging to her "It's not good for the nerves" 
You know exactly what's not good for your nerves, and it sure as shit isn't your work, but you can't say that. You can't reveal the true source of your frazzled state, if only to shield her from all the confusion. All the dread and longing, that's mixing dangerously in your gut. She's been through enough, and suddenly awave of fresh guilt crashes over you. 
Carelessness is a sin, you never thought you'd commit. Yet here you are. God forgive you, because you cannot do it yourself.
***
Leaving the window open is your continuous mistake. One, which Remmick uses generously. 
His body levitates in the cold air, unmoving like a hanged man's corpse, scraping his nails over the window frame. Stuck in perpetual stillness, the warmth of his breath fogs the glass. Two dots of red cut through the darkness, overpower the moon's cold light behind him. Like a shadow of death to come, his presence looms over your room, over your sleeping form.
You never sleep under covers. He noticed it a while back, when you didn't know him, when he still thought you were just a bag filled with blood. His for the taking, to sate his never ending thirst. 
Now, he sees the bag has arms, that curve elegantly over the pillow. He notices the smoothness of skin, the delicate slope of your neck, where your blood sings a hymn just for him. Such a sweet thing, the ripest of fruits, just waiting to be devoured. 
Later. 
He has to remind himself to be patient, no matter how hard the pull of your saccharine scent calls to him. He needs you pliant, he wants you at your fullest. He wants love dripping from your fingertips like a fountain. Just so he can lap it up like a hungry dog. 
For now, he satisfies himself with this image of you, splayed out on the covers. A ghost of a Babylonian queen, come to life in this abandoned neck of the woods. 
Remmick takes a deep breath, humming to himself, as your scent fills every pore of his damned body. Dark and heavy, sweet on his tongue. He closes his eyes, nose pressing into the glass, teeth biting into his lower lip. What sweet torture this is. Being so close, yet so far away. 
Makes the spoils all the more worth it, in the end.
***
Ol' Johnson was a good man. 
He never took more, than he needed. Greeted everyone with a smile and a story, told in a voice roughened by years of smoking cheap tobbaco. He helped you, when you couldn't bring yourself to call on anyone, and kept helping you, until you've learned to accept it. 
And now he's dead. And all you have to remember him by, are dwindling memories, and a glass of lukewarm whiskey in your hand. 
The funeral service was a miserable affair. His crying widow nearly drowned out the sounds of the sermon with her sobs, and your heart broke for the poor woman, who lost everything in one night. She didn't look at you, when you offered her condolences, and you couldn't blame her. Tear stained eyes stayed  fixed firmly on the wooden coffin, as they lowered her husband into the ground. And they didn't move an inch, when ground covered him forever. 
She's a good woman too. Kind in a natural way, that seems to spread warmth wherever she goes. Always willing to give more, than what's expected of her. Now, the burden of being warm falls on the shoulders of the town. And they all take the mantle in stride, holding her through her grief, offering her comfort, that can only be found in community. 
You don't fit in here anymore. Besides, who would want comfort from a ghost. 
So you linger at the back of the Joint, sipping whiskey through your teeth, trying to remind yourself, that solitude is what you chose. You chose safety, you chose your cousin, your family. You can't regret that, you're simply not allowed to. 
Soon enough, mourning of death becomes a celebration of life, as musicians take stage, and bodies filter onto the dance floor. Sweaty, greased with alcohol, and yearning for a moment of recklessness, they dance. And with every step, every twirl, every pull of the guitar strings, you feel Ol' Johnson's spirit. You feel every story, every helpful hand, every puff of cigarette smoke. 
You can't stay still. Despite your promises, your responsibilities, you can't let his memory fade into a sad song. So you abandon your glass, your lonesome seat at the table, and you join in dance. You dance like you've never danced before, heels stomping on the wooden floor, sweat dripping down your face like tears would've. The music swells, and swells without stopping, and you're not stopping either. Not until your legs are burning, and your breath gets stuck in your throat. 
Then, you're stumbling out the Joint, passing by the bouncer into the cold night's air. Where there's stars, and the endlessness of the skies. You want to keep dancing, even if your legs beg you to stop, even when you collide with the cool metal of your truck's door.
This is freedom. This is love. This is the only regret you have. 
Digging out the keys from your purse, you eyes catch something in the dark. Two shining points, deep ahead of you. Your blood boils under your skin, a familiar feeling, which you keep forgetting ever day. Because you know this sight, deep within your bones, it settled a long time ago, a memory of something so terrible, your mind had to protect you from it. Had to keep forgetting. It can't protect you now however, and as the familiar spell of curiosity roots you into place, Remmick steps out of the shadows. 
Moon paints his skin in glowing paleness, something otherworldly clinging to his every step. 
No knife will help you now, you realize, as your back presses further into the cold side of your truck. And no one on the Joint will hear you, should you call for help. That's the price you pay for being a ghost. Music still plays inside, a quick tune that borrows it's rhythm from your feverish heart. 
"You followin' me or somethin'?" voice cutting through the night, you feign confidence, crossing your arms in front of your chest.
Such a flimsy shield, one he'd tear without even trying. But he stops, a safe distance from you, his palms raised high in a placating gesture you know too well. There's not a trace of that alarming meanness from the night before, a lazy smile gracing his features instead. 
"I told you" he starts, tone light and friendly, like before "I follow music, that's all"
God, you wish you could believe him.
"This here a Juke Joint?" he asks, and once again, suspicion rears it's ugly head in your gut. 
"Ain't you a traveling musician? You should know where to play" 
He laughs, sheepishly. Although you're more and more convinced, it's a wolf laughing underneath sheep's hide. You can't shake the image of his face, twisted in anger, the two red dots hanging in air, just where his eyes could've been. 
"Folks wouldn't let me in" he shrugs, and you notice the considerable lack of the guitar on his back "A private celebration I think."
"A wake." you cut swiftly.
"Ah..."
He doesn't ask who died. You would've found it strange, if you didn't know. You don't want to know, fighting that awful feeling of your guts churning in premonition. But you do, and despite that, you can't run. Still, after all the dots connecting in your mind, you can't run from him, his shining eyes and his curling smile. 
Remmick comes closer, measured step after another, as if he's approaching some feral little animal, thrashing in the hunter's binds. Or a killer, that's found an easy victim. Your blood runs cold in your veins, gooseflesh covering your skin. Still, he doesn't snap his jaws, not yet. 
"You dance mighty fine, darlin'." the comment doesn't even sound like a flirtation, just a pure, bare bones fact "Saw you through the window, twirlin' and stompin'."
He doesn't wait for your reply, reaching into the pocket of his trousers, and pulling out a cigarette case. You recognize the design despite the darkness, and your throat tightens, until you can't breathe properly. God forgive you, you've almost let a killer into your home. Would've let him into your heart, if he'd ask. 
"Where'd you get that?" there's a tremble in your voice, one, that puts an edge to his easygoing smile.
"My Daddy gave it to me, for the long road ahead."
Lies come like second nature to him, leaving his lips dripping with honey. Once again, he licks at the end of the cigarette, eyes flickering up to meet yours. 
"My friend had one exactly like that" you note, still trying to cling onto some semblance of hope.
Alas, hope only breeds disappointment, you know that too well.
A slender flame from the lighter flickers in his pupils, as he lights the cigarette, taking a long drag of smoke. 
"Maybe we've got the same Daddy" he muses, clouds of white slipping past his teeth.
You'd laugh, if you were light as a feather. 
Another drag of the cigarette, and Remmick closes the distance between the two of you, standing foot to foot. Your body fails you, at this crucial moment, because all you can do is watch him, eyes wide, stuck between pleading and anger. 
"What are you?" the question leaves you, before you can catch it, and the man before you sighs, shaking his head.
"Told ya'. Travellin' musician" 
Your mouth opens, but he's quicker, flicking the cigarette to the side, and grabbing ahold of the back of your neck. You grab at his wrist, but don't go any further. His hold is gentle, despite everything you'd anticipate, and he leans his head towards your ear, like a lover whispering a secret. 
"Shhh..." he shushes you quietly, cold breath tickling your feverish skin "I've already decided I'll help you."
Confusion overrides any rational feeling, and your hands slip to the coarse fabric of his well worn shirt. The buttons are still barely hanging, but now you'd rather be caught dead, than mend them. Hell, you probably will be. Something mean and dark rises in your throat, pushing past your teeth with a hiss of a venomous snake.
"I don't need savin- ah!" 
A small, surprised moan tears it's way through your throat, as Remmick runs his tongue over the delicate spot behind your ear. His fingers bury themselves into your hair, gently massaging it in a way, that is almost grotesquely delicate. You can feel his mouth, running the length of your jaw, up your cheek, where he presses delicate kisses. The tip of your nose is next, then the softness under your eyes, the wrinkle of conflicting emotions between your eyebrows. 
"C'mon darlin'." he whispers into your hairline "Won't you let this sinner in?"
Once again, he doesn't leave time for you to reply, diving down towards your lips, taking them into a slow kiss, that makes your insides flutter. You should hate yourself for the way you're not pushing him away, for the way you chase his mouth with your own, when he pulls back for just a second. 
You should hate him for everything, but most importantly for the moan he gives out, when his tongue slips into your mouth. Such a beautiful sound, it shakes every bone in your body, makes your fingers dig into the fabric of his shirt.
He tastes of iron, an unmistakable bloody residue, but it's so sweet on your tongue, you can't seem to care. Like poison attacking your senses, you let yourself be carried away, mind going deliciously blank. His hand still continues to coax you with the gentle movements of his fingers in your hair. While the other takes it's fill of your body, warm palm pressing against your waist, your hip, pushing the silken dress up your thigh. 
Then it moves higher, until he's grasping at your heart through the plush flesh of your breast, and this time you're the one moaning. His thumb brushes over your hardening nipple, pulling another sound from you, like he's playing a fiddle.
Heat rises within you like the tide, every touch, every caress building up a storm of want. Soon, it doesn't matter anymore, that he's surely the monster from your cousin's stories, because he kisses like an angel. 
His mouth leaves yours, a sticky mess of saliva that should disgust you, but God, you've never tasted anything sweeter. Once more, he attaches himself to your neck, kissing it with fervor, broken sounds escaping him, like a starved dog feasting for the first time in months. His hand palms at your breast one last time, before reaching back, and soon enough you hear the click of your truck's door. 
There's no time for questions, for concern. Not when the need runs so deep, and begs to be satiated. He pushes your body inside, splays you out on the back seat, amongst old blankets and empty bags of flour. Your thighs fall apart, to accommodate him, when he climbs over your body, like he can't bear being away from it even for a second. 
"The door..." you pant out, against the hunger of his lips.
"No one will see us" he huffs into your shoulder, and the utmost certainty in his voice makes you believe him. 
This time it's your hands doing the massaging, as you grip the black strands of his hair, trying to bring him closer. Trying to morph the Devil himself into your body. He hikes your leg up, over his waist in response, and you can feel with damning clarity, his burning hardness pressing against the flimsy cotton of your underwear. 
You want him inside so bad, it's nearly breaking you apart. 
"Too damned sweet..." he murmurs into the running pulse of your neck, and your entire body freezes, when he teases the place with surprisingly sharp teeth.
"...no..." 
It's a quiet, barely audible whisper, but he straightens himself on his arms, hovering above you with a questioning look on his flushed face. 
"No biting..." you repeat, louder this time, your heaving chest brushing over his "No pain. I don't wanna hurt tonight."
A blink, a gasp, and Remmick morphs between your very eyes. His expression turns into something so gentle, so caring, you're sure a man like him shouldn't be able to look like that. He takes a deep breath through his mouth, a broken sound emanating from deep within his chest. And then, he kisses you again. Slow, intimate, until your head is spinning.
"The things you do to me, woman" he whispers into your mouth, and starts to crawl lower. 
His tongue laps at your collarbone, lips sucking into the skin of your sternum. Your body arches off the seat, as he dips into your cleavage, letting your breasts spill out the top of your dress. He kisses them, like they're more than just a body part. It feels sacred, feels like a prayer in a language you don't fully understand. 
Another series of kisses over the fabric covering your stomach, and soon enough, he's making a home for himself between your thighs. Your body starts to shake in anticipation, half lidded eyes following the movements of his dark haired head, as he leaves wet kisses on the inside of your thighs. 
"Christ Almighty..." he groans, as his thumb runs over the wet patch steadily forming on your underwear "Like Heaven's Gates opening for me"
Your hips buck in a stuttering motion, as he puts his mouth over the cotton, tongue lapping at the fabric in a promise of things to come. 
"Knew you'd be sweet" he comments, voice dipping down so low, you can feel it in your insides.
Then, your legs get thrown over his shoulders, and before you have time to adjust, he pushes your undergarments to the side, and nearly drowns his face in your cunt. 
The sound you make is nothing short of scandalous, as he begins to lap at you, greedily soaking in the very essence of your being. His tongue finds your clit faster, than any man before, and as his mouth close over the pulsing bundle of nerves, you throw your head back. 
He's good, so good in fact, that your stomach begins to tighten in seconds. Your hands flail at your sides, nails scraping over the backseat, over your dress, his scalp. You don't know what to do with your body, completely surrendering to the ancient magic, he pulls from you with every drag of his tongue.
And God, the sounds he makes. You've never met someone so vocal, so utterly devoted to drinking every last drop you have to offer. Soon enough, your thighs start to shake, the pressure building inside you reaching levels you never thought possible. And he doesn't stop, not even for a moment, licking, sucking, flicking his tongue until your voice becomes hoarse. 
"Remmick..." you mewl.
The sound of his name feels right, leaving your lips, feels like truth. Like that mythical honesty, he wanted to taste in your tears. 
His grip on your body tightens, and it's as if he's been possessed by some demon of desire. You can feel his face pressing closer, deeper into you, and that's the final straw. Stars erupt in your vision, as you come, hard and fast, earth shattering around you. Body nearly flying off the car seat, your breath gets punched out of your lungs with the force of the most delicious of sensations. 
Remmick seems almost reluctant to part with your cunt, licking at the swollen flesh, until your hand slaps him away, too sensitive for any more attention. His face is glistening in the pale moonlight, and his sinful tongue cleans everything with an almost inhuman groan. 
"You're heaven, mo ghrà" his voice breaks "You're sunlight incarnate"
There's devotion like nothing you've heard before in his tone, and if you weren't so completely wrecked, you would've blushed. Instead, you reach for him, and he obeys, coming back up, until you can kiss him again. 
His arms sneak around your waist, pulling you up into an embrace, and your boneless body let's him do what he likes. Let's him settle you into his lap, legs nestling on both sides of his thighs. Forever greedy, he ruts into your twitching core, and you're cruelly reminded about just how empty you feel. 
"You'll never be alone" he whispers, voice muffled by the skin of your chest "You'll never be forsaken, not while I walk this earth." 
Something in the way he says that, makes your spine tingle with a dreadful sort of shiver. But there's comfort in his words, enough of it, for you to throw caution to the wind, and reach for the button of his trousers with shaky hands. 
You'll worry later. For now, you want him to make you forget what worrying even looks like. 
And as if reading your thoughts, he obliges, pushing your hands away, to do the work himself. His trousers fall open, and he frees himself with a choked groan. His cock rests on your lower stomach, hot and ready, smearing drops of precum over your skin. Your muscles tighten in anticipation, hands squeezing his shoulders.
"My girl" he murmurs "My sweet girl, let me in"
All you can do, is nod. 
Remmick lifts you up, as if you weight nothing, positioning you just right, before he slowly lowers you onto him. Your combined groans fill the silence of the truck, as you stretch around him. He's gentle, letting you adjust before pushing into you a bit further, until he's buried to the hilt in your heat. His head falls back against the headboard, hands roaming your body. You can see the treacherous light in his eyes, now, finally a tangible truth, rather than a figment of your dreams.
It doesn't scare you though, nothing scares you now. Not when he fills you up so completely, you feel like you belong for the first time in years. This moment of stillness, of silence interrupted only by laboured breathing, doesn't last long. 
Nails digging into the bottom of your thighs, he rocks you in a steady, almost languid rhythm. You flutter around him, small gasps of pleasure leaving your lips, and that familiar pressure introduces itself once again. He speeds up, guiding your hips in an up and down motion, that soon makes your teeth clink together. 
"That's right... God in Heaven... So warm... Mmmmm..." his voice flows between murmurs, groans and whispers, every word making your insides twitch, making your eyes flutter.
 "Take me in... Good... Deeper..." 
You can feel him, pressing into your bones, nestling into the deepest parts of your soul, and with every ragged moan he breathes, something close to sweet affection blossoms inside you. Honey and milk, they drip from your fingertips, as you caress his face, contorted in a beautiful image of pleasure. You could love that face. You won't, but Heaven's above, you could. 
"Christ" he chokes out, hips bucking off the seat "My sweet girl, mo ghr- ah..."
The sound of his voice alone makes you come again, lighter, but no less pleasurable. And as you tighten around him, a choked sound leaves his throat. His arms encircle you whole, pushing himself so close, he might as well find home in your chest cavity. Soon, his movements stutter, face hidden in your shoulder, breathing in the scent of your hair, and with a last, decisive thrust, he spills himself inside you. 
Bodies covered in sweat, you both shake in each other's arms, for a small, blissful moment being completely alone, shielded from the world. Remmick holds you, like you're his only hope, mouthing gently at the skin of your throat, whispering things you barely comprehend. Prayers, that are marked by something ancient, older than the trees and the rivers. Worship, that flows like blood from a wound. 
"Thabharfainn fuil mo chroí dui..."
You want to whisper back, but there are no words, that could compare to his. So you do the next best thing, running your fingers through his hair, tracing circles into his back, mapping his features with delicate kisses. He basks in the affection, eyes fluttering closed, a familiar twitch of renewed desire stirring your insides. Your thumb brushes over his bottom lip, still wet with whatever mixture of fluids, and he parts his mouth under your touch. 
And that's when it all comes shattering down. 
Because hidden beneath the chapped softness, are teeth that don't belong to a human. Sharp, pointed angrily, perfect for tearing at flesh. 
Remmick hums in his throat, feeling the way your body seizes with dread, and as his eyes slowly open, you're met with another damning sight. 
Those aren't human eyes either. They shine at you, reflecting moonlight in a haze of red that makes your skin crawl. 
People who dare to hope, are the one's crushed by disappointment. How dare you forget that?
"It all makes sense now, doesn't it?" he asks in a low voice, all traces of gentleness gone in an instance "The nightly visits, the quiet in the woods..."
His finger traces a line from between your breasts, up to your bobbing throat.
"The pull you feel, even now." a slow roll of his hips makes you choke on air.
Remmick's smile turns cruel. There's no denying, what you're seeing, and it's no longer the man you almost could've loved. It's not a man at all, but a monster your cousin's stories warned you about. Things you believed to be impossible, come to life before your very eyes.
"What are you?" your voice breaks, and he smiles, as if the question has become some sort of a joke shared between the two of you. 
"How about I make you a deal?" 
You've never noticed, how sharp his nails are, not until they drag back down your throat. Gentle enough not to break skin, but brutal enough to leave imprints in their wake. 
"I'll race you back to your house, and if you get there first, I'll leave you two be."
Dread turns your blood into ice, and all you can do, is stare in shock, as Remmick lifts you off his lap. His cock slides out of you languidly, and for the first time, since you've met him, you feel disgust. At him, at yourself, at the whole waking world. 
He brushes your sweaty hair out of your forehead, claws dragging over your face as he does so. Then, a quick press of his lips to your temple, and you shiver in your spot. 
"Be quick" he instructs in a tone that is entirely too cheerful, before he shoots you a wink, and climbs out of the truck. 
Three seconds, that's all you need, before you realize the severity, the absolute hopelessness of your situation. And as you scramble to the passenger side of the truck, thighs sticky with evidence of your misplaced affection, all you can see is your cousin's smiling face. 
***
The door to your home slams against the wall, when you stumble inside, feet barely catching up with your panicked movements. 
You scream her name through the halls, pathetic and desperate. Silence greets you, not a sound to be heard, and as tears spring from your eyes, you sprint towards the stairs. You climb the steps, hunched over like a wild animal, adrenaline pushing your every movement. And then, with the entirety of your body weight, you slam into the door of your cousin's bedroom. 
You can smell the blood, before you see it. A stench so profound, you'll never be able to get rid of it. 
And then, a scene so terrifying, so profoundly heartbreaking unfolds before your very eyes. 
Remmick stands in the middle of the room, hands folded casually behind him. His jaw clenched tightly over your cousin's throat, her lifeless body half hanging from the bed. There's blood on the floor, on the walls, on the sheer dress she wore to bed. And then, red eyes find you. 
Your cousin's form falls onto the floor with a sickening, wet sound, as Remmick let's her go, licking her blood from his gums, his chin.
"Now I understand..." he claps his hands lightly, and once again, you can't move, frozen to your spot, eyes glued to the heap of fabric and flesh, that was once your family "Why you've kept her hidden, like a princess locked in a tower."
His boots leave bloody prints on the wooden floor, as he steps closer to you, crossing the bedroom in long strides. 
"There's no worse thing, than a cruel man. Not for a woman like her." 
You can't look away from her. Not even, when Remmick's hand covers the side of your face, his thumb brushing the underside of your jaw in a gentle caress.
"I can see it all now, y'know" he murmurs "All her memories are mine. I know what a bastard her husband was. It's no wonder she ran away."
Another step closer, and his other hand finds the softness of your stomach, sharp nails scratching gently over the delicate fabric of your rumpled dress. You can still feel him, a dull ache between your legs, a stickiness of your bodies joined together. 
What a damned fool you are.
"And you took care of her so loyally" he continues, a hint of admiration entering his words "Sacrificed so much... But not anymore."
Finally, you dare to look up, and he sighs in delight, as tears fall on your cheeks. 
"I promised you" a whisper, a cold breath against your skin "No more alone, no more forsaken"
His lips kiss away the saltiness, with gentleness so unbefitting his monstrous nature, it makes your breath lock itself in the column of your throat. 
"There's only love in your future, mo ghrà. Only love."
The bundle of fabric moves. A jerky sort of motion, and your eyes snap behind his back, as your cousin's hand jumps against the bloodied floorboards. Remmick let's you go without a fight, and you stumble on your feet, falling to your knees, next to the slowly awakening corpse of your cousin. 
Her name is a prayer on your lips. You're begging for the impossible, you're aware of that, but she moves nonetheless, lifting her face. 
"Hey cuz." she croaks, the wound in her throat moving as she speaks "It's all gonna be alright now."
It's a fate worse than death, seeing the unnatural, golden shine in her eyes. The monstrous, sharpened teeth peaking from behind her smiling lips. You reel back from her, vision blurry from all the tears. She follows you, on her fours, as if she's forgotten what it means to walk. 
"I know it's scary" she stands up, blood dripping from her dress, her mangled body "I was scared too. But now... Now it's all bliss. It's all love."
Your heart breaks into a million scattered pieces, dread and pain nearly knocking you off your feet. But you keep backing away, until you stop at the very top of the stairs, swaying in your sorrow. 
"You did so much for me" you cousin closes the distance, drool slipping out her mouth, mixing with crimson on her chin "Let me repay you, let me give you a better life."
It's only as she reaches for you, fingers digging into your shoulders, teeth bared and ready to bite, do you react. A sharp yell rips through your throat, and you don't think anymore, that primal instinct of survival taking root. The world becomes a mess of limbs and screams, and soon it all spins around you. Wood of the railing breaks under your weight, when your cousin slams you into it, blood of your blood sends you flying. Your fingers grip her nightgown in a death grip however, and the both of you crash to the floor below, with a thunderous crack, that carries through the entire house.
For a moment you can't breathe, your vision going black as night. Then, everything spins, but you don't feel any teeth, any claws. Just waves of pain crashing over your back. 
You will never forget the next sound. It will haunt you through your life, turn every dream into a nightmare. The broken, ragged intake of breath on your left.
"Cuz..." 
Your head turns, and there she is. The dreamer, the flying dove, her chest split open by a stray piece of wood, blood spilling out her mouth like a fountain. 
"...no..."
Despite the blinding pain in your back, you rise to your knees, falling over her, hands trembling and for the first time, you're at a loss. What can one do in this situation? How can you fix this?
"No, no, no, no" your cousin's body twitches, her eyes growing more and more glassy with every ticking second "Please, God... Help..."
But there's no God in this house, not anymore. He's been casted out, with your cousin's last breath, and so, as desperation shakes your being, you call out to the only other option. The only way that's in the cards for you, until you too leave this earth.
"Remmick, help me!" it's hypnotizing in it's irony, you calling out to him, begging him.
He stands behind you, watching your shaking shoulders. Watching those fascinating, calloused fingers rip out hairs from your scalp. He knows, somewhere deep inside his rotten, ancient heart, that he would help you. He'd come acrawling for just one word. 
He also knows, you've been crying over a corpse, as soon as wood pierced your cousin's heart. 
And so, he lingers, a silent statue in a house, that was once a home. Like a pillar of marble, devoid of guilt, of heartbreak, stirred to life only by the misplaced fondness for a woman, who dared to hope in his presence. 
Time ticks by, your sobs turning into heaving breaths, which soon fade, leaving silence in their wake. That's when he finally makes a move, bloodied soles of his boots dragging closer, until your abused back leans against his side. It's a small touch, but for him, it means more, than any before.
There's no more strength in you, no more fight. Like a block of clay, begging to be shaped into a masterpiece, you surrender.
And it's all he's ever wanted. So then why...?
"Leave this place" his voice sounds foreign, even to his own ears "Go far, far away. And live."
You don't even lift your head, don't look at him, but he knows you listen, he knows you understand. A brush of cold lips against the gentle curvature at the back of your neck. There's no shivers, but your heart stutters, that's all he needs.
"A gift for you, mo cuishle"
***
A month later you're standing on the platform, nails drumming anxiously on the leather surface of your baggage. 
You're going far away, like he's told you, leaving behind the town, Ol' Johnsons abandoned home, the shopkeeper's smile, and the ghosts haunting the small house in the middle of the woods. 
And life goes on. You find your place in a shop of your own, in the middle of a town, that's buzzing with life. You put your talents to good use, and soon, people remember your name. They wave at you as you pass, they visit your shop, and talk to you, as if you've lived here from childhood. 
You make friends, good ones, that last through thick and thin. And despite waking up every night, covered in sweat, with the haunting images of that fateful midnight flashing behind your eyes, you're happy. You find lightness in your step, in your mind. You cradle the community within your calloused palms, and let them cradle you in turn. 
So, when the new Juke Joint opens, you don't think twice, about letting your dearest friend, Pearline, drag you with her. For a night full of drinkin', dancin', and cheerin'.
681 notes · View notes
blossomtree33 · 3 months ago
Text
Be Careful What You Wish For...
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Summary: Whisphers of animals drained of blood in the forest circulate through your town. After an evening out with your friend, you stumble across the sourse of these rumors. Although, instead of turning away, you continue to spy, but the consequences for your actions soon catch up to you… 
Authors note: I decided to take a dark turn to this. It is a bit of a slow burn but so worth it I promise. This took a bit longer than I thought to write (sorry anon!) but I am very happy with the final product 
Warnings:  Kidnapping, Remmick kills a rabbit for food (no graphic description though, I was careful with this but let me know if you think overwise), knife play (?), Remmick cut’s readers dress, bondage, non-con smut
REQUESTS OPEN
Word count: 3.8 k
“And be home before sunset.” Your mother said sternly as she finished up washing the dishes. “I’ve heard the rumors of animals being bit wide open, blood drained, and a young man right on the border went missing last week. I don’t want you running into trouble.” She shook her head as the last of the plates were stacked on the drying rack.  
You rolled your eyes at her remark, tying your shoes in a double knot. Your family has always been the superstitious kind, hell, everyone in your town was. Tales of ghosts and monsters that lurk in the shadows, emerging when you least expect it. It was all such utter nonsense. You have lived in the Delta all your life, and the only thing that has given you a fright was when you opened the trash bin outside your house to discover a raccoon. 
“I promise mama.” Your tone was a bit more aspirated than you intended. Though you were past the age most would’ve already struck out on their own, between the quiet comfort of home and the weight of your family’s expectations, leaving had never felt like a real option. This evening you planned to go dancing out with friends, one of the few entertainment options the Delta has to offer. All you wanted to do was let loose, have a few drinks and maybe even sneak a kiss or two from the young men in town, not that your parents needed to know that. 
After tying your other shoe, you got up to make your way to the door. “Bye mama, see you in a bit.” You called out over your shoulder as the door shut behind you. 
***
You giggled loudly as you sipped a glass with your friend Nellie over the music.
“I swear to you I did.” Nellie spoke, still hunched over laughing. 
“At least tell me he kissed you after all that?” 
Your close friend was sharing a story about a boy she knows from church, and apparently, after last night, knows on a more intimate level. 
“Not even a peck on the cheek.” Nellie said with perfect annunciation. 
“Good lord. All that sucking for what?” 
“Y/n, shhh.” Your friend put her finger to her lips and started to look around her for any potential eavesdroppers. “What if someone hears?” 
“Who cares. At this point, who hasn’t sucked on something in this place?” You lamanted. “If they have anything to say then they are just hypocrites.” 
“Aren’t you the wisecracker?” You smiled smugley and shrugged. Things didn’t slip your mind easily, however, your sharp wit and fast tonge is usually what gets you in trouble. 
You could’t help questioning authority, pushing the bonds of what was permissible, especially from your parents. It was your little way of getting a thrill in a place where there wasn’t much to thrill about. 
“So, do you think any boy will get lucky tonight?” Nellie said while giving your shoulder a nudge with her own. 
You eyed the room around you. There were certainly good looking men, no doubt about it, but tonight you couldn’t be bothered. 
“Not tonight I’m afraid.” 
“Pity.” Nellie said with a pout.
“But not for me.” The two of you, like school girls, laughed profusely. 
“Did your mama also tell you about the incidents?” You asked. 
“Which Delta mama hasn’t? I don’t know about you, but I’m gonna keep my head down till this mess dies down.”
“You can’t be serious Nell.” You moaned. “It’s just a silly superstition, odds are it was some coyote or a bear. And the man skipped town after he knocked up some girll.”
Nellie looked less than convinced. “I’m not too sure y/n. Never in my years have I heard of animals being ripped open, blood almost all gone. Something is amiss, I feel it in my bones.” You frowned, but didn’t continue the conversation. Nellie was almost just as spooked as your mama, and you were not going to let a good day go to waste. 
***
After your feet started to get sore, you knew it was time to head home. You waved goodbye to your friend as you stepped out of the building. The sun still hasn’t finished setting, meaning you were in no rush to get home. Wanting to take advantage of the extra time, you decided to take the long walk by the river. 
You strolled leisurely by the water, feeling a warm air on your face and the gentle sounds coming from the forest around you. As your mind started to wander and daydream, a blurry movement barely caught your eye. 
You instantly left your dazy mind and focused on the scenery in front of you. However nothing seemed amiss. 
Blaming it on a trick of the imagination, you went on with your walk home, but then it caught your eye again, this time more clearly, somone, a man no doubt, was running several yards in front of you, remarkably fast. 
The sight took your breath away in surprise. Was the man chasing something? Was something chasing him? Your curiosity got the best of you and you followed the man’s path, carelessly straying from your way home. 
After walking in his direction for several minutes, you came to a clearing in the forest. A large area covered with tall grass and wildflowers with a log cabin in the center. You stood on the edge of the clearing, head peeking out from a thick tree. 
Peering to the window on the side of the cabin, you saw the same figure move. Eyes squinting for a closer look, you were able to make out the figure. From what you could tell, the man had a strong frame and dark hair. 
When you were about to stick your head out further for a better look, the man's head turned, and despite being somne 20 yards away, the red gleam in his eye was unmistakable. 
You gasped and moved back so behind the tree, hand to your chest. Realizing that the last rays of sunlight were slipping away, you ran back home, the burning red eyes you saw in the cabin burned in your mind. 
By the time you arrived home, night had just fallen, your mother gave you a stern look from her spot on the couch as she sat knitting. 
You knew she wasn’t happy with you pushing the boundaries of your curfew but not enough to say something. 
Aftering tucking yourself in bed for the night, eager to get a good night's sleep before your job tomorrow, you still couldn’t shake the haunting image of the man, and you decided then and there that you were going to find out who, or what he is. 
***
The next day after your humdrum work, you went to the same neck of the woods you were last evening, walking aimlessly through the trees, trying to use your senses to capture any unordinary sights or sounds. 
But, much to your misfortune, nothing seemed amiss. The Delta widlneress seemed to encomapss you completely, with nothing but birds chirping, the wind blowing through branches and the occasional rodent scurrying through the bushes.  Just when you were about to give up, you were able to once again find the cabin from yesterday. 
The thrill seeking part of you wanted to run up to the cabin and open the door, but the rational part of you knew it was unwise, if you wanted to find out anything more about this man, you had to be careful and keep yourself hidden. Exposing yourself too early might ruin any chances of learning more.
And so you waited. Right as the sun was setting, while walking the peremiter of the clearning, you heard the cabin door open. Just like yesterday, you stuck your head out from behind the trunk of a tree, this time from the front left side of the perimeter. You made sure to tell your mama that you would be with Nellie for the night, allowing you ample time for investigation. 
As the man was walking out, you shifted your position to allow yourself a better view, however, as your feet shuffled, a loud snap was heard from under your foot. 
His head snapped around to the sounds direction while you stood frozen in your spot. Thankfully, you were too far away, and the trees too thick for the mystery man to turn back around and dismiss the noise. You let out a long sigh of relief. 
This time, making sure to watch your step, you started to follow him slowly and carefully, keeping a good amount of distance between the two of you, moving from tree to tree.. 
Not long, a rabbit was hopping through the evergreens, catching the man’s attention. Staying hidden, you watched to see what he would do next. 
Waiting for the rabbit’s next move, the second the forest critter jumped, the man moved with unhuman-like speed to grab it as he went to his knees in the bush. You jumped back at the sudden movement gasping. 
When he rose again, the rabbit lay limp, but what happened next you could never expect. The man went to bite the rabbit, sinking its teeth in deep. 
Your lip parted in shock at the scene before you. Just like a car crash, you couldn’t look away. 
The man seperated himself from the rabbit, mouth covered in blood as he tossed the animal aside. 
Your brain slowly connected the dots. The critters found in the forest drained of blood, the missing man, the very sight in front of you. It all became crystal clear. You knew from your mama’s stories, and from everyone else in town for that matter that the smart thing would be to turn back and go home as fast as you could, But you were never one to let a good story end so soon. 
After he, the vampire, finished his meal, he jumped up so high it was if he were simply floating. He moved away from your position in the trees and soon out of your line of sight.  
You let out a humph of frustration, dissapointed that your inquiry came to an end. But you weren’t going to give up so easily.
***
Deciding to accept the loss, you go to Nellie’s place to spend the night to avoid your mother’s suspicion. It was a Saturday, and the day came and went as you went back to your parent’s house to help your mama around the house. 
But the moment the sun was setting. you knew exactly where to go. Giving your mama another lame excuse, you went back to the thick forest, this time knowing where the mystery man’s cabin is. 
Soon enough, you reached the wooden house, still trying to keep out of sight from the windows. Eventually, you saw him emerge from the other side of the clearing walking towards the house.
Your curious eyes continued to peer at him in pure wonder. How silly your mama was, how silly was Nellie and everyone else in town to throw such a fuss over a single man. 
As he was maming his way to the front of the cabin, he elevated himself from the ground just as he did the day before. Your head fell back, trying to see where he went off too, but the tall trees blocked your vision. 
Turning your head left and right, you tried to figure out where he could have gone off too, but the answer was given to you. 
“Hey there sweetheart.” You whipped your body around to the direction of the voice, and sure enough, it was him.
“You must have thought you were being real clever weren't you?” He said smiling, slowly walking towards you. “I have to admit, I’m impressed, you hid yourself better than I thought you could, but I’ve been around long enough to know when someone has eyes on me.” 
Your cheast started to heave up and down, there was not a single word you could think of to say. 
“You really believed that a lil’ mortal like you could get away with spying on someone of my kind.” He began to laugh, the idea of it so ridiculously impossible it was funny. 
“Now, enough chit chat.” Instantly, he moved towards you with the unhuman speed you saw yesterday. You stumbled till your back hit a tree, his face now mere inches away from yours. 
“Tell me, did you find what you were looking for?” Your eyes widened and your body began to tremble in fear. How stupid could you be to purposely seek out one of the most dangerous creatures in all of Delta folklore? You let your ego blind you to the reality of the situation, and now your life, for all you knew, was in the hands of the man right in front of you. 
“I-“ You began, still not knowing how to answer the question. The man innocently tilted his head to the side, waiting for your response. 
“Please. Don’t hurt me.” Tears started to brew from the corner of your eye. “I promise I won’t come back, I won’t tell anyone.” You begged.
“But how can I believe you sweetheart?” He said in a tone so understanding that if it hadn’t been for the situation at hand you would have taken him for a gentlemen. "If there is one thing you have shown me these past few days is that you run into mischief head first, and I am not about to have some girl ruin my peace.” His fingers went to gently stroke the side of your face. 
“Don’t kill me.” You said as a rather pathetic last ditch effort to save your life.
“Kill you? A sweet thing like yourself?” He placed the palms of his hands against the tree, caging you in, allowing no chance to escape. 
"Now I may be a monster but I don’t just go around killing nice young ladies, espeically ones as beautiful as you.” His hand dropped down to around your neck, causing you to breathe in sharply. 
“No, I have a much better use for you.” It was impossible to not hear the eagerness slipping from his tone. 
His eyes trailed to your mouth, and a moment later, his lips were on yours. 
The sensation was more gentle than you were expecting, but things escalated in an instant. 
His body was completely against yours. His other hand pulled at your waist to bring you in closer while the hand around your neck started to squeeze. Your body squirmed, trying its best to break free from his clutches, but it only seemed to make him grab onto you tighter. 
“What’s the matter?” He said finally after ending the kiss. “You finally got what you wanted and now you want to run away?” The tears contined to stream down your face as you agonized over your own stupidity. 
“Don’t you worry, I will make sure you get exactly what you came here for.” 
***
You woke up in a daze, head pounding. The last thing you remembered was being in the forest, him kissing you, and then everything going dark. 
Looking around at your surroundings, it was made clear that you were inside the cabin, laying on a double bed. When you tried to rise, you found that you couldn’t, as your wrists were tied with rope to the bed frame, allowing your little mobility. 
That wasn’t the only disconfort. To your horror, you felt your panties were completely gone, your dress’s fabric was the only thing hugging your bare ass.  
“Look who’s awake? I was wondering how long my little lady would stay asleep.” Your head turned to look at his sideways figure leaning against the door frame, thumbs stretching on the bands of your panties. 
“Don’t worry." He said looking down, smiling at the fabric in his hands. “While I do admit I couldn’t help myself initially, I promise I didn’t go too far. Well, not yet at least.” He let out a chuckle. 
“I realized I never got the chance to introduce myself. I’m Remmick.” You didn’t respond, you didn’t have the words, and even if you did,  you felt too weak to say them.
“The least you can do is tell your gracious host who you are.” He scolded. 
Your lips remaind sealed in defiance. Never being one to follow what everyone else was doing, you sure as hell weren’t going to stop now. 
Remmick’s brows furrowed and he approached you, throwing the panties to the ground in frustration. His hands made their way up to your head as he grabbed your hair tightly. “You can make this difficult, or easy, it is entirely your choice.” His voice was low and serious. Not wanting to take any chances, you stammered out a reply 
“Y/n… y/n.” His grip loosened. 
“Y/n.” He said, testing the sound out loud for himself. “Well ain’t that a pretty name.” You stared at him defiantly, not wanting to allow him to break you. Whatever was to happen, at least your digity would survive.
“I imagine these must be unpleasent for you.” Remmick motioned towards the binds. “I do hope you understand it was just a precaution. I can’t have my little y/n running away from me can I?” You cursed under your breath. How could you have allowed yourself to be so arrogant?
“Now.” He started. “You can make this easy, or hard, entirely your choice. I am going to untie you, but if you fight back, or dare try to run away, I will lock you up so tight that you won’t see the sun again. Do I make myself clear?” 
You barely nodded, looking nothing more than a twitch, but enough for your captor to understand your asnwer. 
“Good.” He took out a switchblade from his pocket and cut each rope in two swift motions. 
“Now.” Before you even had the chance to sit up, Remmick’s legs went up to the bed, thick thighs pressed tighly againt your torso as he pressed the switchblade to the side of your neck. 
You gasp at the sensation of the cool metal, while he twirls the tip blade on your skin.
“I’ve had nothing but common forest critters to feast on for the past month. The last time I had the pleasure of drinking human blood was from that boy a few towns over.” The tears started to brim once more. “C’mon, don’t cry now, if anything you should be flattered. So long without a good meal and right when one is in my clutches I’ve decided against it.” 
He continues to press the blade against you, trailing it down to where your bare skin met the edge of your dress.
“There is another thing which I have gone long without.” Remmick began to cut the fabric steadily, stopping as he reached the bottom of your breasts. “So long without that I’m starting to forget how it felt.” With a click, the blade returned to the compartment, tossing it to the floor.  
It was impossible not to notice the buldge that was begging to be released from his trousers. 
“From the moment I saw your peering eyes I longed for this.” His dark blue eyes stared down at the sight before him, hands grazing but barely touching your breast. 
“And now.” Remmick placed his hands on the mattress, brinding himself closer to your face. “It’s finally happening.” 
Without warning, he closed the gap between you two. But unlike the one in the woods, it didn’t start slow, Remmick wasted no time in thrusting his tounge in your mouth, trying to taste as much of you as he could. 
His hands started to massage your breasts though his incision, nipples hardening at the touch. 
“Oh, y/n, the things you are doing to me.” 
You heard the metallic click of a belt while Remmick pulled the strip of leather, sliding it free through the loops. 
“I may be many things, but I am not selfish.” Unexpectedly, the vampire began to rub at your clit with his thumb. A low moan left your lips. 
“That’s it sweetheart.” Two fingers inserted themselves in your folds and gradually moved in and out while your clit contuned to be rubbed.  
“See how much better it is when you make it easy for me?” You didn’t dare respond, the humiliation was already burning through your face
Once your pussy was completely damp, he removed his fingers, completely coated in your wetness. 
“Enough teasing.” Remmick unzipped his pants and finally freed his cock. 
Your eyes filled with terror at the sight. The pure thought of having that inside you sent shock waves through your body. 
“Don’t worry sweetheart, this shouldn’t hurt a bit.”
Perhaps he said to make you calm down, but it was still a lie. It did hurt. The stretch was more intense than you initially expected. Even with your soaked walls, you felt his shaft torturously move deeper inside you. 
Remmick groaned as he completely inserted himself. Once fully inside, he started to rock back and forth, testing the limits of how much your pussy could handle. 
“That’s it,” he whisphered, starting to thrust faster.
Your cunt started to throb at the penetration, but the pleasure it brought you was undeniable. 
“You have no idea how long I have been waiting for an opportunity like this. I thought I’d have to go out of my way, but I guess destiny had other plans.” He continued to slam onto your pelvis, slapping your clit by the impact, sending an extra jolt of ecstasy. 
“To be honest, I thought about drinking your blood after this, but now I’ve had a change of heart. I could go for the rest of my days with nothing but rabbits as long as I have this to come home to.” If possible, your mind paniked even more. The idea that this would become your new reality, your new life scared you to no end. Your immortal captor sensed that thought too.
“Relax sweetheart. You will be well provided for.” With that, you could feel your climax approaching. 
Remmick resumed his movements, reaching to places so deep you didn’t even know possible. 
He reached one hand to your chin to lift your head up.“Come for me y/n.” 
He didn’t have to ask twice. 
Your peak finally arrived as your folds quivered in response. 
“That’s it sweetheart.” With a final thrust, his warm cum was coating your now sore walls. 
In one agonizing motion, Remmick removed his cock, covered in your wetness which dripped from his tip to your stomach. Making your humiliation known right in front of you. “It will take some time for you to truly enjoy this.” He dismounted you, massaging the insides of your thighs which already had streams of cum trailing down. “But I promise, you’ll learn to.”
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blossomtree33 · 3 months ago
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Remmick — SINNERS Masterlist
@gatorbites-imagines — remmick yandere alphabet
@cherry-lala — the devil waits where the wildflowers grow
@rdmasevi — the one who asked
@spikedfearn — mercy made flesh
@remmickgf — pleasure interlude
@ice-man-goes-bwoah — drunk on you
@spikedfearn — upon the scarlet alter
@spikedfearn — under the blood moon
@ay0nha — how many miles to babylon
@faithsmadhouse — in the pines
@ice-man-goes-bwoah — crimson worship
@remmickgf — call to the devil
@remmickgf — quick remedies
@wingedfuncomputer — the outskirts of town
@cherry-lala — some things don't end, they echo
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blossomtree33 · 3 months ago
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Oh, we heard tale of a party.
Sinners (2025) dir. Ryan Coogler
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blossomtree33 · 3 months ago
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Jack O'Connell as Remmick in Sinners (2025)
"I know everything, now... even how you like to be licked. I can promise I won't bite too hard."
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blossomtree33 · 3 months ago
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Unfinished Business
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Remmick x reader
Ask and you shall receive! After almost 500(!) of you responded to my poll, I had to keep writing. Enjoy!
REQUESTS ARE OPEN!
word count: 3.2k
Summary: After your parent's were killed when you were just a child, a secluded life in the Mississippi Delta has been all you have know. But when you stumble upon a stranger whose presence draws you in against your better judgement, you end up with more than you bargained for.
Warning: violence, blood, death, dub con elements!
Growing up, the Mississippi Delta felt like the whole world. The endless blue skies, forests that went on forever, rolling fields as far the eye can see, it was all you knew. It was home. Home to you, your friends, your family, your laughter, and your tears.
As a child, hot summer days and home-cooked meals was all you could think about. But while your mind was preoccupied with the beauty of the Delta, you remain completely unaware of the darkness that lurked deep within the trees.
***
“Do it again”! You demanded your father, who as far as you were concered, a magician. 
He chuckled to himself as he began the trick again. 
“Look at my hands.” His fingers were spread out wide while he turned his wrist around to show that there was nothing there. Then he reached behind your ear and took out a small coin. 
You clapped giddily at the site. Being just 7 it amused you to no end. 
“Give your father a break y/n”. You are going to bore him.” Your mother said, poorly suppressing a smile at the site of your glee as she placed the steaming meal in the center of the table.
“How about you help your mother with dinner?” Your father suggested. You ran over to the kitchen and carefully grabbed the plates from your mother’s hands. As you placed them in their proper position, a knock was heard at the front door. 
It was unusual. Your family’s home was at the edge of town and 50 yards deep into the forest from the main path. Most people wouldn’t find it unless they strayed. 
“Stay put.” Your father warned you as he cautiously approached the door. You ran to your mothers side, nervous at the coming of this stranger. 
When your father opened the door, a tall man with dark hair and an almost uncanny wide smile greeted him. 
“Howdy sir, I hate to intrude on this lovely night but I need someone to help crank-start my automobile. Would you be so kind as to help?” Being in a small town, almost everyone knew everybody. And even if you didn’t, you would have at least seen their face at the store or walking down the street. Even at your young age, you could pick out everyone in town from a crowd of thousands. But this was a face you have never seen before, and it unnerved you to no end. While his smile remaind, you knew in your soul that it was not true. 
“It’s just down the road, it won’t take but a few minutes of your time.” For just a split second, you could have sworn the man’s eyes flashed a dark red color. But in an instant, it returned to their original icy color.  
You wanted your father to say no, to shut the door, and turn back to you and your mother so your perfect night could continue; but kindness was always something that was preached in your household.
“It’s no problem mister.” Your father turned his head back. “I’ll be back in a moment.” He shot you and your mother a smile before leaving with the strange man, closing the door behiind him. 
“Don’t you worry baby.” Your mother said coddling you. “Your father will be right back. Now how about some dinner?” Your mother served you some chicken and beans onto your plate, but just when you were about to bite in, an ear-piercing scream came from outside followed by what sounded like when the town's stray dogs bit into a carcass. 
You and your mother’s eyes shot up from the table to the front door as the screams continued. 
“You stay right here!” Your mother demanded as she went outside.
“Mommy no!” You tried to stop her. Whatever evil was happening to your father was sure to happen to her too. 
But it was no use, she ran out. 
You ran to the wall of the door being a chair. Hugging your knees to your chest in a desperate attempt to protect yourself. 
“NO!” you heard your mother scream. Right after, the awful tearing sound continued. followed by silence. 
By this point, your cheeks are completely damp from the tears you didn’t even realize you have been flowing. Who was this man? What did he want? Why did he come to your home?
“Come out little one.” The man yelled from outside. “I saw you earlier in your mother’s arms. I know you want to join them” he said, taunting you. His voice changed, from what it was before. Some sort of accent you have never heard before. 
“Come on y/n, we both know you can’t hide in there forever.” 
Your breath got caught in your throat. He knew your name. How, you didn’t know.
“Your parents were sure kind people.” He began. “It’s a pity that it turned out to be their undoing.” Suddenly, a fight lit inside you. Your feelings of fear and sadness were firmly swept away as anger started to course through your veins. 
You shot up from your huddled position behind the chair and ran to the front door. Whoever this man is, you were going to stop him with whatever you had in you. 
After swinging the door open, you froze in your spot. The darkness made it difficult for you to make everything out, but you saw enough. The man’s eyes glowed red and his clothes were damp with what could only be blood. 
“Hello sweetheart” The man started, standing several feet from your pourch. “You can call me Remmick.” You shut the door, unable to confront the monster that stood behind it. 
“Don’t you worry sweet thing. I’ll be back for you.” 
The next morning, you discovered that your parent’s bodies were gone. Not even a strand of hair remained, leaving you with nothing but memories. 
***
The years have come and gone and now you live in the middle of town working at a local apothocary shop. You have done your besst to suppress the painful memories of that fateful night. The blood, the screams. While you couldn’t escape the Delta, you could at least forget. 
After all these year’s of waiting for Remmick to come back, you started to believe that he may have forgotten about you, and that maybe a normal life is actually possible. The thought that you will never have to encounter this devil of a man again makes you feel relieved, but also angry. That the closure, the revenge you so desperately want will never happen. 
“Hello y/n, got any cough syrups?” Thomas, one of your regular’s came in shooting you a soft smile.
“Sure thing.” You went to the back to collect the bottles. 
“Mighty warm weather we are having aren’t we.” Thomas said as you were cashing him out at the register. 
“It’s always this warm in the Delta.” You teased. “Lord knows we could use some rain. I’d do anything to cool off.” 
“Well if you need some relief from this heat, I’m more than welcome to accompany you on a night’s walk. The sun finally sets and the night air is rather refreshing.” Thomas flashed his pearly whites at you as you handed him his change. Almost every time he comes to the shop he comes up with some new scheme to ask you on a date, and while he was certainly a charmer (and not bad looking either), you couldn’t find yourself taking him up on the offer. 
“Thank you, but I think I can manage this heat just fine.” 
“Whatever you say little lady. Have a nice day.” He tipped his hat and left the store, the belle ringing merrily on his way out. 
As the day was coming to a close, you finished locking up the shop. After storing away the aliments, soaps, herbs, and medicine in all their proper place, you locked the shop door. 
“Hello miss.” The voice of a stranger startled you as you dropped your keys. 
Bending down to pick them up, the stranger beat you to it. Standing up, a man with dark hair and deep blue eyes, held the keys in his hands.
“I believe these are yours.” He said with a small grin. 
The man placed his hand on top of your palm to return the keys for you to then place in your dress pocket. 
“Thank you sir.” You responded kindly, blushing at the brief touch of contact. Being a yong lady in a small town meant that if a man had the chance to firt with you, he would. But none were certainly as good-looking as him. 
“Locking up shop all by yourself? It ain’t safe for a little lady like you to wander around after dark.” While he spoke with an air of caution, it came off more like a threat.  
You smiled at his sentiment, Living alone, you were no fool to the dangers the Delta held, but you’ve learned how to grow thick skin.
“I promise you sir, I can handle myself just fine.” You rolled your shoulders back and straightened your spine as a puny attempt to show you are stronger than you look. 
“Oh I have no doubt about that.” The man said, taking a few steps forward. 
You stood firm in your ground as he approached you. Maybe you would’ve backed down before, but there was something in the air that night that told you to stay against your better judgement. He soon stood close enought in front of you that if you reached your arm out you could touch his chest.
“Is there something I can help you with, mister?” You uttered carefully, daring yourself to take another step closer. He was attractive, no doubt about it, but it was often the things most gratifying to the eye that ended up being the most dangerous. Even so, your practical side wasn’t the one pulling the ropes. 
“Help me?” He spoke, brows raised. “A tempting offer, but I think I’m here to help you.” His voice became low and daring. “A lady like you shouldn’t be out all by herself, you never know what you may run into in the Delta.” 
“Believe me sir, no one knows that better than me.”
“Aren’t you a firey one.” He said while cocking his head to the side. “May I have the pleasure to escort you home?” You considered his offer. Any other young woman would have sprung at the chance for a nighttime stoll with a handsome mysterious stranger. However, you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. 
“I think I can handle myself just fine.” Spoken firmly and final. 
“Then I hope you’ll grace me with your presence some other night.”
“Maybe.” You cast your eyes down playfully, unresisting a smirk. “Only if the Delta’s dangers don't get to me first”. 
The man let out a short laugh at your cheeky response. “Believe me miss, I wouldn’t let them get to you even if they tried.” The reply was strange, nevertheless, you let it pass.
“And does this gentleman have a name?” You asked, wanting to leave with at least something to remember him by. 
“Let’s not be hasty now. All good things come with time.” Even more odd. 
Any girl growing up in these parts knew when something, or someone was trouble. Even so, like a moth to a flame, you didn’t turn away. 
“Well you have a good night mister. You know where to find me if you need anything .” You turned on your heel and strod off. 
“Don’t you worry miss, you already gave me everything I need.” You turned around to respond, but the stranger was nowhere to be seen. 
Odd.
Your walk home faced no difficulties. Nonetheless, you kept turning your head every minute, unable to shake the feeling you were being followed. 
***
The next day came and went with no signs of the mystery man from before. As did the next day, and the day after that. Eventually, it got to a point where you started to believe that your loneliness… and your desire, was starting to make you hallucinate. 
Just when you thought that the stranger was nothing more than a figment of your imagination, you ran into him once more. 
“Well if it isn't my pretty little lady.” You were on your way home from work, just reaching the town's edge. 
The man’s steps were loose and unhurried, salvaging the encounter. 
“Good evening sir.” You answered politely. “I take it everything is alright with you?”
“Oh everything just became perfect right about now.” The stranger has haunted your thoughts for long enough, you deemed. It’s about time for your mind to be brought to ease. 
“You aren’t from the Delta are you?” you challenged. 
“What gave it away?”
“You get used to seeing the same faces after a while down in these parts. So where are you from.”
“A place far more ancient than you can imagine.” You scoffed at the answer. Who did this man think he was? This was not your first time dealing with disagreeable folk, and certainly not you last.
Your interrogation continued, “And what brings you to this part of the country?” The question brought a smile to his face. You knew you were dancing with the devil, but at this point in this deadly waltz, you had no longing to stop. 
“I guess you could call it unfinished business.” The answer didn’t sit right with you one bit. 
“And what would that be?” You’ve seen his expression before when you encountered hunters in the forest, one who’s prey fell right in their trap.
“Many years ago I came across this wee little thing in the woods. Before, I wanted her for… well let’s just say other purposes. But now, after seeing her again, I’ve changed my mind. I want her for something completely different.” His answer sent a chill up your spine. 
He started to approach you slowly. “Come on y/n, don’t you remember me at all?” Your heart rate spiked up and your breaths became frantic. 
“No.” It came out barely about a whisper. The memories of that fateful night, the one you have tried so desperately to forget started to break its way back in. 
“Don’t worry, I don’t want to hurt you, at least permanently.” He laughed at his own joke. “All these years, and I couldn’t have imagined the pretty thing you would turn into.” And then, there it was, the flash of red. As he came closer, your survival instincts finally kicked in and you ran as fast as your legs could take you. 
Your house wasn't too far, but you have never been much of a runner, and who knows what he, what Remmick, is capable of.
“There is no point in making this hard.” You heard him say behind you, speaking like a parent trying to make a stubborn child eat their veggies. 
You didn’t dare to look back. All you could think of was getting home. And soon enough, there it was, your four walled sanctuary. 
By some miracle, you made it past the pourch and into the home, placing you back against the wall of the door. You waited a moment to let your breathing die down. But your moment of relief only lasted just that.
“You can pretend all you want, but I could smell how badly you want it.” His southern facade has vanished into that foreign sound you heard before. “It is just in your luck that I can give it to you.”
You paid his words no mind. Shutting your eyes tight, you prayed to whatever God there was to make this devil disappear. 
“I have to say, I feel a little dissapointed. Before you were a child, but I guess you were too weak then and too weak now.” And just like that, your eyes shot open. The fear inside you was replaced with pure rage. You knew enough folklore to know what he was, know his weakness. Grabing the silver kitchen knife, you ran outside screaming. 
Remmick didn’t stand too far from the enterance of your house, and in an instant, you stabbed the knife to the upper left side of his chest. You stepped back after your attack, expecting this to be the end of it.
All it seemed to do was irritate him. 
After he stumnled a few steps back, he pulled the knife slowly out of his torso and threw it aside. 
“I knew you were going to take some convincing but you sure do know how to put up a good fight.” He sounded almost amused. 
You stood paralyzed. Your only weapon now proving useless. In a flash, Remmick ran towards you, hand around your throat as the other pulled you close to him.
You let out a scream before he placed his hand over your mouth
“Shhh, we both know that won’t save you now.” Your eyes started to brim with tears. Whatever dark plan he has instored for you couldn’t be good. 
“There is no need to be scared. I’m about to give you everything you could ever want.” Your fear turned into confusion, and soon enough, his lips were on yours. He kissed with longing, with need. Like it was something he was waiting to do for a very, very long time. For all you knew he was. 
As the kiss deepened, he started to touch you in an area that in these parts was reserved for your husband, certainly not him. You couldn’t resist letting out a soft moan. It was hard to remeber the last time you have gotten such pleasure. 
“There we go.” Remmick whisphered in your ear. Slowly, his mouth widened to reveal his fangs. Once your eyes opened, you remembered exactly what you were doing, and exactly who it was with. 
You pushed yourself out of his grasp. “GET AWAY FROM ME!” You fell to the ground, picking up the discared kitchen knife and holding it in boith hands, pointing it towards him.
Remmick let out an exasperated sigh. "Just when I thought I had you, you had to act up.” 
Your hands trembled while clutching the knife. He won’t get me. He won’t. 
The devil in disguise took four long strides towards you before standing over you looking like he just caught your hand in the cookie jar. 
He crouched down slowly, taking the knife from your grasp steadily as you sat powerless to fight. 
He ran his finger up and down against your cheek. For a beginning as ancient as him, his touch was softer than expected. 
“You’re perfect.” He stated. 
Just like that, not wasting a moment of time, his fangs pierced their way into your neck. 
You let out a scream, but soon, the initial pain started to fade, and in its place was something wonderful, something blisful. 
After Remmick pulled away, you looked at him and felt everything he was feeling. His love, his hurt, his desire. 
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” You smiled foolishly at him. How could you have been so disagreeable before, when right here, right now, was the man who would give you everything.
@spikedfearn
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blossomtree33 · 3 months ago
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Mercy Made Flesh
one-shot
Remmick x fem!reader
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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
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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’.”
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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.
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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’."
11K notes · View notes
blossomtree33 · 3 months ago
Text
Mercy Made Flesh
one-shot
Remmick x fem!reader
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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
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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’.”
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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.
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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’."
11K notes · View notes
blossomtree33 · 3 months ago
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Will ye go, lassie, go?
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Remmick X Female Reader
Summary: After saving you from a life of pain and loneliness, Remmick and you become connected for eternity. Amid the misty backdrop of a river at night, you sing "Will Ye Go, Lassie, Go?", a song that stirs deep, forgotten memories within Remmick. Drawn to your voice and the bond you two now share, you succumb to your carnal pleasures.
2,251 words
Notes:
🩸 stór = my love/my darling 🩸 stóreen = my little darling 🩸 foc = fuck 🩸 anamchara = soulmate 🩸 Cén guth álainn = what a beautiful voice
!SMUT CONTENT!
The world was only half lived before he came into your life. Every plant was pretty to look at, not overwhelming to your senses, humans were good company, not drumming heartbeats begging you to have a taste, and the night was dark and terrifying, not welcoming like a mother's embrace. 
 The more you tried to remember how your life was before Remmick turned you, the more you forgot. Why bother? You had been miserable. Time was torture and living your punishment. Now? Well, now you could taste the metallic blood on your tongue, dance with goblins and devils, and sing freely.
Oh, the summertime has come
And the trees are sweetly bloomin'
The wild mountain thyme
Grows around the bloomin' heather
Will ye go, lassie, go?
You let the last note linger on your tongue longer than usual. The enjoyment of freedom was like poison in your veins, and you wanted nothing more but to drown yourself in it. 
 You were sitting by a river, the cold breeze of night holding you and the memories of those turned roaming inside your head. Everything was connected, and you were everything. 
 You were an orphan boy, forced to steal. A woman made slave. A man whose father was taken from him by the righteous hands of sinners. A Chinese girl, an ancestor of the chief of a tribe long gone, a bureaucrat, a soldier. You were all, and they were all you. 
 It felt good not to be alone. Comforting. 
 And it was in that comfort and singing of old melodies from a land across the ocean, one filled with magic creatures, that Remmick found you, once more, as he had years ago. 
 “You really fancied that old tune, uh?” he said from behind you. 
 You turned to meet his red eyes, and you couldn't help but show him your fangs. It was becoming a habit. 
 “It's gorgeous. I know how much it means to you,” you replied. 
 “Then be sure to sing it as loud as you can.” Remmick walked towards you. Mist wrapped around his body with each step, making him seem like a myth from the old legends. His red eyes, glowing in the pitch black, mirrored yours.
 He sat next to you, and you smelled the blood on his mouth immediately. It was fresh; he had fed recently. 
 “Who was it?” you whispered, moving your knees to touch his. 
 Remmick smiled, not a good old smile but one of those that made your bones all jiggly, before saying, “You askin’ if I turned them?”
 You nodded with a guilty smile and brought your fingers to his lips. They were clean, but you could still feel the moisture of the blood beneath the skin. 
 “I wanted to free him, baby, I really did, but his blood was so sweet…” Your breath quickened as you saw, inside your head, what he had seen. “Well, I couldn't resist.” 
 “Let me taste it,” you begged as you wetted your thumb with his saliva.
 Remmick's lips stretched into a grin, and you felt his teeth, sharp and still throbbing from his kill. You couldn’t resist the urge as you brought your thumb to your lips and sucked on it. 
 You closed your eyes briefly, trying to intensify the flavor, but it was far too faint to ease your desire. You needed more.
 “Oh, darlin’, that’s quite alright… Come here,” Remmick said, voice hypnotizing and layered with honey. 
 Your lips met then, and the sweet taste of blood met your tongue like an old friend. A groan escaped your lips, and you felt his own desire resonating with yours. You deepened the kiss, swirling your tongues together in a fiery dance. 
 Remmick hummed, clearly pleased, and grabbed the back of your head, tangling his fingers with your hair. His nails were grown now, scratching your scalp and making the sweet dance of your desires pick up its pace. 
 It wasn’t the first time you had taken him for a lover, and certainly wouldn’t be the last. The others weren’t quite the same as you… They respected Remmick, worshipped him even for immortalizing them, but your connection to him was far deeper. When your bodies blended and your blood pumped at the same pace, that was when you truly were complete. 
 “Stór, I can feel your fire,” Remmick whispered, breaking the kiss. You whined at the loss and he smirked, fangs poking from his top lip. 
 “I want you so bad,” you said, grabbing his shoulders and hoisting yourself to his lap. He looked up at you, and you held the back of his neck. “Make love to me.”
 Remmick hummed, feeling your desire inside him as wildfire. “Keep singin’, stór. I wanna hear your beautiful voice, baby.”
 You nodded as his hands went underneath your skirt. You shuddered as his fingers traced your skin and went up your legs. The words found you then.
Oh, the summertime has come
And the trees are sweetly bloomin'
The wild mountain thyme
Grows around the bloomin' heather
Will ye go, lassie, go?
And we'll all go together
To pull wild mountain thyme
All around the bloomin' heather
Will ye go, lassie, go?
“Cén guth álainn,” Remmick whispered. 
 You continued singing softly as his fingers finally found your arousal, and your breath quickened. He had always had such a way with his hands during such moments. 
 “Oh…” you moaned between verses as he spread your folds and traced them up and down, coating his fingers with your moisture. 
 “Ssshhh…” he said, although a smirk stayed on his lips. He was hard beneath his pants, you could feel that. 
If my true love, she won't come
Then I'll surely find another
To pull wild mountain thyme
All around the bloomin' heather
Will ye go, lassie, go?
And we'll all go together
To pull wild mountain thyme
All around the bloomin' heather
Will ye go, lassie, go?
He began stroking your clit, making you bite your bottom lip and almost draw blood. Remmick’s pupils dilated, and the glow of his eyes intensified as he reached for your lips and briefly kissed them. 
 “Let me fuck you now, baby,” you begged, feeling his thumb on your clit. “I wanna feel you inside me.”
 “Baby, how could I ever deny you?” he asked with a raspy voice that made your skin tingle. “Take my cock out, stór.”
 You immediately obeyed, reaching for his belt and undoing it before you put your hand underneath his pants and found his hard shaft. Remmick hissed, fangs growing as you took him out, staring at his flushed head. It was glistening, pearly drops of cum running down his shaft, and you collected the moisture and stroked him up and down softly. 
 “When I first laid eyes on you, darlin’, I knew you were different,” Remmick confessed. His voice was a bit strained as you stroked him slowly. “I could feel your pain, baby. Hell, I knew that pain.”
 “You saved me from it, baby,” you cut him off with an urgency. You had to reassure him. 
 “I know, stór, I know… You needed savin’,” he whispered. 
 You looked into his eyes and saw the reflection of who you had been there. You hated that person, but still, you looked. He wanted you to remember. 
 “Are you happy now, stóreen?” He removed his hands from your arousal and held your thighs up. “Do you see how grand life can be?”
 You lined the head of his cock with your entrance but not before rubbing him up and down your folds and making his breath quicken. Your skirt was covering your love making, but you wouldn’t care if anybody saw you. You wanted them to. 
 “I’m so happy, darlin’,” you confessed. You began sinking on his cock, feeling the beautiful pain of the stretch. “Ah…���
 “There we go… Beautiful,” he praised you as his cock entered you. 
 You bit your bottom lip and held onto his shoulders until every inch of his shaft was inside you and you were sitting on his thighs again. Remmick let you adjust to him for a few seconds before pushing your skirt aside and holding your ass. 
 “Fuck yourself on it, stór. Make love to me,” he growled as the drool fell down his chin. It reminded you of the first time you had met. 
 You began moving your hips, feeling his cock hit all the right places inside you. Moans spilled from your lips, and you grabbed the back of his head again, pulling his hair. Remmick liked that by the way he squeezed your ass and brought his lips to your neck. 
 You felt his fangs trace your skin, and your lips stretched into a satisfied smile. 
 “Your cunt is so tight,” he groaned against your neck those sweet words. 
 “It’s always like that for you, baby,” you said, breathless, as you picked up the pace. 
 Remmick hummed and started kissing your neck. Then, you felt a slight sting of pain as his two fangs pierced your skin and drew a bit of blood. Vampire’s blood wasn’t any good, but he seemed to enjoy it like a virgin's blood. 
 “Fuckin’ hell,” you moaned with a laugh, feeling him lick your blood. 
 Remmick raised his head, lips stained with redness, and crashed your mouths together. You moaned into his mouth, and he swallowed your sounds of pleasure. 
 When the fire of your passion rose to wildfire, burning the mist around you, you felt your nails grow. You wanted to fuck him harder, to take him harder, to feel him harder, so you picked up your pace and squeezed around his cock. Remmick moaned your name in his tongue, and you understood him in yours. That was the beautiful gift of immortality: the knowledge of the past, present, and future. 
 “You are takin’ me so well,” Remmick whispered against your mouth. You felt his nails pierce your flesh. “You’re a sinner, baby. Mine.”
 “Yours.” You whined his name and nearly cried out when his cock hit a special spot inside you. The sudden peak in stimulation made your fangs pierce your bottom lip, cutting yourself. By instinct, your tongue went to clean the blood, but Remmick spoke first. 
 "No. Let me taste it," Remmick said, looking at the blood dripping down your bottom lip. You nodded and he licked the blood before wrapping his lips on your bottom lip and sucking on the flesh. The sensation was so familiar to you.
“Remmick.”
 “Foc,” he cursed under his breath, licking his own lips clean. You met his red eyes and pulled his hair back roughly. Remmick groaned with a short laugh and then stared at your mouth. "Spit."
 You didn't have to ask him where, having done this so many times before. 
You smirked and let a string of saliva mixed with blood fall between his parted lips. Then, when he swallowed it as if it were a nectar from the sweetest fruit, you kissed him again. In the middle of rough kisses, his fingers found your clit again and he began slowly stroking it. That made everything ten times more intense and you squeezed around his cock.
 “I’m close. Oh, anamchara, I’m so close,” you warned him as the familiar pull of your orgasm appeared on your lower belly. 
 “Come on, beautiful. Come on, stór. I wanna feel you,” Remmick encouraged you. You pulled his hair again, and he groaned. 
 Your body began dripping with sweat, and you closed your eyes, throwing your head back and holding onto his head for support. After a few more seconds, your orgasm washed over you. 
 It began like a slow wave, until it built and drowned you in pleasure. Your legs started shaking, your clit throbbing and you squeezed around his cock making him hiss. That must have sent him over the edge because you felt his cum spill inside you. 
 “Foc… Shit…” he cursed, breathless. 
 You collapsed against his body then, too exhausted to think or move, as your orgasm began dying down. He still throbbed inside you, and you licked your lips and kissed the side of his sweaty neck. He smelled so sweet. 
 “You drive me mad, baby,” he said between breaths. You felt him remove his fingers from your clit. “Give me a kiss.”
 You kissed him immediately, pulling his head back so you could be slightly over his face. Remmick smirked against your lips and deepened the kiss before you two had to pull away to catch your breath. 
 “Don’t leave me, baby,” you whispered against his lips. “I was here all alone for hours. I couldn’t feel you properly. I was so frightened that you were hurt.”
 “I’m sorry, baby… Sing for me again. That’s gonna make it all alright. I promise,” he said. 
 You kissed him again, briefly, before pulling yourself from his softening cock. Remmick put himself back in his pants, and you pulled your skirt down, covering yourself. 
 You remained on his lap, though, and continued humming that sweet old song that his father used to sing to him before bed. It made you at peace.
 
And we'll all go together
He closed his eyes and put his head on your shoulder. You brushed his hair back and kissed his forehead before running your fingers through his hair and letting the night be filled with the song.
And we'll all go together
To pull wild mountain thyme
All around the bloomin' heather
Will ye go, lassie, go?
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blossomtree33 · 3 months ago
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Such a wondrous and painful thing to be loved
Remmick x female!reader
Warnings; somnophilia, non-con touching, non-con oral sex, messy kissing, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, creampie, bodily fluids, blood exchange, SELF HARM, SUICIDE, murder, vampire transformation, mentally unstable character, bad parent-child relationships, awful family dynamics, stalking, obsession. Summary: Remmick survives that night in Mississippi and wonders around the world for decades. Until he sees you, a quiet girl from a dysfunctional family. Word count: 11.8 k A/N: very little proofreading, sorry if there are mistakes. Don’t forget the check the warnings pls.
“Get the damn suitcase girl.” Your mother’s loathsome voice echoed in the open field as your father was walking back and forth between the old car and the house. You picked up the suitcase from your mother’s hand and looked up to the house your parents bought just few days ago. Your dad was swearing under his breath about the amount of things your mother packed, and your mother was screaming in the house about how everything was broken.
You took a deep breath as you watched your father enter the house to scream back at her. When you were left alone outside, you looked around the field. You were middle of nowhere with closest neighbours an hour away with car. No cars drove past. No electricity. It was quite literally pure silence. Nothing at all. The thought sent shivers down your spine as the cool wind surrounded you. The weather was chilling out here, grey clouds covering the sun light that barely reached the surface.
Your hair covered your vision for a moment with the wind and you felt like seeing a silhouette in the horizon, near that one big tree that was slowly dying yards away from your new home. When you were seeing clearly again, there was no one. You blinked once or twice before your feet moved to enter the house.
“Cannot believe you dragged us with you into this shithole.” Your mother spoke aloud, almost like a scream as she was trying to move the old, creaking rocking chair into the corner of the living room. You moved quickly to help her which she responded only with a grunt.
“Ya can go back to your own shithole if you want, bitch.” Your father said from the kitchen that was right next to the living room. You saw him standing next to the window and smoke his cheap cigarettes. Your mother said something under her breath which you did not pay attention to.
That was your normal at this point. Since you knew yourself, your father and mother hated one another. Yet none of them had dared to part their union as they knew no one could put up with their shit as each other did. You did not know if there was a time they loved one another. Maybe it was before you came into this world. You were not asking questions about their relationship or your family dynamics anymore. The questions were not fixing them, only giving you headaches.
You all sat down and ate dinner together. A dinner that was full of your silence and their bickering. After dinner everyone found a place for themselves in the old house and ended the night.
You had chosen the bedroom on the second floor, end of the corridor. It was a small room with a double sized bed, a small wardrobe and a very tiny desk that looked like it was about to collapse. You walked to the window that was at the foot of the bed and saw the backyard. Like before, it was just nothingness for kilometres. The sun was setting, and the chilling weather was getting proper cold.
You changed into your nightgown and got into bed as moonlight already filled the room. You knew you were going to struggle to sleep in your new bed, new room. The place gave you the creeps but you had no other choice. You were already missing your life in the city and would go back if you could. If your whole family wasn’t searched by the money collectors your father was in debt to. You knew about his gambling and alcohol addiction. And you knew how it always got him and rest of you in trouble. Your family was always in debt to somebody. A friend, a neighbour, the bank, the boss… but it was a different matter when they were trying to get either their money or your life. So the only choice left was collecting everything you owned and move into a countryside house that your parents bought in the time of life and death.
You had no friends to tell about your departure, no boyfriend to give you a goodbye hug. No one cared if you just disappeared or died. You took a deep breath and closed your eyes. And your breathing slowed down with the exhaustion of the day.
A hand was on your thigh. The touch was cold as ice and soft as feather. It went up and down on your skin, caressing so gently that you felt your breathing get stuck in your throat. Then you felt nails, sharp nails like claws dig into your skin, deep enough to draw blood. You hissed with the pain before a hand covered your mouth. You opened your eyes immediately, only to be greeted by a pair of red eyes looking down at you.
Your heart was beating so fast that you wanted to cry with the pain in your chest. The hand on your thigh moved up, until it reached your stomach then your breasts. Cold, cruel fingers pinched your perked nipple, twisted it until your body trembled in pain again. The red eyes were so close to your face that you could not see the owners of them.
That was a demon on top of you, you were sure. A demon from hell, came to ruin you. Tears spilled from your eyes and dropped to his hand that was covering the half of your face. You heard him hiss when your tears touched his skin. Then you felt him press himself down, letting his body go on top of yours. You were sure you were going to die tonight, in seconds maybe. He was going to kill you or your heart was going to fail.
“Do you think you know what it means to be loved?” He leaned in closer, until there was only inches left between your eyes and his own. His whisper came in like a dagger, cutting, butchering trough your senses. You felt your skin tingle and burn. Your tears were burning your eyes and his touch on your skin was making you shake like you were freezing.
This was something unholy. This was something from hell. This was something that made you feel unclean.
“It is such a precious thing to be loved.” He spoke like a snake hissing. His words and his eyes were making you want to cry. Was this a punishment because you never knew how to love? Was God this unfair when he was the one who cursed you with this life?
His hand traveled to your throat and his finger wrapped around your delicate neck. The pressure made your breath get stuck in your lungs, unable to escape. It was then, the hand that covered your mouth lifted. You could not speak, you could not breath. Your lips were parted, your tongue slightly sticking out with the hope of getting any oxygen. Instead you felt something foreign on your tongue. Something that felt like sin.
His tongue was on yours. He was not kissing you, no. It was just his tongue entering your mouth and taking the last breath in your system away. Unlike his hands, his tongue was warm. So warm that it made your loins burn. His body between your legs, pressing himself hard against you and his warm tongue in your mouth made your underwear get wet in seconds. His tongue played with yours, his spit dripping into your mouth and making you open your lips more.
Your tongue traced over his lips and his teeth. You winced in pain when his sharp teeth poked the flesh of your mouth. Then you realised what you were doing. This was not a man on top of you, it was the devil. You heard him laugh when your body trembled under him in terror.
“What a beautiful girl waiting to be loved.” He whispered and you opened your eyes, drenched in sweat and moonlight filling your room, making you almost blind.
You sat ip on your bed in rush, hands finding your throat as your breathing echoed in your new room. Your whole body was burning and your legs were shaking. Your fingers found your underwear, and met with the wetness of your arousal, bringing the rosy tint of shame onto your cheeks.
You looked at your window, it was still dark outside early in the morning. Was it all a dream? No, a nightmare. A nightmare that felt too real. A nightmare that messed with your body. You threw the covers away and got up. Your gaze immediately found the blood stains on your white nightgown. You stopped breathing as you lifted the skirt up. There they were. Wounds that were freshly cut on your legs, blood smeared around them. Your heart started to beat faster, your fight or flight instincts kicking in. How could this be happening?
You jumped in the spot when your mother’s voice echoed in the house, reaching up to the second floor and you. She was calling your name. What time it was? Barely 5 in the morning and she was wide awake which was unusual.
“Come down, help me with this shit.” She spat out as you heard a loud knock at the front door. You quickly changed into your daily clothes and tossed the bloody nightgown into the corner of the room.
As you were going downstairs, you heard your mother and father talking, rather arguing about something again. They were at the entrance, the door wide open, wind blowing into the house and making the long white curtains of the living room float. They did not pay attention to you as you stood next to stairs and listened to their conversation about the kitchen sink not working. Then someone appeared behind your father, a man holding a box. Your father moved to side with the noise behind him and you saw him have the biggest smile you have ever seen in your entire life. Your cold, piece of shit of a father was smiling. Genuinely smiling at this man at the door.
“Come on in son.” Your father said and you looked at the man carefully for the first time. He had dark blonde hair, blue eyes that pierced trough your soul and a smirk that made the hairs on your neck stand up. He did not look at your father, or your mother. For those few seconds his gaze found you and never left you. You wanted to run up to your room and hide under your blankets. You wanted to get behind your mother and beg your father to shut the door to this man’s face.
He stepped into the house and left the box next to the door. Then your father turned to you and your mother, his hand on the man’s shoulder, patting softly. He was so gentle with him that it felt strange. It was like you were seeing another side of your father. It was like this was not your father at all.
“This is Remmick.” Your father uttered the words and your chest got tight. “He lives in the town. He helped me carry some things and gave me a lift.”
“My mama always said that I should help my neighbours, sir.” He said, and hearing his voice made you want to vomit.
“What a good son she had raised.” Your mother said, cheerfully, her earlier grumpiness long gone. Remmick smiled shyly at your mother's words and he kept his smile on his face until he looked at you again.
“My daughter.” Your father introduced you to Remmick. He gave you a small nod, his smile still stretching his lips and his eyes shining with something you could not name. He did not look genuinely happy nor kind. He looked like he had something sinister in his eyes. The way he gazed at you made your stomach twist.
“Hello.” You said, your voice cold compared to your parents who were watching the interaction between you two.
“Hi.” He said, his voice low and deep, coming from his throat. You felt chills run down your spine. “Nice to meet ya.” He extended his hand out.
You looked at his hand, your throat going dry. Then your palm found his own, his fingers hugging your hand and holding tight. Your lips parted with need to suck a breath in. The coldness of his hands made your body shake and the make the pit in your belly grow. It felt like he opened a black hole somewhere in you, and it was swallowing everything.
“Come, have breakfast with us, son.” Your father said as he kept patting Remmick’s shoulder. For a moment you saw Remmick frown in annoyance, as if your father disrupted something. Then his mask came back on, a smile widening on his lips. You looked at his lips for a second. They were pale and looked dry. You felt your mouth water.
“I cannot sir, I gotta head back. Thank you. Welcome to town.” He said as he escaped from your father’s hands and stepped outside. The sun was slowly rising and bringing the new day. Three of you stood at the entrance, your father and mother looking at him with a smile as he walked to his truck. You could only watch as suspicion and fear creeped into your heart. You heard your mother and father walk back into house as his truck’s engine started to work.
Before he drove away, he looked back at the door. When his deep blue eyes found your figure, standing, looking at him with curious eyes, he smiled again. A smile that was vastly different from the ones he gave to your parents. You felt breeze hit your skin as he looked up and down at you, like some wild animal examining his prey and trying to decide if you were worth the hunt. You shut the door as your breathing quickened. The sounds of his wheels filled your ear.
After breakfast you picked up your book and notebook, made your way outside. You could not stay in the house, with your parents who seemed to go back to their usual selves after Remmick left. For the whole breakfast, he was the only thought that occupied your mind. You could not erase the image of him looking at you, deep into your eyes and holding your hand in his own cold ones.
It was strange, very strange. For some reason meeting him right after waking up from that horrible nightmare made you feel sick. Your mother made some comments about you not helping her settling down in the new house but you did not say anything back as you left. You looked around the empty countryside. The sun was at the top, burning mercilessly and making it difficult to breath. It was a nice day compared the yesterday. You held your bag in your shoulder tighter and started to walk on the sidewalk. Your attention got caught by the big, old tree that was few acres away again.
You sat down by the tree and leaned against the trunk. It was nice under the shade. You grabbed your book and continued from the chapter you left. The sweet autumn wind cooled the heat of your body and the sounds of birds filled your ears. This was peaceful, you thought. Far away from the arguments and screams of your parents, far away from the questions that busied your mind, far away from the dangers of the world. It was just you and the silence.
“Hi.” You jumped with the voice of the stranger that came from somewhere close. When you turned around quickly, it was a young man in a jumpsuit and large hat, looking at you under his long eyelashes and smiling awkwardly.
“What the hell?” Your voice came out shocked and scared when you stood up and took a step away from him. His expression changed immediately and a look of concern filled the lines of his face.
“Sorry for scaring you.” He said as he took his hat off and pressed it against his chest in the kindest way possible. “I live down the town. I’m the preacher’s son.”
His accent was strong and from the clothes he was wearing, you could see that he was from this area. You took a deep breath before you introduced yourself.
“I’m Jimmy. Nice to meet you.” He said and looked at you shyly.
“You scared the hell out of me Jimmy.” You said as you sat back down. He giggled at your words before he took his place next to you.
“Sorry. I just got excited when I saw a new face around here. Not many people come to countryside these days.” He pointed at the open field as he spoke. You could see your house from the point you were at. And it felt liberating to be away from it.
“Is that so Preacher’s son?” You said with a small smile on your face. Jimmy laughed with your words before he looked at you. His eyes were emerald green and his eyelashes were dark as night. His nose was straight just like his defined jawline. You could see the freckles and little sunburn over his cheeks. God, you thought to yourself, he was very much beautiful.
“Are y’all planning on staying long?” He asked. You shook your head to confirm.
“It looks like it.” You answered as you looked back at the house. The thought of staying at this place with your parents for long time sounded dreadful.
“You should be careful around this place.” You frowned with his words. Then the pit in your stomach seemed to come back when you looked at him again and saw his shy, playful expression had faded away.
“What is that mean?” He seemed to not to know how to answer your question. Yet he knew he had to answer it now since he changed the mood of the conversation.
“How to say… there are things in this town, I mean that’s what people around says. I personally never saw something but we always lived by some rules.” He took a deep breath and pulled out a cigarette from his jumpsuit’s pocket before he started to speak again. “Don’t let anyone in that comes to your door after sunset. Don’t even open the door. Don’t talk to them.”
The seriousness of his voice sent shivers down your spine. He took a deep breath from his cigarette. You opened your mouth to speak yet no words came out of your mouth. What was that mean? Who could knock on your door after sunset when there was no one living around? Or why shouldn’t you let them in? Were people that dangerous in this area? You felt cool breeze shake the branches of the tree above you.
“It’s getting late. You should head back.” Jimmy said as he tossed the finished cigarettes to the ground. He got up and offered his hand for you to hold. His calloused hands felt warm against your skin. He grabbed your book and bag before he smiled and looked at your house.
“I can walk you home.” He said as you were fixing your dress. You shook your head to decline his polite gesture.
“Thank you. I wouldn’t want to bother you. Thanks for the company.” You said before you started to walk away. You could feel his eyes on your back as you got away from the tree. Before you were not too far away, he called out your name.
“Remember the things I said. Maybe it’s just superstitions but it wouldn’t hurt to follow them.” He said as he put his large straw hat back onto his dark brunette, wavy hair. The sun was setting and the orange lights were washing all over you. For a moment you saw his green eyes shine under the sun light and realised he could be one of the most beautiful humans you ever saw.
“I will.” You said with a small smile and walked away from him and the tree.
The days were coming to an end quickly with the upcoming winter and you hated it. It was getting dark very early and it was not getting any brighter until it was late in the morning. There was nothing to do other than reading, writing and sleeping. The days were warm enough yet the night was freezing cold.
After dinner with your parents who seemed to be very calm after you got back, you found yourself in your room, in your bed again. The blood covered nightgown was still in the corner, tossed around on the dirty floor. You could not bring yourself to pick it up and see the small blood stains again. For some reason not seeing them made them feel unreal and did not remind you of the nightmare. You got under the covers, bringing your book with you. it was easier to fall asleep when you were not thinking of other things.
As you were embraced by the comfortable arms of sleep, you felt like floating. There was a noise that sounded like wind in your ears. Every breath that you took in, you felt like rising up and up. The weight of your body was not there. The weight of your thoughts weren’t there. Everything was light as feather. There was a warmth all over your body. There was warmth between your legs. The tingling sensation under your belly made you squeeze your thighs in need for some sort of friction. You could feel yourself getting wet and your clit throbbing in need.
Then came the warmth of something unfamiliar. The wet, warm thing went between your folds and made you shriek like an animal in heat. You threw your head back when the unfamiliar tongue licked up and down between your folds. The lips that wrapped around your clit in the most delicious way brought you into the high levels of pleasure. He sticked his tongue into your clenching, awaiting hole, his skilful muscle moving in and out as if it was made for it. A loud moan escaped your mouth when his nose was nudging against your clit. The pleasure was too much that you tried to close your legs and get away to breath properly.
Yet his strong hands grabbed your hips harshly and he pressed his head deeper into your cunt. He was just breathing in your scent and getting drunk with your taste. You were about to pass out with his tongue deep in you. Then suddenly the tip of his tongue hit that one spot that made you scream until your vision went completely black and you stoped breathing. Your body was shaking uncontrollably as you tried to catch your breath and open your eyes.
It felt like you were in another dimension. It was so dark in your room that you could not even see your own hands.
“Look at me.” He said, his voice low and deep in the darkness of night. Your gaze met with pair of red eyes and the bliss of your extraordinary orgasm left you in seconds. You wanted to scream for help and get away from him. Yet your body was not moving nor a sound was coming out of your mouth.
“When you were young you wished that someone loved you. All those nights you cried yourself to sleep as a little child and expected someone to come to your room.” He said as he leaned closer to you, his cheek pressed against yours and his lips right next to your ear.
“Expected someone to ease your pain and soothe your heart. Yet no one came.” He whispered, his voice is cold. You could hear the smirk in his tone. He was smiling as he spoke your pain out. You wanted to throw up and cry until you could not move anymore.
“No one loved you. But I do.” He said as the weight of his body suffocated you. There was a musky smell that came from his body. It was dominating and off putting. He smelled like death and it was filling all your senses. Only thing you could feel on your exposed skin was him. Only thing you could smell was him. Only thing you could hear was his cruel words and only thing you could taste was him when his lips found yours. His mouth tasted like you and every life he had consumed to this day. You kissed him back with a hunger that scared you. His warm tongue entered your mouth just like it entered your hole moments ago.
His sharp teeth cut your lips and tongue yet you did not care. All you wanted was kissing him until he consumed you too. There was an urge in you that wanted to be eaten by him. You imagined him feasting on your flesh, his teeth crashing into your bones and your beautiful, thick blood flowing down his chin as he ate. The image made you moan into his mouth.
“I’ll come for you, little dove.” He said and you gasped as you rose in your bed from your sleep. Your hands came up your chest immediately to ease your fast breathing and heart beats. It was broad daylight outside. The sunlight was creeping into your room and warming your skin. You just looked at the white covers of your bed as the moments from your dream filled your mind. Your breath got stuck in your throat when you remembered his red eyes looking at you from between your legs. Your body trembled when you remembered him looking down at you as you crawled underneath him, your mouth covered in your own blood.
These dreams were getting so realistic that you could feel the effects of them all day. Your gaze met with the tossed nightgown in the corner. You wondered if you were getting possessed by some kind of demon or you were just going insane in the countryside. The second option seemed more reasonable.
You walked downstairs to be only greeted by your mom smoking in the kitchen, sitting by herself with the most sorrowful expression you have ever seen.
“Where’s dad?” You asked as you made yourself a bowl of cereal for breakfast. You heard her scoff as you sat down in front of her. Her under eyes were purple and hallow, her cheeks sucked in and her face pale like she was sick.
“God knows where that bastard is.” She said, her voice stern and angry. She finished her cigarette and lit another one right after. You looked at her with a confused expression as you ate your cereal.
“Did he not come back this morning?” Your mother nodded as she looked out of the window. Why this was a big deal this time? He would always leave and not come back for some days, drink himself to death on the streets and get into some sort of trouble.
“I’m sure he will be back by afternoon.” You said to reassure your mother. But she did not look like she was convinced. She just kept looking out of the window as her cigarette burned.
And in fact your father did not come back. At first you did not pay much attention to it. It was actually nice without him in the house. There was silence and no arguments which was something you craved for. But your mother grew restless every passing hour. She wanted to call everyone possibly could know where he was yet the phone wasn’t working. You were not surprised that there was no signal out here. Even though your mother was losing her mind over this for some reason, you did not mind, truly.
Until sun was setting and the countryside got swallowed by dark again, days after your father’s disappearance. Those few days you could truly sleep with no nightmares unlike your mother who did not even eat something healthy. That evening your mother took a sleeping pill and locked herself into her room. You were down in the living room, reading your book. You could not get yourself to sleep, your mind now occupied by your father and his strange absence that took too long this time.
It was quiet in the house. Yet it did not make you feel comfortable or peaceful as it usually did. There was not a single sound even outside of the house. No birds singing, no foxes screaming, not even crickets. It was just pure darkness covering your house. You could not look out of the window as you just kept reading your book. Your head down and facing away from the entrance.
Someone knocked on the door.
The sudden noise made you jump on the couch, your book falling into your lap. Your head turned to the closed door immediately. After the knock there was a silence as if both sides were trying to hear something from behind. You slowly got up and walked to the door. Your hand was reaching for the handle before the person at the other side knocked again. This time it was louder and harsher. You saw the door wiggle in its frame with the amount of force. You gasped and took a step away with shaky knees. A familiar voice from the other side called out your name.
“It’s me, dad.” Your father said with a cracked voice that sent shivers down your spine.
“Dad?” You asked as you got close to the door again. You heard his raggedy breaths.
“Yeah, yeah. Come on, open the door and let me in.” He said, the words coming out of his mouth rushed and breathless. He sounded like he was in pain and the thought made your heart ache. Your hand went to the handle again, and your fingers grabbed the cold metal tight.
“Do not open the door!” You heard Jimmy shout from outside suddenly. Your hand on the handle froze as you heard screams and grunts on the other side. Your father was swearing, Jimmy was swearing back. You rushed to the window that was facing the front porch. Your father was on top of Jimmy, his face close to his neck. Jimmy was holding your dad away from himself by trying to push him trough his shoulders. You saw them rolling over the porch, fighting like animals. You could not speak or move.
Jimmy threw your father away from himself and rushed back to his small van. Your father distracted by the fall, his gaze found you watching them trough the window. He run towards you, his hands pressing against the glass, alongside his face right in front of yours. You felt like your world shatter, when you were greeted by a pair of red eyes looking back at you. Red just like the ones that gave you sleepless nights and brought endless amount of shame to you. Your breath got stuck in your throat as your father looked like some starving feral animal with drool flowing down his chin, his teeth sharp abnormally, and his eyes mirroring a demon.
“You used to listen to me when you were my little girl.” He said, his voice now sounding foreign to your ears. You shook your head as tears started to fall down your cheeks.
“Be my good little girl again and let your father in before this fucker-“ his words got cut with a sound of gunshot. You felt like your heart stopped beating. Your father’s eyes were locked with yours before more gunshots were heard. Last one was straight to his head, shattering his brain and making it explode right in front of your face. Blood and brain pieces hit the glass that separated you and your father. His lifeless body sunk into the ground. You could not look away as his blood was forming a pool beneath him.
Jimmy walked to him, the shotgun on his left hand, and a piece of sharp wood in his right. He didn’t look at you as he kneeled by your father’s body and stabbed him trough his heart with the wood. Your father’s body trembled, shaking as Jimmy sinked the wood deeper into his chest. When he was satisfied with his work, he looked at you for the first time since you heard him. There were drops of sweat flowing down his temples, his eyes looking tired and his face covered in blood. You didn’t know if it was his own blood or your father’s. He stood up and looked at you from the exact spot your father did moments ago.
Your tears were making your vision blurry. Your jaw was shaking and you did not know how long your legs could keep you standing. This was all a nightmare for sure. A very realistic one that you would always have since you came to this place. Jimmy gave you a look, as if he was pitying you.
“Do not open the door to anyone until sunrise.” He said before he walked to his van. You silently watched him walk away from your dead father’s body and you. Your chest was aching and your tears were keep flowing down your face without your control.
You couldn’t look at your father for last time before you started to walk upstairs. Your steps were silent, like a ghost as you walked passed your mother’s room and entered your own. Window was open. The chilling wind of the night was filling your room. The bed sheets were cold and your pillow was too hard to sleep on. It felt like laying on spikes. Your body was hurting, your soul was hurting. Yet there was no thought on your mind. Your piece of shit of a father was dead.
You woke to an eery silence of the house. You rose from your bed, catching a glimpse of your swollen eyes and purple under eyes in the mirror before you left your room. The long corridor of the second floor was empty, as it always was. You walked to your mother’s room and knocked on her door. Yet she didn’t answer. She was probably still asleep or didn't want to be disturbed, you thought to yourself. Then made your way to downstairs.
It was just like how you left last night. Your book was on the couch, next to your mother’s favourite blanket and your father’s favourite mug that you used to drink tea last night. You walked to the kitchen to open the window. The weather was cloudy and rainy. You wished to see a glimpse of sunlight yet walked away disappointed. You checked the fridge to make some breakfast for you and your mother yet the fridge was empty.
You sighed with annoyance before you walked upstairs again, to alert your mother of lack of food in the house and ask to go to shopping to town. You knocked on her door. There was no response. The pit in your stomach was there again. It was eating away your insides with worry and fear. You slowly opened the door and stepped into her room. She wasn’t here. Her bed was tidy, as if she never slept on it last night. The windows were shut, the air was suffocating with the lack of oxygen. You saw her glass of water, untouched on the nightstand next to her bed.
Your steps were slow and steady as you walked to the small bathroom in her room. The door was shut yet you could hear a sound of water dripping. You frowned in confusion as you reached for the handle. The first thing you saw was blood. The blood mixed into water that was flowing down the bathtub reached at your feet in seconds. Then the smell. The metallic, heavy smell of blood hit your nose. The sight of it came last. Your mother, your own mother was laying in the overflowing bathtub, in her own blood, her eyes wide open just like her mouth, facing the ceiling and looking into nothingness. You saw her slit wrists on either side of her, blood still dripping down in a thick form. You wanted to throw up yet nothing came out from your mouth. No words, no scrams, no cry. You silently looked and looked at her.
There was a strange silence in the house. Silence was something you had always craved. Yet in this moment you wished nothing more than the chaos that was always present in your household since you knew yourself. You wished to hear your parent’s argument again. Wished to carry your drunk father to his bed with your mother’s help. You wished to separate your mother and the neighbours fight. You wished to scream back at them when they decided to mess with you after getting bored of messing with one another. You craved for what you always knew. Was it possible to ask for the pain you knew because the comfort was a too much of a stranger?
You walked back to your room, your body was about to collapse. You sat on your bed. Maybe minutes, maybe for hours. You just sat there. Your eyes were on the nightgown that was tossed in the corner. You sat there until sun was setting, until darkness of the evil came rushing back to the countryside. You sat there until someone knocked on your door. The sound from downstairs echoed in your house. Your heart beats fastened again, your lips going dry.
“It’s me Jimmy. I came to take you to town. I spoke with my father. We’re concerned for ya.” He said as you walked downstairs silently. You stood right in front of the door, your heart at your throat, your palms sweating and drops of sweat flowing down your back.
“You said never open the door to anyone after sunset.” You spoke for the first time since yesterday, your throat hurting as the words left your mouth. You heard him grunt and swear under his breath. You looked around your living room to see if there was something you could use to defend yourself.
“Not me, I won’t hurt you. Would you not like me to take you somewhere safe? He might come any moment.” He said with clear worry and fear in his voice. You wondered what he was so scared of after he killed your father right in front of your eyes. What if it was also him who killed your mother? Why would he want to destroy your family, your life like this?
‘How to say… there are things in this town.’
His words echoed in your head. Maybe the things were him from the very start? You felt like throwing up when he knocked the door loudly. He was trying to open it. The tears formed in your eyes when you felt the hairs on your neck stand up.
“Open the damn door and let me help you. You will die out here.” He screamed as he tried to break the door by kicking it. Your feet carried you to the kitchen, to the backyard door that you kept shut since you moved here. You tried to open it yet it was locked. Jimmy threw another kick to the door and the lock broke down immediately, letting him in. You turned around and saw him standing at the entrance, his shotgun in his hand, looking at you who was struggling to open the back door. As he was about to step into the house, you screamed in terror and forced the door more. But he didn't come in. You dint hear any footsteps approaching you or his voice calling your name.
You slowly looked back at the front door over your shoulder. He wasn't there. There was in fact no one looking at you or stepping into the house. It was just darkness and cool wind blowing in. You walked to the door after grabbing a knife from the kitchen. You would kill him if you had to, if he didn't shoot you first. The porch was empty. His van was parked in front of your house, engine on yet no one at the driver seat. The small light at your porch was flashing fast but weakly.
You walked away from the porch, made your way to the right side of your house that was facing the main road to the town. You kept your back on the wall and moved silently, checking your back and corners every second to see if he was coming back or hiding somewhere. Was he trying to lure you outside so it would be easier to kill you? You shook with fear and cold weather. You weren’t feeling pain or hunger anymore. You wondered if you were going to survive this night and see the run rise one more time.
There were no cars passing. Was it possible to walk to town all that way and find someone to help you? Your eyes found someone in the darkness. There was someone standing next to the tree that you sat by just a day ago. He was shorter than Jimmy and had broader shoulders. Yet it could be just you trying to convince yourself. You wanted to walk to him and beg him to help you to get away from that psycho.
“There you are.” You heard Jimmy’s voice right next to you as you were still looking at the strange figure. You screamed in terror and started to run away before he could catch you. The man next to the tree turned to look at you with the shouts and screams. It was this Remmick guy. You felt relief settle into you as you run towards him. He smiled when he saw you, his eyes not even looking at what was behind you. He opened his arms as you got close. You were crying your lungs out when you found yourself in his arms.
“No! Get away from him!” Jimmy raged when he saw Remmick holding you against him. Remmick’s grip was tight and cold. His body against yours cooled you down, your breathing going back to normal and your heart beats getting slow. You felt Remmick move your body slightly.
“No, no, no preacher’s boy. We wouldn’t want to have you hurt this precious girl.” He said as his hands went up and down on your back. You took a deep breath of calmness when your face found a comfortable place in the crook of his neck. Just like you remembered, he smelled strange yet this time this smell brought you the feeling of safety and security. You didn’t question why you remembered how he smelled like. He giggled when you snuggled against him more. You were going to survive.
“You made me work hard for you, little dove.” He said, his voice calm yet playful. The peace lasted short when you heard the last words he said. You wanted to pull away yet he didn't let you. You were not thinking of Jimmy anymore. Only thing you could think of was Remmick. As if he was conquering your mind, your senses and making you unable to think of anything else.
“It is such a precious, magnificent thing to be loved.” He whispered to your ear. His warm, flaming lips moving down to your neck. You felt him leave a small, soft kiss on the skin of your neck. His kiss, his touch didn't feel unfamiliar. Your body knew his touch, your body knew his words.
“W-what?” You managed to bubble a word out of your mouth. He laughed at your state, his chest falling and rising against you.
“The preacher’s son Jimmy wanted to be your hero. But I cannot let him, unfortunately.” He said, his mouth right on your pulse. You felt your heart sink when you felt his sharp teeth on your skin. These were the teeth you had already felt on you for nights. They were not dreams. It was him.
“I met a preacher’s son long time ago. They’re always, how to say… interesting. Maybe he is still out there somewhere.” He said, his voice curious, still playful, scratching your brain. His arms got tighter around you, until you could’t breath anymore. You held his arms, tried to break away from him yet you couldn't do anything against his inhuman strength. You wished that Jimmy would shoot both of you in this moment.
Your vision went black when you felt sharp, stinging, burning pain on your neck. It was so unbearable that you couldn't even scream when his teeth sinked deep into you. You could feel blood flowing out of you, filling his mouth and rest spilling down his chin. The coldness of his fangs burned the fresh wound on your neck. The air that was hitting the wetness of your blood made you dizzy. He sucked on your neck like he was starving as his hands roamed all over your body.
That wasn't a demon or it wasn't you getting possessed by some kind of entity. It wasn't your brain making up things either. It was Remmick from the very beginning. You realised it was him Jimmy was warning you about. It was his voice that was making your heart skip a beat in the dead of the night. It was his hands touching your body and making you tremble under him.
“You taste better than any mortal I have ever tasted, little dove.” His voice echoed in your mind. You didn’t know if he was actually talking or you were going insane at this point. Your legs gave up but his arms held you up in the air. You were floating in his arms as he started to kiss the wound on your neck. The pain was too much that your heart beats slowed down alongside your breathing. Your ears were ringing, your mouth going dry.
“I’ll love you forever.” He whispered as your consciousness slipped out of your body. Everything went black. No sound, no light. It was pure nothingness. Your senses were dull and you couldn’t feel your body. Everything was too light around you. There were no feelings. You were not scared anymore. Nor you were calm.
When you opened your eyes again, the darkness of the night seemed brighter than any other time. Your eyes scanned the field, seeing small animals hidden amongst haystacks. Your ears filled with the sounds of small crickets, birds breathing on the tree branches, people laughing in the distance, your mother’s blood dripping down in the bathtub. You felt the dryness of your throat first. It hurt so much that you wanted to scream out. Remmick rocked you gently in his arms. He was saying something yet you could not focus on his words.
The delicious smell of him hit your nose so suddenly, with the wind carrying his scent to you. You pushed and manage to get Remmick away from you. There he was. The preacher’s son. The poor boy Jimmy who only wanted to help you and risked his life for you. He was standing not so far away from you, frozen and shaking in fear. You wondered if your eyes were shining with the soul of devil within you. Remmick was in you from now on, from the moment he sinked his teeth into. From the first moment he laid his eyes on you. From the first moment he tasted your skin.
You took a step towards Jimmy only for him to raise the shotgun to you. You did not care if you were going to die. The urge to feed yourself was so strong, almost blinding. You took another step, and he pulled the trigger. The bullet hit your shoulder. It felt like a bee sting that was spreading over your flesh. Then the bullet slowly fell off the wound, dropping to ground. You heard Jimmy gasp, start to whisper prayers under his breath as you walked to him. Your hands found his shoulders, forced him to get closer.
“Jimmy…” You almost pleaded as your teeth cut trough his skin. He screamed and tried to push you away in terror, yet everything was happening too fast. Before you could even stop yourself from harming him, his tasty blood touched your tongue. And you felt a wave of energy travel trough your body. Life was breathed back into you with his sweet liquid of life. You felt it burn trough your throat and mix into your system in seconds. Every drop of his blood was burning your insides in the most pleasurable way possible. You drank it like madwoman. It was dripping from your mouth, escaping from the corner of your mouth. You tried to catch it as if your life was depended on it, licking everything possible. You were so hungry, the feeling in your stomach hurting you, making your headache and your fangs sizzle with soreness.
“That’s enough little dove. You drained the poor boy.” Remmick said as he laughed. He wrapped his one arm around your waist and picked you up easily. The lifeless body of Jimmy dropped to ground as he slipped away from your grasp. You saw him fall, his face pale, his lips colourless, his once cheerful, shy eyes looking dead more than ever. You jaw dropped, tears filled your eyes as Remmick carried you away as if you were piece of feather. You tried to push him away, get away from his touch but he looked unbothered by your attempts.
“We can go back to your house and spend the day there until sunset. What do you say little dove?” He asked, his face close to yours, his eyes twitching with mischief. He disgusted you beyond imagination with the smirk on his face.
“Get away from me!” You said, your voice coming out like an animal growl. His eyebrows raised in curiosity when you tried to scratch his face. He put you down suddenly when two of you were on the porch, holding your arms tight enough to break your now very strong bones. Every sensation was still too new. You could still smell Jimmy’s blood, still hear the noises coming from afar, still feel Remmick’s bite burn and ache.
“I have waited for you for so long.” Remmick whispered with a gentle voice you didn't expect to hear from him. His fingers found your face, caressing your cheek that was wet because of your tears. His fingertips that once felt ice cold now felt like they were belong on your skin.
“Wondered around for centuries to find someone like myself only to find no one. Until you.” He said as his eyes never left your face. He was looking deep into your eyes, seeing your deprived soul behind them. You wanted to get away yet your body was frozen as if he put some spell on you. What was this nightmare? Had God abandoned you in this countryside? Had he left you into the arms of this devil?
“I am no devil.” Remmick said, mirroring your words. “I only have love to give you, little dove.”
“You have taken my humanity from me.” You said, your voice shaking with sorrow and rage. The soft look on his face disappeared in seconds. His hand on your face grabbed your cheek tight, bringing your face closer to his own.
“What a humanity that was?! That humanity killed my people, destroyed cities, burned children, enslaved men. There’s nothing glories about that humanity that you grieve.” His words were full of poison as he spat them out. His eyes were scanning your face, looking at every detail possible. Under his gaze, you felt your skin burn. The bite he left on your neck sizzled again, making you hiss.
“I will show you great things. Things you could never imagine in your human life.” He said as his body was pressed right against yours. You felt your skin tingle against him, making you shift uncomfortably under his touch.
He brought his face closer, until there was few inches between your lips. His fingertips were pressing into your flesh, leaving possible marks on you. The thought of carrying the marks he left on you made you thighs clench. As if he was reading your mind, he held you tighter, his nails cutting trough your skin like it did nights ago.
“Let me show you my most precious thing. My love…” He said as his lips gently touched the corner of your mouth. His short moustache tickled your sensitive skin, sending shivers down your spine. You wanted his lips on you but he wasn't kissing you. His mouth was slightly open as his lips went right and left at the corner of your mouth. His warm breath was licking your face, making you forget everything that you had on your mind just seconds ago.
His lips captured your bottom lip first. He gently kissed your mouth as if you were a piece of glass. Then his tongue slowly made its way into your mouth. With this new body, the taste of his tongue was exquisite now. He tasted like wave of destruction, the plague, the angel of death, your sweet blood that he drank minutes ago. He tasted like the end and foreverness. You kissed him back like an animal, hungry, wild and in need for killing. His arms wrapped tight around your waist, pressing your body against him so hard that you thought your bones were crushing into one another.
He first got rid of his own clothes. His pale, smooth skin was shining under the cold moonlight. You felt your mouth water as his hands ripped your clothes away. The stretch of the ripping clothes on your skin made the wetness between your legs grow bigger. Before you knew what was happening, his hand was in your hair, gently tugging the strands to expose your neck. He leaned closer and breathed your scent in. Then his wet lips left a shaky, small kiss that made you moan out loud in frustration. His touch was so gentle that it made you feel like you were walking on a thin sword. You wanted to get cut by that sword more than anything in this moment.
“I watched you, listened to you, touched you. I waited to make you mine so patiently.” He whispered as if he was talking to himself. His hand on your hair pulled harsher this time, making you fall onto your knees. He followed you down soon after, laying you onto the ground. You didn't care about the hard, uncomfortable surface of the porch. Only thing you cared was him between your legs, looking down at you like you were a part of his whole being.
“I won't be gentle.“ he said, as he left a kiss to your temple and caressed your hair. You did nothing but nodding as he waited for your reaction. His eyes didn't leave your face as he grabbed his dick and aligned himself with your awaiting, clenching wet entrance. The first stretch took your breath away. Everything was too foreign to your body. His tip went in and stretched your walls that sent a wave of shock trough your whole body. He kept looking at you and you could not take your eyes off of him. It was like your were one with him in this moment. Your very existence was full of him. Your insides were full of him.
His dick made a room for itself as he mercilessly stretched you out. When he was all the way in, his tip close to your cervix, a cry came out of your throat. Your chest was hurting and your eyes were burning. You felt sick. Pleasure of the pain was making your vision cloudy. You could not think anything other then him being inside you, against you, on top of you. He rolled his hips once and you couldn't control the noises that came out of you. It sounded like an animal crying out in pain, a shriek of sorrow, a moan that was full of pleasure and sin.
“Let it go.” He whispered and captured your lips once more. You moaned into his mouth as he started to roll his hips again and again. His skin was slapping against your skin, the sounds that came from both of you echoed in the field. There in the darkness, two wild monsters, seeds of the devil were making love.
His pubic bone was pressed against your clit, going up and down and providing the friction you were craving. He buried his face in the crook of your neck and bit you again on the same spot. This time the pain of his teeth made you shake in ecstasy. You were scratching his back, drawing blood and sinking your nails deep enough to make him hiss. You could feel your blood once again fill his mouth. You felt your tongue go dry, your fangs get sore in need of biting something. You could feel your thirst get worse as his hips slapped against yours, your walls clenching around him tight and wet.
“Go on, bite me.” He whispered between his bites. Your eyes widened with his words and the pit in your stomach made you tremble.
Without even thinking you took a long lick of the skin of his neck and bit him. He hissed and you felt him twitch inside you, going deeper in you as if it was possible. His ancient blood touched your tongue and you felt euphoric. It was much different than Jimmy’s blood. Remmick’s blood was full of wisdom and evilness. It was bitter and addicting. You felt it get into your veins, mix into you in seconds and fill you up with darkness.
“Harder!” You moaned as you licked the bite on his neck like a lunatic. His thrusts became harsher, leaving your skin burning and bruised. He was digging into you, making you squeal and cry his name out.
“Fucking hell woman!” He grunted as he held your thighs and pushed them against your bare breasts. He pressed his body against yours, trapping you between him and ground. With the new position, you could feel him deeper in you. Your walls were clenching and getting wetter and wetter with every thrust. Your mixed liquids were flowing down his balls to the ground, pooling under your hips.
His name was like a prayer on your lips. In this moment he was all you knew, with your new body and mind, with your new nature. He was your creator, as he eliminated the first one that trapped you into a miserable life. You hugged his shoulders and kissed him again. The kiss was mixing with your tears that were flowing down your cheeks. He moaned when he tastes the salty liquid. He was liking everything better when it pained you. How sick and twisted someone could be?
“You tasted way better than your father.” He whispered, making sure you heard it clearly. Your hips that were thrusting up and meeting him halfway stopped. Your tears dried on your cheeks and your arms fell to your sides from his back. He buried his face into your neck as his thrusts started to get sloppy and carelessly deep. Your face was blankly looking at the black sky that was full of stars. He was going in and out, his hands holding your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh and his lips sucking on the sweet spot on your collarbone.
He was terrorising you from the moment you had came to this place. He was haunting your dreams, making you doubt what was real and what was not. He had taken your father first, turning him into a monster like himself, like you. Then he had taken your mother, on an early cold morning. He wasn’t satisfied with any of this until he had taken your humanity, your innocence and mercy from you. He had made you kill an innocent person who only wanted to help you. And now he was never going to let you go. You felt your chest tighten with the thought of spending one more day with him.
His moans got louder, eventually turning into screams of pleasure. With one last hard roll of his hips, he spent himself in you, painting your clenching walls white with his dead seed. You wanted to throw up as he was still caressing your skin and kissing your neck. He was smiling against you, his dick still inside you, keeping you full. Your eyes turned to the side and you saw horizon line lighten slightly by the rising sun. Your breathing stop. It was going to be bright soon.
“I want to be on top.” You said as you ran your fingers trough his dirty blonde locks. His dick started to harden inside you with your words. Then he immersed flipped you over, laying himself on the ground that was warmed by your body. He was already hard when you aligned his tip at your entrance. The stretch was better than first time, going easier with the slick of your folds. You went down until he was all the way inside you. The new feeling took the breath out of your lungs. Your loins were fitting together like pieces of puzzle. He looked at you under his eyelashes, a sweet smile on his face as his hands grabbed your breasts. You started to roll your hips without letting your body adjust to him first.
“I love you.” He whispered breathlessly, the smile on his face never fading away and his eyes dropping in the bliss of your body. You held onto his chest as your movements got faster. Your whole body was burning with the knowledge of sun slowly rising in the horizon. He was lost in you, unaware of the new day coming.
With the force of your knees you started to bounce up and down, taking Remmick’s breath away. His legs were shaking just like your knees that were about to give up. Your body was tired but your mind was wide awake. You were not going to spend the rest of your life with him. You were not going to let him go either. He had to pay for what he did to you and even if it meant to die with him, you were willing to do so.
“I love you.” He said again. His eyes were closed, hands on your legs, his chest rising slowly with the deep breaths he was taking in.
“Come here.” You said when the friction on your clit made you tremble on top of him. You were going to come. He opened his eyes and rose up to hold you on his lap. Your arms were wrapped around one another, body tangled and hips meeting in order to get satisfaction out of one another. He pressed his forehead against yours, your breaths mixing and making your eyes tear.
“I love you… I love you…” he kept repeating as your legs started to shake and your eyes rolled back into your skull. You saw flashing lights and stars in your vision as your clenching walls made him grunt like an animal. The knot in your belly exploded and pleasure burst into your veins. You cried out, tears flowing down your cheeks and he licked every each one.
“I love you.” He said as you kept rolling your hips. You could not say that you loved him back. Though of uttering those words disgusted you. You guided his mouth back to the wound on your neck which he gladly accepted once again tonight. You sinked your own teeth onto his shoulder. Your bodies exchanged blood and pleasure at the same time. With that he was sent over the edge and his orgasm hit him for the last time.
Two of you slowly laid back, you on top of him, him still deep inside you. You could feel his seed leaking out of you. The feeling made your legs shake and your clit throb. You feasted on him from the last time. You were going to die with his taste on your tongue and his seed in you. No matter how hard you tried to get your self away from him, you were his.
The sun lights came first. Then the warmth. It was sweet sensation first. As you drank from one another, it warmed your skin. You didn’t look up to sunlight but the feeling was bringing you peace maybe for the last time in your life. The thought made you want to cry. Remmick slowly raised his head up from your neck but you didn’t let him.
“Please drink more.” You said as you pushed his back to your skin. Your loins were burning. You smelled burning flesh. Then felt the pain on your skin. Remmick’s skin was starting to turn red, looking raw and painful. You were feeling his pain on top of your own. Tears kept running down your cheeks as he kept drinking your blood. He was consuming you as if he was drunk on your essence. He was keep repeating the same few words even when the sun was getting higher in the sky;
‘I love you.’
The sun was brighter today. It was warmer, more blinding. The sun was rising for you today. Today, sun was rising to clean the world from evil. And you had accepted without fighting against. You pressed your head against Remmick’s shoulder and started to hum a song that was from a distant memory. A song that was sang by a mother, to her baby. A lullaby it was. This wasn't your memory, no. Your family was full of too much hate and contempt towards one another. You had never truly loved your parents and even though they had little love for you in their heart, they had never liked you as a person. All of your memories were full of arguments and screams.
The lullaby was from Jimmy’s memories. The same one that his mother sang to him nights before she had died. The same lullaby he sang by himself to remember her. And it was the same one that he had imagined to sing to his kids one day.
Sun lights were coming directly now. You could feel them getting under your skin and make their way into you in order to destroy your existence. Remmick shifted beneath you, as if his consciousness was coming back. He tried to push you away yet you didn't let him. With your last strength you held him tight and close to you.
“What are you-“
“You said you loved me more than anyone ever did. I want you to die with your love.” You said as you looked into his eyes. There it was again, his mischief smile that made your blood boil with rage.
He tried to get away from you but you were not letting him go. Sunlights were frying his skin now. The smoke that came from your bodied filled the air with the smell of burning flesh. The flames were coming from your insides. It was burning from your belly to your throat to your bones. You wondered if every death was this painful.
The flames got bigger and higher. Only thing you could see were orange-red flames and his eyes that never left your face. He was looking at you as if he was trying to understand if he was actually dying. Being on this earth for centuries, seeing empires rise and fall, being the most powerful being on the planet and take thousands of lives wasn’t something someone could leave behind easily.
“After everything I did for you?” He said, but you could not tell if he was actually talking or you were hearing things as you died.
“I never wanted any of this. ” You said, tears flowing down your cheeks and your heart aching.
“Why?” His voice is now full of sadness and his eyebrows raised up in hope. The possibility of you never loving him was now crossing his mind for the first time. You didn’t love Remmick. Yet the problem was, you couldn’t hate him either. You knew you were supposed to. And the guilt of not hating him was eating you away.
“Only someone who knows how to love could hate.” Remmick’s grip on you disappeared when the words left your mouth. “Anything other than hate and love is nothing at all.” He shook his head as if your words getting carved into his head. He pulled away from you, facing the creeping sunlights from the horizon line. You looked at him, and gasped with his beauty. His body was like a statue against the shimmering lights. You wondered what was the last time he properly seen the sun.
He looked at the horizon line, didn’t speak for some time until you touched his cheek. His side profile was perfect with his red eyes shining and reflecting the upcoming light. His mouth was covered in your blood and his body was covered in bites and scratches all over. The corner of your mouth curled up with proudness of your work. You were truly going insane.
“I don’t remember the last time someone loved me.” He whispered. Yet the weights of his words were so loud that it was heard in the whole field.
“I searched for something that could make me feel close to what I had before I was this.” He said as his hands pointed at himself.
“But I have been on this earth too long. Nothing, no one of my time survived yet I am here.” He said as he finally turned to you. You realised in that moment how similar you were. Since you spent your life trying to fit into a world that never tried to make you feel included. Your parents were dead, you had no home to go back. Your hands were covered in the blood of an innocent.
“Maybe we weren’t meant t survive this long.” You said. He smiled and nodded.
You did not know if he said something after that. It felt burning, then cold. Then nothing at all. Your existence turned into a bunch of ash and wind took it away.
As the sun rose in the sky, there were ashes on the ground of the porch. There were torn clothes, and blood. Not so far away from the house, there was a dead man, laying on the haystacks, a shotgun by his side.
A naked man who was covered in burns disappeared into the house, seen by the cars passing by. Yet they only found the bodies of the woman out of the family that moved into the house and the preacher’s poor son. There were no traces of the father and the daughter. Not a single trace of any body else other than them.
A/N: hope you liked it. Feel free to share your thoughts on it.
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