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Crimson & Curls - Part 8

Remmick x Fem! Reader Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━━⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆

"Tell me, honey… what else are you hiding? What desires do you keep locked away? Perhaps… I can help you unleash them."

A/N: Anyone who read part five prior to 5/31, please note that there were changes from the original post. I needed to fix it to make this upcoming chapter more smooth and apologize for any inconvenience. I hope you all enjoy the new and improved chapter and what is to come!

THE BLOOD BRIDE

YOU WERE still in bed when Remmick entered the room, silent as a cottonmouth through a moonless cypress swamp. You lifted your head, your hand instinctively reaching for the cold, empty space beside you.

"You're awake?" he murmured, a glint of excitement in his low voice.

You nodded slowly, the weariness still heavy in your limbs. "Where did you go?" Your voice was a hoarse whisper. You propped yourself up on your elbows, angling to see him better. A small smile stretched across his face, finding something familiar in the unruly curls framing your head—a spitting image of his past.

"Look outside," he murmured, his voice keeping the room's quiet intact. He took a few steps closer, settling onto the end of the bed by your feet. His hand went to his own head, pushing stray curls from his eyes. "Go on," he prodded, nodding towards the window.

Your body hesitated, almost afraid of what you might see. Though you trusted him, your bones ached with a strange dread, a peculiar heaviness that urged you to melt back into the bed and remain exactly where you were.

Despite your reluctance, your bones nearly crackled as you slid off the bed. Slowly, you stalked to the window, peering out through the dirty glass, obscured by a thick film of dust and so many cobwebs that they stole the clarity from anything beyond.

The air hung thick and heavy, tasting of dust and the ghosts of forgotten summers. There, in the dry dirt path that spun into a cracked, crumbling roundabout—where a small garden of shriveled bushes had long ago surrendered to the sun's blistering wrath—sat a Packard. Its paint, a startling, slick black, glistened with an almost obscene freshness under the very moonlight that poured down like liquid silver, bright as a noonday sun. You'd only ever seen men of the planter class, with their starched collars and cold eyes, parading their trophy wives into town in such gleaming contraptions. It was a vehicle plucked from another world, dropped into this silent, decaying one.

"Pretty, ain't she?" Remmick purred, leaning back against the shadow of a skeletal rose arbor.

You nodded, a silent agreement, the unspoken question of what poor soul he'd silenced for such a prize lingering on your tongue. Yet, a raw, undeniable surge of gratefulness tightened in your chest, hot and unsettling.

There was no doubt in your mind he noticed it too, the way your stride had lengthened with the falling night, each step eager, almost frantic. Though he said nothing, you felt a primal urge to outpace him, to fly across the ground like a shadow unbound. The utter lack of ache in your feet, despite your thin slippers offering no real protection, boggled your mind. Everything felt sharper, faster, stranger—a transformation you both hated and found terrifyingly thrilling.

You were never a fan of the things you had to hide. Your past, stained with hardship; the visions that sometimes blurred the edges of reality; the gnawing anxieties that clung to you like the Delta humidity. And this, this burgeoning monstrousness, was just another bitter cherry atop a life already burdened.

"Won't people be suspicious?" you found yourself asking, the words escaping before you could rein them in.

Sure, your skin was light enough to typically pass, to blend into the cruel tapestry of the South. But the town where you'd grown up had, in its own way, offered a peculiar sort of uneasy truce, especially with Smoke and Stack's formidable presence. The thought of testing those tenuous boundaries in a new, unknown city, under the piercing gaze of a world that would surely see you as an anomaly, twisted your gut. You didn't want to find out just how thin the veil of your humanity truly was.

"Suspicious?" Remmick's voice was a low, dry rasp, a sound like old paper crumbling. He didn't look at you, but his gaze seemed to fix on something beyond the Packard, deep in the moon-drenched shadows of the distant trees. "People only see what they want to see, and mostly, what they expect. A light-skinned woman with a fine car might raise an eyebrow, sure, but they'll just settle on 'stolen' or 'chauffeur' before they'll ever look for the truth of you. The world's full of easy assumptions for folks like us, even when we walk between the lines."

He paused, a long, heavy silence stretching between you. Then, he finally turned his ancient eyes to yours, their depth like twin wells. "The real hiding, girl, ain't in your skin anymore. It's in your blood. And what that blood craves. That's a secret no sun can burn away, and no small town gossip can ever touch."

He looked at you with those cold, ice-chip blue eyes, and you almost heard his thoughts, a silent promise chilling the air between you: If anyone comes between you, I'll handle it. You nodded, a shiver chasing up your spine like a phantom wind, yet a perverse sense of calm settled in your gut. You could trust him to do something—anything—to keep his weapon safe.

"I promise," he whispered, the sound a dry rustle in the quiet room.

Then it clicked, a cold, undeniable certainty blooming in your own mind. You hadn't almost heard his thoughts. You had been there, a fleeting, breathtaking trespass in the vast, shadowed labyrinth of his ancient consciousness.

"How did I—" The words came out barely a gasp. "Did you—?"

Remmick grinned, a slow, knowing pull at the corners of his mouth. He held his breath for a long moment, his eyes, still fixed on you, seeming to weigh the very fabric of the silence, as if deciding what ancient secret to unveil next. Then, his gaze drifted towards the boarded window, a hint of mischief in their depths.

"Time to move," he purred, his voice a low command.

His eyes hinted at a deeper truth, but you knew he wouldn't yield. The twinkling twilight was already staining the western sky, turning cotton fields to bruise and shadow as daylight, thick as molasses in a jar, bled irrevocably away. Time was a precious, fleeting thing. You dressed quickly, not in the same travel-worn clothes, but from a forgotten wardrobe in one of the grand bedrooms.

You found a dress of fine, heavy silk crepe, the color of a bruised twilight sky, its long sleeves buttoned neatly at the wrist. It was a garment clearly made for strolling shaded verandas or riding in a motor car, still smelling faintly of lavender and the ghosts of its previous owner. Its smooth, cool fabric, a stark contrast to your old grime-stiffened dress, that had settled against your skin, replacing the scent of dust and fear with an assumed, chilling grace.

The Packard, that glossy black leviathan, sat waiting in the roundabout, a silent, gleaming promise. You slid onto its worn leather seats, the unexpected softness a jarring contrast to the endless miles of hard earth. Remmick, behind the wheel, started the engine with a low growl that filled the humid night.

As the opulent car purred to life, pulling away from the abandoned plantation and its haunted memories, the landscape outside became a blurred tapestry of dark trees and deeper shadows. Remmick drove with an almost unnerving precision, his eyes fixed on the ribbon of road unspooling before them. He kept to the backroads, avoiding the meager lights of isolated farmhouses and the distant hum of forgotten towns.

The silence in the car was profound, broken only by the rhythmic hum of the engine and the distant chorus of crickets. But it wasn't an empty silence. Your mind felt attuned to him in a way it hadn't before. It was subtle at first, like the faintest echo of a thought, a fleeting image of a crossroads, a fragment of a plan. You found yourself anticipating his turns, sensing the subtle shifts in his attention, almost tasting the direction of his unspoken intentions.

"How did you do it?" you asked, sharp and sudden. "Earlier, in the house. When you spoke..." You trailed off, unable to form the words. Instead, your mind replayed the moment: his cold, blue eyes, the silent, absolute promise that had chilled you even as it reassured. He hadn't moved his lips.

Remmick's gaze, which had been fixed on the endless stretch of road, shifted to meet yours. A faint, almost imperceptible smile played on his lips, hinting at ancient secrets. "That, little one, is the hive mind. A new kind of sight. A new way to speak."

He paused, letting the implication settle, the hum of the Packard's engine filling the space between his words. "You felt it, didn't you? My thoughts, clear as if I'd spoken them aloud." He didn't wait for your nod. "It's the way of our kind, for those strong enough to grasp it. A current between us, when we allow it."

You considered his words, a puzzle piece clicking into place. "So, you... you let me in?"

"Always," he murmured, his voice a low thrum that seemed to vibrate not just in the air, but in your very bones. "It's a connection, a bond. You'll learn its nuances in time. How to listen, how to send. How to shield, if need be." His eyes, ancient and knowing, held yours. "It's a powerful thing, this hive mind. A comfort in the dark, and a weapon, when the world demands it."

A jolt went through you, though your gaze remained fixed on the blur of shadows outside the window. You didn't consciously try to pry, yet his mind, vast and open, seemed to flow into yours—a steady, controlled current he allowed to pass. You felt the breadth of his awareness, the endless vigilance that spanned centuries, the quiet calculation behind every turn of the wheel.

Then, images began to surface, not thoughts, but flashes of his own past, shared with a deliberate, controlled generosity. You could feel the cold, clean rush of a mountain stream, the bite of frosty air on skin accustomed to warmth, the vast, rolling green of hills that stretched unbroken for miles, punctuated by the occasional stone cottage or a spiral of peat smoke. There was a profound sense of rootedness, of a life lived in tune with the earth and its raw, elemental rhythms.

You—or rather, Remmick, through you—turned to the side, and a grandeur of food spilled across rough-hewn tables fashioned from split logs. Smoke still clung to the air, a faint ghost of the fires that had rendered the feast. His stomach, hollowed by days of yearning, clenched as the rich, earthy scent of venison, still steaming, rose from a communal platter, glistening fat catching the firelight. Beside it, in a carved wooden bowl, lay roasted wild carrots and parsnips, their skins caramelized, their earthy sweetness a counterpoint to the gamey richness of the meat. In another bowl, a vibrant mix of bitter greens and a handful of tart wild berries, plump and glistening, caught your eye. They seemed to hum with the freshness of a recent harvest, as if plucked moments ago from a lush, green chaos of a garden nestled beside the very dwelling you now saw.

You tasted the sharp tang of those berries on your phantom tongue, the earthy bite of the greens, a symphony of flavors from a life long past. Around the edges of this impromptu feast, the air hummed with the presence of various herbs, their scent distinct even in the lingering smoke—no doubt for cooking, along with the telltale, familiar presence of nettles and more parsnips growing wild. But it was the border of the scene that truly captivated: delicate flax flowers of brilliant blue and pale yellow, fragile primroses bobbed gently, a vibrant, living fringe to the ancient celebration.

"Get your bow off the table!"

The feminine voice cut through the joyous din of the gathering, clear as a mountain spring over the raucous reels played on wooden fiddles. Men and women stomped and twirled around a roaring fire, their laughter echoing against the darkening sky, but Remmick's attention, immediate and absolute, narrowed on one woman in particular. Her dark, long brown curls, wild and free, cascaded past her waist, catching the firelight like polished obsidian. Her eyes, bright with a challenge and a teasing smile, were fixed on him.

Her gaze, teasing as a whispered secret, lingered on Remmick for a beat too long, an invisible thread pulling him close. But before he could even consider reaching for her, a laugh, light as spun moonlight, escaped her lips, and she drifted away, her dark curls a graceful blur in the churning revelry.

Remmick's gaze, however, remained fixed on her. It wasn't the fleeting glance of an acquaintance or the fond look of a simple friend. This was something far deeper, far more possessive. A subtle tilt of his head, a slight clenching of his jaw, as another man dared to claim her hand for a reel. An ownership shimmered in his eyes that confused you. Were they truly together? Or was this merely the potent allure of a shared past, a bond forged in a time she couldn't comprehend? The way they spoke, the glances, the easy familiarity—it hinted at a history far more intertwined than mere kinship.

Just as you strained to glimpse more, to untangle the threads of that relationship, a sudden, impenetrable wall of darkness slammed down in Remmick's mind. It wasn't a slow fade, but an abrupt, violent exclusion, a psychic barrier so dense it left her reeling, a profound silence where moments before had been vibrant life. "What was that?" Your voice, though quiet in the close space, held a sharp edge of annoyance. "Who was that woman? What did you just do?"

Remmick kept his eyes on the winding road, his profile a mask of stone. "Just... a memory." His voice was flat, devoid of the earlier warmth that had bathed the shared vision. "Some things are best left unexamined, in my opinion."

A tremor of frustration ran through you, coiling tight in your gut. He'd promise to unravel this ancient puzzle piece by piece, revealing the edges of his vast past. Instead, he'd slammed a door in your face, the psychic barrier a sudden, absolute chill. A hunger for more of his memories, the insistent pull to understand the woman who commanded such a look from him, warred with a simmering resentment.

He'd been doling out glimpses at his own will, using this very connection as both shield and tether, a silent pact to keep your family safe. And now, he wielded that very bond against you, withholding the knowledge you craved like a vital breath.

"What's so funny?" you snapped aloud, your voice tight. Then, a low, dry chuckle echoed, not in the air, but directly in your mind, a sound only you could hear.

“Not one for public displays, are we, little one? Best keep that yearning a bit more private.” Your face burned, a sudden, furious heat spreading through your cheeks. He'd heard that? He'd felt your frustration, your confusion, your raw longing for what he'd withheld? The sheer invasiveness of it made your stomach clench.

His silent chuckle rippled through your mind again, accompanied by a fleeting image of your own restless form on the dusty furs last night. “Just remembering how you felt last night, little one. All that yearning for more…”

You whipped your head away, your face burning. "Get out of my head!" you hissed, the words tasting bitter, your voice barely a whisper in the confines of the car.

A low, amused hum vibrated in your skull. Make me.

The command hung in the air, a brazen challenge. You tried. You imagined a wall, a door, a thick, impenetrable fog. You pushed, strained, felt your brow furrow with effort, but his presence remained, a steady hum beneath the surface of your own thoughts, amused and unwavering.

Struggling much, little one? His voice, clear as a bell in your mind, carried an undeniable note of sassy amusement.

Frustration boiled over, a hot, bitter wave. You felt your will, raw and unpracticed, crash against his ancient, unyielding presence. "How?" you demanded, your voice cracking, defeat settling heavy in your chest.

“Imagine shutting me out the same way you tried to block out the preacher, back at the juke joint. You closed your mind to him then, didn't you? It's the same principle. For humans, I have to be let in. I can nudge, I can whisper, but to truly enter, they must allow it. The same goes for your mind, if you truly don't allow it, I cannot stay.”

You tried. You imagined a wall, a door, a thick, impenetrable fog. You pushed, strained, felt your brow furrow with effort, but his presence remained, a steady hum beneath the surface of your own thoughts, amused and unwavering.

Struggling much, little one? His voice, clear as a bell in your mind, carried an undeniable note of sassy amusement.

Remmick's silent chuckle rippled through your mind. Imagine shutting me out the same way you tried to block out the preacher, back at the juke joint.

Suddenly, you weren't in the Packard anymore. You were back in that small, dilapidated church, the humid air thick and still. There was no Smoke, no frantic whispers of Smoke or Stack, just the heavy silence of dust motes dancing in the meager light. And the preacher. He stood before you, the deviled creature, his eyes gleaming with a self-righteous fury, a twisted claim to divine authority. He lunged, a sudden, desperate blur of dark cloth and hateful intention.

But this time, you were faster. Stronger. You danced back, a phantom step that left him grasping at empty air. You didn't want to kill him, not yet. Not really. You wanted him trapped, locked away with the demons of his own making, his vile words echoing only in the confines of his twisted mind. He lunged again, a desperate, clumsy miss, and you were already outside the church door, the familiar, weathered wood within reach.

It wasn't a door meant to lock. This was a plantation, a place where control was meant to be absolute, and the enslaved weren't afforded the luxury of bolted doors.

What are you going to do? Remmick's taunt echoed, playing within your own mind.

You ignored him, focusing. A surge of newfound power coursed through you. You felt the old, rusty hinge groan in protest as you pulled the heavy church door shut, the wood thudding home with a finality that resonated in your bones. Your phantom hands scrambled, desperate for anything to bar it. A loose plank from the rotting porch, a discarded iron rail – you jammed them into place with spare seconds. The muffled, enraged roar of the preacher vibrated through the wood. He was locked in. And then, just as suddenly, the church, the preacher, the struggling lock—all of it dissolved.

You were back in the Packard. The memory, the desperate struggle, had played out entirely within the confines of your own mind. The doors of your mind had locked. Just like that.

"Good girl. Now just learn to keep that up, and you won't have to worry about me getting into your thoughts." Remmick's voice, devoid of its earlier amusement, cut through your triumphant haze.

You heard him, of course. His words, cool and matter-of-fact, slipped past the defenses you'd just erected, a subtle reminder of the power he still held. But you refused to answer, refused to acknowledge his presence within your mind. The victory, small as it was, tasted sweet. You clenched your jaw, focusing on the rhythmic hum of the Packard's engine and the blur of the passing night. The battle for your mind had begun, and tonight, for the first time, you'd struck a blow.

You wouldn't give him the satisfaction of another word, not in your head, and certainly not aloud. The silence that fell between you was thick, a new kind of tension, but for the first time, you felt a sliver of control within it. You spent the rest of the night practicing, pushing at the edges of your burgeoning mental walls, ignoring the ancient presence that still sat beside you, driving into the endless dark.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

THE DARK, cotton-field flatlands of Mississippi grudgingly gave way, a subtle surrender at first, to rolling hills that swelled into shoulders of ancient, dreaming earth. The air, which had clung thick and humid for endless miles, began to thin, carrying the heavy, green scent of pine and damp, undisturbed soil, almost a premonition. Trees, once sparse outlines against the bruised horizon, now pressed in, a silent, towering phalanx of dark forms whispering secrets of forgotten stone and buried shadow beneath their roots.

A faint, bruised purple bled into the eastern sky, consuming the deep indigo of night. The stars, once scattered like shattered glass across the vast expanse, now dimmed, retreating before the subtle advance of a dawn that promised no solace, only the unveiling of more secrets.

You felt the insistent incline of the road beneath the Packard's tires, the engine's low hum deepening, laboring with an almost sentient groan, as if the very asphalt resisted your passage. This was Tennessee. These were the mountains. And as the first, ethereal grey kissed the highest peaks, hinting at the colossal, brooding forms hidden in the gloom, Remmick finally began to rein in the glossy black leviathan, unsettling morning.

You looked at the wisp of smoke, a knot tightening in her stomach. "So, what now?" you asked, your voice low.

Remmick turned to you, a glint in eyes that was both calculating and something akin to amusement. "Now, we play a game, little one."

You reached for the bonnet laid beside you on the seat. The touch of the smooth silk was a luxurious contrast to the rough practicality of your previous attire. Pulling it on, you felt a subtle shift, a touch of unexpected elegance settling over you. Carefully arranging the soft fabric over your hair, you felt a fleeting sense of unfamiliar grace. The silken coolness against your scalp was a welcome sensation as you tied the delicate ribbons beneath your chin, the act a final, almost theatrical flourish to your assumed persona. For the first time since shedding your old life, a whisper of something kindred to prettiness stirred within you.

"What are we going to do?" you asked again, your fingers nervously smoothing the fabric of your borrowed dress.

Remmick’s gaze swept over you, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths. "Let me do the talking," he murmured, his voice low and commanding. "Just play your part, my darling wife."

He opened his door, the hinges creaking softly in the morning stillness. You followed suit, the unfamiliar rustle of the silk dress a whisper in the quiet woods as you stepped out of the glossy black Packard into the cool, damp air. The scent of pine was stronger here, mingled with the fainter aroma of woodsmoke.

The small, weathered house looked unassuming, a simple structure built from rough-hewn timber, a testament to the hardscrabble life of these mountains. A porch sagged slightly, and a couple of rocking chairs sat still, as if waiting for their occupants to emerge. With a shared, silent glance, Remmick started towards the porch, and you followed, the soft earth muffling your steps. He raised a hand and knocked firmly on the wooden door.

Heavy as a drumbeat, a pair of footsteps approached the wooden door. Remmick lifted his arm, and you instinctively looped your hands around his, pressing yourself as close as possible. When the door swung inward, you managed a convincing, if shaky, smile, even feeling the familiar crinkles form around your eyes as you met the gaze of the man who stood in the doorway.

He was a man carved from the mountains themselves, lean and grizzled, with a face weathered like old leather from sun and wind. His eyes, the color of pond water, narrowed slightly behind thick, grey brows, taking in Remmick, then you, with a slow, calculating appraisal. A few days' growth of stubble clung to his sharp jawline, and the faint scent of pipe tobacco and woodsmoke clung to his worn denim overalls. A rifle, well-used and cradled with practiced ease, rested in the crook of one arm. He didn't speak, just held his gaze, his silence as heavy and watchful as the surrounding woods.

Remmick's gaze, steady and practiced, held the man's. A flicker of something calculated, almost weary, crossed his ancient features before his lips curved into a polite, disarming smile.

"Mornin' to you, friend," Remmick's voice was a low, smooth baritone, carrying just enough Southern lilt to sound familiar, yet with an underlying resonance that hinted at places far from these mountains. He gestured vaguely back towards the barely visible road. "Apologies for the early call. Our motor car, bless its heart, decided to call it quits a few miles back. Threw a rod, I reckon, just as the sun thought about peekin' over the ridge."

He tightened his grip on your hand, a subtle cue. "My wife here," he continued, his eyes softening as they briefly swept over you, "she's not accustomed to travelin' by night, much less being stranded with the dew still on the grass. We were hopin' you might point us toward the nearest general store or, perhaps, if it wouldn't be too much trouble, offer us a warm place to wait out the morning chill until we can figure our next move." His gaze held a plea, carefully measured, a blend of polite desperation and the quiet confidence of a man used to getting what he wanted.

The man's gaze, sharp and assessing, lingered on Remmick's face, then on your assumed distress. His hand, gnarled and calloused, tightened almost imperceptibly around the rifle stock. The silence stretched, broken only by the chirping of crickets and the distant caw of an early bird. Just as the tension threatened to snap, a woman's voice, warm as fresh-baked bread, drifted from deeper within the house.

"Who is it, Silas? Don't leave folks standing out on the porch at dawn!"

The man, Silas, grunted, his eyes never leaving Remmick's. "Just some folks with car trouble, Martha." He finally shifted, just an inch, opening the door a fraction wider.

From the dim interior, a plump woman with kind, tired eyes and flour dusting her apron emerged, wiping her hands on a cloth. She took one look at your silk dress and the imposing Packard, then her gaze softened, settling on your carefully constructed, weary smile.

"Oh, bless your hearts! Stranded out here? Poor dears." She clucked, her eyes twinkling with immediate sympathy. "Silas, don't be rude. Come on in, you two. We just finished up a right grand breakfast, too much for just us old folks now that all our young'uns have moved off to the city. There's plenty of hot coffee and fresh biscuits to go 'round." She waved a hand, her hospitality overriding her husband's caution. "Come on, come on. You look fair worn out."

Silas still seemed hesitant, his gaze flicking between Remmick and the car, but his wife's insistence held sway. He stepped back, gesturing them inside with a curt nod, the rifle still cradled loosely in his arm.

"Mind the step," he mumbled, stepping aside to let you pass into the warmth and inviting aroma of the mountain home. The porch creaked a welcome as the old woman, her face a roadmap of kindly wrinkles, ushered them inside. The warmth of the house, thick with the scent of spices and something savory, wrapped around them.

Just beyond the entryway, a large, polished oak table groaned under a grand breakfast spread. Platters of crisp bacon, steaming mounds of scrambled eggs, stacks of golden-brown pancakes drizzled with syrup, and bowls brimming with fresh-cut fruit filled the air with tempting aromas. It smelled good, undeniably, deliciously human-good, but it wasn't the scent of life itself. It wasn't the metallic tang of blood, nor the intoxicating, visceral thrum that used to pulse from Smoke's neck, a memory of hunger so profound it still made her stomach clench.

For a fleeting moment, her face grew pale, a stark contrast to the inviting warmth of the room, but she reined it in instantly. Her features remained as calm and unreadable as Remmick's, a mirror of his own collected stillness. As the old woman, her voice a reedy ramble, began to list the dishes laid out before them, the girl leaned closer to Remmick, her voice barely a whisper against his ear. "Can we even eat this?"

He gave a curt, almost imperceptible nod, his eyes never leaving the spread before them. For a fleeting moment, her face grew pale, a stark contrast to the inviting warmth of the room, but she reined it in instantly. Her features remained as calm and unreadable as Remmick's, a mirror of his own collected stillness.Remmick surveyed the bounty, a slow, appreciative smile touching his lips.

"Well now, ma'am, this looks simply divine," he drawled, his voice as smooth as aged whiskey. "We'd be honored to sit and break bread with you both." His eyes met yours for the briefest instant, and in their ancient depths, a flash—quick as a snake's tongue—of something raw and predatory flickered, a hunger that went far beyond the human feast before them. A hunger for life. It was gone almost before it registered, a shadow only you, with your newly attuned senses, could have caught.

Without thinking, your hand, hidden from the old couple by the table's edge, found his. You squeezed, a silent, desperate plea, begging him not to succumb to the beast, not here, not now. The unexpected pressure caused his gaze to snap to your face, his calm demeanor momentarily fractured by surprise. His blue eyes, usually so controlled, held a fleeting question before he regained his composure, that cold stillness returning.

“I"I reckon I could lend a hand, if you're amenable," the old man mumbled, settling himself at the table and resting his shotgun beside it with a soft thud.

Remmick looked at the old man, tilting his head slightly, a flicker of feigned confusion in his cold blue eyes. "With what, sir?"

"Your car," the old man clarified, a knowing glint in his eye as he gestured towards the window with his chin. "It's an expensive one. Where'd you folk get a car like that?"

Remmick's smile broadened, genuine now. "Why, that's mighty generous of you, sir. I would appreciate that greatly.”

The old woman, beaming, set a bowl of grits on the table. "My husband's a dab hand with engines, always was. He's usually out in the woods, though, hunting. Are you much of a hunter, young man?"

Remmick's eyes drifted to a rifle mounted above the fireplace, gleaming faintly in the morning light. "Only when necessity calls, ma'am," he replied, his voice soft, almost lazy. "But that is a truly nice gun you've got there. A very fine piece indeed." His gaze lingered on the weapon, a subtle, chilling admiration in his tone.

He then pulled out a chair for you, and another for himself, the scrape of wood on the linoleum loud in the warm kitchen. You sat, your hands resting primly in your lap, trying to mimic the stillness you felt radiating from Remmick.

The aroma of bacon and coffee was intoxicating, but it wasn't the scent your new nature craved. You watched as the old woman piled a plate high with eggs and bacon, pushing it towards you. Remmick, with a calm ease that belied your inner turmoil, took a piece of bacon, broke it, and slowly, deliberately, brought it to his lips. He chewed, swallowed, then took another, his movements unhurried, a silent command for you to follow.

You picked up a piece of bacon, the fat still glistening, and brought it to your mouth. The texture was strange, the taste almost foreign, but it was food, and your human half recognized the need. You chewed slowly, forcing it down, a knot forming in your stomach that had nothing to do with hunger. Remmick, meanwhile, calmly added a generous spoonful of scrambled eggs to his plate, then a few more strips of bacon, acting as if this were the most normal breakfast in the world.

The old man, halfway through a mouthful of grits, mumbled around it, "So, you folks from around these parts? I couldn't help but notice those Tennessee plates. What part of Tennessee, might I ask?"

The question was a cold splash of water, instantly chilling the fleeting warmth of the kitchen. Your gut clenched. You hadn't wanted to tell them a truth you barely understood yourself, hadn't wanted to craft a lie that might unravel. The sheer weight of having to speak, to explain your impossible presence, pressed down on you. You felt yourself stiffen, a silent plea for Remmick to take the lead.

Remmick offered the old man a disarming, easy smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Tennessee, yes sir," he drawled, his voice as smooth as river stone. "We're from a little spot you might not know, just west of Nashville, near the Cumberland Plateau. Been on the road a spell, visiting kin, and this old beauty's been a faithful companion."

As he spoke, his hand, resting casually on his knee beneath the table, subtly pressed against her own, a brief, reassuring squeeze. A silent command: Breathe. I've got this. He then turned his attention back to his plate, taking a deliberate bite of bacon. "This bacon, ma'am," he added, chewing thoughtfully, "is truly something special. Best I've tasted in a long while."

The breakfast conversation meandered through pleasantries, the old couple eager for news from outside their quiet world, Remmick deflecting questions with an easy charm that belied his ancient nature. You picked at your food, forcing down mouthfuls of egg and pancake that tasted like ash compared to the thrumming hunger within you. Every now and then, you caught a flicker in Remmick's eyes—a sharp, almost imperceptible focus on the pulse in the old man's wrist, the vibrant blush in the woman's cheeks—and your hand would twitch towards his, a silent plea for restraint. He always subtly acknowledged it, a fractional shift in his posture, a momentary tightening of his jaw, but his composure remained unbroken.

Finally, the last drops of coffee were drained, and the plates pushed back.

"Well, now that's a mighty fine breakfast, ma'am, thank you kindly," Remmick announced, pushing back from the table. "I do appreciate your offer of help with the car, sir. Perhaps we could step out and have a look together? Might be a loose wire, or just needs a good old-fashioned tinkering."

The old man's eyes lit up at the prospect. "Sounds good to me, son! Always happy to oblige. Got my tools right out back."

As the old man rose, Remmick casually draped an arm over your shoulders, pulling you close for a moment. His voice, though still soft for the old couple's ears, was a low, chilling current that flowed directly into your mind. We can't linger here. Not with the sun coming. I'll need a moment to make sure they won't remember us. No violence, just a touch.

He guided you towards the door as the old man headed for a shed out back. "My wife here will wait inside," Remmick said to the old woman, who was already starting to clear the table. "No need for her to fuss in the morning sun." The old woman, humming, nodded vaguely, her back already turned.

Outside, the air was warming, carrying the scent of dew-kissed earth and distant honeysuckle. Remmick opened the Packard's hood, revealing the pristine, almost untouched engine beneath. He fiddled with a few wires, his brow furrowed in feigned concentration. The old man joined him, his own seasoned eyes peering into the engine.

"Hmm," Remmick mused, tapping a clean hose with his knuckle. "She's a stubborn one. Looks to me like we've got a bit of a fuel line issue. Nothing major, but it'll need a specific part. Something I don't see lying around in your shed, I reckon." He straightened up, turning to the old man with a regretful shake of his head. "Reckon you'd have to make a run into the city for it. Memphis, perhaps. Or even down to Jackson, if you've got a mind to. Might be a long drive, though. My wife would raise holy hell if I went that far without her, if you know what I mean."

The old man stroked his chin, a thoughtful furrow on his brow. "Memphis, eh? That's a good drive. But if it means getting that beauty back on the road..." He considered it, then nodded with a decisive grunt, a chuckle rumbling in his chest. "You got that right, son. My old woman's been itching to get out of these mountains for a spell herself. Sometimes you just crave some fresh air on a good long drive. Alright, son. I'll take my truck into town. Should be back by sundown, no later."

Remmick clapped him on the shoulder, a perfectly genuine-sounding thanks in his voice. "Couldn't ask for more. My wife and I will keep out of your way here until you return. No sense in us getting in the way of a true mechanic."

He closed the hood with a quiet thud. As the old man turned to retrieve his truck and his wife, a curious glimmer, quick as heat lightning, sparked in the depths of his eyes, a brief, almost imperceptible haze that settled over his features. You saw it, the subtle shift in his aura, and understood Remmick's silent work. He then led you back towards the house, the sun already climbing higher in the pale morning sky. The plan was set. They were alone in the house now, left to the mercy of the daylight and the old woman's watchful eye.

As soon as the old truck rumbled down the long driveway, disappearing beyond the thick treeline, you bolted. The polite smile you'd plastered on vanished, replaced by a wave of nausea so intense it threatened to buckle your knees. You stumbled towards a rusted metal trash can near the back porch, the remnants of last season's garden clinging to its edges.

Before you could fully succumb, a hand, surprisingly gentle yet firm, snaked around the back of your neck, tilting your head over the rim. Remmick's fingers tangled briefly in the borrowed silk of the dress, pulling stray strands from your face. The contents of your stomach, the unfamiliar, cloying sweetness of pancakes and the greasy weight of bacon, erupted in violent spasms. You heaved, the human food a betrayal in your newly altered body.

When the retching subsided, leaving you weak and trembling, you leaned against the cool metal, gasping for breath. Remmick knelt beside you, his presence a strange mix of concern and something else… amusement?

"How?" you rasped, your voice raw. "How can you… eat that?"

He shrugged, a small, almost imperceptible movement. "Practice, little one. You'll learn what you can stomach. Or rather," his lips curved in a faint smile, "what you must stomach, when the alternative isn't readily available."

A low smirk escaped him as he saw you in your state. You pushed yourself up, the lingering taste in your mouth foul. "Go to hell," you muttered, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

"Already been there in various forms, love. This breakfast was considerably less fiery." He rose, extending a hand to you. "Now, we have work to do." He nodded towards the dusty, grimy curtains. "Before the real fire starts."

As you reached for a thin, faded curtain at a nearby window, a searing sting shot through your hand. It felt like a thousand needles pricking your skin, followed by an intense, burning heat. You recoiled with a gasp, clutching your hand to your chest.

Remmick was behind you in an instant, his movements impossibly swift. He snatched the edge of the thin curtain away, hissing softly as his own skin briefly grazed the sunlight filtering through. With a sharp tug, he yanked the dusty blinds shut, plunging that corner of the room into relative gloom.

He gently took your injured hand, his cold touch a momentary balm against the throbbing pain. "Sit," he commanded, his voice low and urgent.

You sank onto a threadbare armchair, your breath catching in your throat. Even through the small, barely visible reddening of your skin, the pain was excruciating. It felt like the sun itself was cauterizing your flesh, burning away what you were. A faint, acrid smell, sickly sweet and undeniably rotten, began to rise from your hand.

Remmick moved with frantic energy, a stark contrast to his usual languid demeanor. He slammed shut the remaining blinds, drawing thick, musty drapes across the windows, battling the encroaching sunlight with a speed born of desperate experience. You watched, bewildered and in agony, as he winced, a faint hiss escaping his lips whenever a stray beam touched his skin, yet he healed almost as quickly as the light struck.

"Why… why am I not healing?" you choked out, your voice thick with pain.

He paused in his frantic work, his blue eyes dark with a grim understanding. "You need blood. Your own reserves are depleted, and human food… it offers no sustenance for what you are now."

Without another word, he turned his arm, pulling back the sleeve of his linen shirt. His teeth, suddenly sharp and elongated, glinted in the dim light as he sank them into his own flesh. A dark, viscous liquid welled up, and he offered his forearm to you.

"Drink," he commanded softly, his eyes locked on yours.

Hesitantly, drawn by an instinct older than memory, you reached out. The metallic scent, so potent and vital, filled your nostrils, overriding the lingering taste of sickness. Slowly, your lips touched his warm skin, finding the small, open wounds. A shudder ran through you, a mixture of revulsion and desperate need.

Then, you began to suckle, the rich, dark blood flooding your senses, a primal comfort washing over the searing pain in your hand. A strange warmth spread through your veins, a flicker of returning strength, and with it, a hunger unlike any you had ever known, twisting deep in your gut, echoing his own. The world, previously muted, now vibrated with a raw, amplified symphony – every distant rustle, every faint scent, a revelation. In the hushed darkness of the shuttered room, the only sounds were the soft rhythm of your feeding, and the distant drone of insects outside, now seemingly a lullaby to this new, burgeoning life.

The first rays of dawn, when they eventually pierced the heavy curtains, would not merely illuminate the room; they would cast the stark, vibrant lines of a world seen anew, and a reflection that was both familiar and terrifyingly, exquisitely, unknown.

NEXT CHAPTER>

#remmick #remmick x reader #remmick x y/n #sinners movie #smut #x reader #remmick x you #sinners 2025 #smoke and stack #shameless smut

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bokonowriter · 12 days ago

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I can’t get over his claws..

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bokonowriter · 17 days ago

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Crimson & Curls - Part 7

Remmick x Fem! Reader Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━━⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆

"Tell me, honey… what else are you hiding? What desires do you keep locked away? Perhaps… I can help you unleash them."

Where Shadows Confess

The cool night air, once thick with the scent of pine and drunken revelry, now felt like a shroud. Each breath was a shallow gasp, a desperate fight against the metallic tang of blood that still clung to your tongue, to your very being. The monstrous surge of power had receded, leaving behind a terrifying hollowness that vibrated deep in your bones. Your muscles quivered, a ceaseless tremor that spoke of the raw, untamed force that had coursed through you just moments ago.

Shame, hot and caustic, erupted in your gut. Smoke. The image of his face, contorted in shock, a sight searing brand on your mind. Nausea, sharp and violent, clawed at your throat, threatening to overwhelm you.

Remmick's hand, cold and ancient, still clasped your arm like a manacle. His grip was a stark anchor in the churning abyss of your mind, a silent, unyielding demand for your attention. He said nothing, but his eyes, two abyssal depths, held yours, steadying you with a force that transcended mere physical contact. The sheer weight of his presence began to drag you back from the precipice of your own horrified thoughts.

Slowly, his fingers released your arm, then drifted upward, not with revulsion, but with an unnerving, almost tender fascination. His thumb brushed the line of your jaw, then stroked the crimson-clotted curls that clung to your cheek, each matted coil a grotesque testament to the spilled life. No disgust marred his features, only that cold, ancient curiosity that felt more intimate than any touch you had ever known.

Without a word, he turned, his towering shadow swallowing the faint, lingering glow of the juke joint behind you. He didn't ask if you would follow; he simply moved, his stride silent and unhurried, deeper into the suffocating embrace of the treeline. The dense canopy devoured the last, faint whispers of the distant revelers, leaving only the rustle of leaves beneath your unsteady boots and the frantic, echoing drum of your own heart.

Your limbs felt like lead, your mind a shattered mosaic of fear and confusion, yet you stumbled after him. He was the only solid thing in a world that had suddenly dissolved into a nightmare, and for now, the only path forward was to follow where he led, a silent, blood-soaked creature trailing a being as old as time itself.

"I'm sorry," was all you could manage, the words tumbling out like an incantation mumbled in a fever dream. You didn't even look at Smoke, couldn't bear to face him. Your gaze was fixed on some unseen point beyond him, a haunted, distant stare. The apology became a relentless, broken record, a mantra of guilt whispered over and over: "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

You were lost, suspended in a terrible trance of remorse, oblivious to anything but the crushing weight of what you'd almost done.

The darkness of the treeline embraced them, a thick, suffocating blanket that muted the last echoes of the juke joint. Each step Remmick took was silent, a predator's grace, while your own feet scuffed clumsily, heavy with the blood that still squelched in your boots.

The "I'm sorry" had ceased, replaced by a raw, ragged gasp with every breath, but the apology still echoed in the hollow spaces of your mind. You couldn't lift your gaze from the dark, shifting earth beneath your feet, as if looking up would confirm the grotesque reality of your transformed state, confirming the monster you feared you had become.

The air grew cooler, damp with the scent of deep earth and unseen water. The faint, sweet smell of pine needles gave way to something richer, almost mossy. Your heightened senses, still buzzing from the transformation, picked up every minute detail: the delicate whisper of leaves stirred by an unseen breeze, the distant hoot of an owl, the subtle tremor of the ground beneath Remmick’s feet. Each sound, each scent, was an overwhelming assault, a painful amplification of a world you were no longer truly part of.

Remmick’s hand remained firm on your shoulder, guiding, pushing, preventing you from veering off course or collapsing. His presence was a stark, cold certainty in your swirling confusion. He didn't speak, but you felt the unspoken command in the unyielding pressure of his palm, urging you onward. It was a strange, terrifying sort of care – a force that acknowledged your brokenness but offered no comfort beyond sheer direction.

After what felt like an eternity, but was likely only minutes, a new sound began to filter through the oppressive quiet: the gentle rush of flowing water. Remmick subtly shifted his course, pulling you not just forward, but slightly downward, towards the sound. The ground grew softer, muddier, until the glint of moonlight on dark, moving water finally broke through the dense foliage. A small, clear stream, its surface mirroring the sliver of moon above, flowed quietly through the hidden depths of the woods.

He stopped at its edge, his grip on you finally loosening as he released your shoulder. He turned to face you, his eyes sweeping over your blood-soaked dress, the tangled, matted crimson of your curls, and the desperate, vacant fear in your own gaze. He said nothing, but a faint, almost imperceptible shift crossed his features – a flicker of something that resembled contemplation, perhaps even a nascent, unreadable pity, before it vanished, replaced by that familiar, ancient resolve.

Then, instead of merely gesturing, Remmick moved. His white top came unbuttoned, revealing pale skin that glistened under the moon's cool light. He knelt then, his dark pants and suspenders vanishing into the shadows, and gently tugged at the hem of your blood-soaked dress. You flinched, a faint whimper catching in your throat, but his touch was surprisingly steady, devoid of judgment. With quiet strength, he guided you to the edge of the stream, then, with a surprising tenderness that made your breath catch, he helped you lower yourself into the cold, clear water.

The shock of the cold water was immediate, a jolt that momentarily cleared the fog of your mind, making you gasp. The crimson began to cloud the water around you, swirling away like a macabre mist, leaving behind the stark, terrifying white of your dress beneath the moon.

Before you could gather your thoughts, Remmick’s hands were there. They moved with a practiced, almost surgical efficiency. He grasped handfuls of your hair, now heavy with the wet, coppery tang of violence, and plunged them beneath the surface, working the water through the matted coils. The metallic scent that had clung to you so stubbornly began to dissipate, replaced by the crisp, clean smell of the running stream.

His fingers, strong and surprisingly gentle, kneaded your scalp, dislodging clots of dried blood, and you found yourself leaning into the unexpected care, a strange, bewildered calm settling over you. For a fleeting instant, a memory, soft and aching, seemed to ripple across his ancient face—a ghost of a smile, a distant sorrow, before it vanished.

Then, his hands moved to your dress. He didn't shy from the gruesome stains, but systematically worked the fabric, plunging it, wringing it, over and over, until the last vestiges of crimson bled into the dark water, dissolving into nothing. Your dress, once a grotesque tapestry of violence, slowly returned to its original, stark white, clinging to your form. His touch was impersonal, yet utterly intimate, devoid of lust but filled with an intense, focused purpose that felt like a profound, unspoken acceptance.

Through the daze of your shock, a profound bewilderment began to bloom. This ancient, powerful being, who had pulled you from the abyss, was now meticulously washing the horror from you. It was an act that defied explanation, a contradiction that chipped away at the edges of your terror, leaving behind only confusion and a nascent, dangerous curiosity.

His gaze, as it lifted to meet yours, held a depth that transcended centuries—a flicker of recognition, a hint of longing, as if he saw not just you, but an echo of someone lost, in the wild, yellow gaze that still haunted your face.

"What courses through your veins now," he finally rumbled, his voice a low vibration that seemed to resonate through the very earth, "is no longer human. You have awakened. You have been... reborn."

You remained silent, your own gaze fixed on the shimmering surface of the stream, though you could no longer see it. The word "reborn" echoed in the hollowness of your mind, a grotesque mockery of the terror that had just ravaged you. You were a creature of paradox: for the first time in your life, you had truly protected Smoke, yet in the same horrifying breath, you had almost destroyed him. The memory, a burning brand behind your eyes, made you clench your fists, digging your nails into your palms.

Remmick’s hand reached out, not to grasp, but to hover, then gently cup your cheek, his thumb brushing beneath your eye.

You finally lifted your head, your voice a raw whisper, barely audible even to your own heightened senses. "Take me away," you pleaded, the words torn from a place deep inside you. Your gaze met his, desperate and pleading. "Take me far from here. Until I can… until I can handle myself. Until I can handle this hunger." The last two words were a confession, a desperate plea for salvation from the monster within.

Remmick’s expression remained unreadable for a long moment, his gaze sweeping over your trembling form. The flicker of tenderness that had graced his features earlier deepened, warring with the familiar, calculating resolve in his eyes. He didn't offer empty platitudes or false comfort. Instead, he simply nodded, a slow, deliberate movement.

"If that is what you feel is right," he rumbled, his voice a low, steady current that seemed to bypass your ears and settle directly in your chest, "then that is what we shall do. You will learn to command it. To cultivate it. And I will show you how." He rose then from the stream back into the mud, his towering shadow falling over you, both sheltering and encompassing. He offered a hand, his fingers long and pale in the moonlight. "Come."

The invitation was not a question, but a quiet command, imbued with the weight of centuries. There was no argument, no choice, only the chilling certainty that this path, away from everything you had known, was now the only one. He was your only way out.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The dawn found you leaving Clarksdale behind, the dusty Mississippi roads blurring into a fever-dream of agony rather than memory. Remmick led you through the hidden, tangled veins of the South, a land forgotten by God and man, avoiding towns and major thoroughfares like a curse.

You walked mostly under the cloak of darkness, each step a fresh torment. Your limbs carried the deep, pervasive weariness of endless miles, each one pulling you further from the ghost of what was. The desire for home, a familiar ache, rose and fell with your breath, but you knew its doors were forever shut. Remmick, silent and unyielding, was the only home left to you now.

By the early hours of the second morning, just as the sky began to bleed the faintest hint of grey, you stumbled into Crenshaw, Mississippi. Remmick, his gaze surveying the quiet, sleeping town, led you away from the main streets, deeper into the overgrown tangles of what looked like abandoned farmland.

There, shrouded by weeping willows and choked by wild kudzu, stood a sprawling, abandoned plantation house. Its grandeur was faded, its paint peeling like sun-scorched skin, and many of its windows were crudely boarded up, like eyes hastily nailed shut against some unseen horror. But compared to the damp earth and endless road, it was a palace.

The massive, oak front door hung ajar, a silent invitation. Inside, dust motes danced in the sparse light filtering through grimy cracks in the boarded windows, illuminating the ghosts of wealth. Though long empty of its cruel inhabitants, the white folk had left behind enough to signify their hasty departure: sturdy, four-poster beds draped in shadow, forgotten bureaus, and in the cavernous kitchen, even a scattering of pots and pans, their metallic tang a dull whisper in your hyper-sensitive nose. It was silent, save for the hum of your own accelerated senses, a haunting quiet that promised both refuge and a new kind of dread.

As you settled into a forgotten parlor, Remmick turned to you. His voice, a low rumble in the dusty air, broke the silence. "We will move tonight. The townsfolk will have what we need. The white folk, especially, will have cars."

You flinched, a wave of guilt, sharp and unexpected, washing over you. The thought of taking from them, even the oppressors, twisted your gut. Remmick saw it, his ancient eyes piercing your brief hesitation.

"Your survival," he stated, his voice devoid of judgment, "is no different from what Smoke and Stack risked for you when that preacher came. They took what they needed, what you needed, for your life. And you deserve to survive, little one. If not for yourself, then for them. For what you might yet become." His words settled over you, a strange, dark comfort, twisting the shame into something akin to purpose.

He moved towards a shadowy doorway leading to another room. "Rest now. We sleep during the day. We walk by night." He started to turn, a silent dismissal, offering you the privacy he assumed you desired.

"Wait," you whispered, the word a small, desperate plea in the vast, echoing silence. You didn't want to be alone with the hunger, with the ghosts of the past, with the chilling reality of your new existence. "Could... could you stay?"

He paused, his back to you. The silence stretched, and for a moment, you thought he would refuse. Then, slowly, he turned. His gaze, usually so unyielding, softened, a flicker of something ancient and empathetic stirring in its depths. He walked back to you.

"Change into something comfortable," he murmured, his eyes sweeping over your travel-stained clothes. "You'll sleep better."

You peeled off your grimy dress, the rough fabric sticking to your skin, and found a sheer, forgotten nightgown in a dusty armoire that still smelled faintly of lavender. You pulled it on, its softness a surprising comfort. Remmick, too, began to shed his coat and shirt.

He turned slightly away from you, a gesture of unexpected modesty, and as he did, you couldn't help but peer through your lashes, a quick, almost forbidden glance. His back was broad, his shoulders powerful, sculpted with the kind of hard, enduring muscle born not of exertion, but of centuries of sheer existence. Every ridge and valley of his spine, the lean curve of his waist, spoke of a perfectly honed predator, a silent, compelling power that drew your gaze. It was only then you truly saw it—the fine gold chain, glinting dully against the dark skin of his neck, usually hidden beneath his coarse shirt, now revealed.

Even with his back turned, you felt the weight of his presence, a warmth in the stale air that was not entirely due to proximity, an unwilling fascination that took root.

He unlaced his boots, and when he finally faced you again, clad only in his simple trousers and wife beater, the hard lines of his ancient form were stark in the gloom, undeniably captivating.

You felt yourself leaning into the bed, almost wanting to reach out and touch him. Yet as he turned, realization of your desperation settled in. Your head snapped away, a flush rising unbidden to your cheeks and you let yourself sink into the dusty furs of the bed, turning your back to him.

He didn't seem to notice—or if he did, his control was absolute. Yet, the very air around you began to pulse with that distinct, intoxicatingly sweet scent he knew intimately, a phantom taste on his tongue. It was the same aroma that had driven him before, tempting him to recreate the raw, desperate intimacy of the night he’d turned you. Only now, the brutal distraction of survival had faded, leaving behind a purer, more dangerous hunger.

Clenching his fists, he settled onto the dusty furs beside the bed, close enough that you could feel the subtle chill radiating from him, yet not touching. It was strange, this closeness. You had been vulnerable with him before, cleansed by his hands, hauled through endless nights, and even the intimacy of your past encounters held a different weight. But to lay so near, in the heavy silence of a shared room, to shed the outer layers of the world and simply be in each other's quiet presence—it felt different. Uncharted.

"You know," he murmured, the sound a low current in the quiet room, "I was much like you in the beginning. In the sense that I carried the burden of my first kill." You shifted, just a fraction, the subtle movement a silent acknowledgement that you were listening.

"It was not a hunt for sustenance," he continued, his voice dropping, bringing you out of the trance, "It was a mistake. A moment of uncontrolled instinct. The guilt clung to me like grave dust. For years. I saw her face in every shadow." He didn't speak of specific people, not directly, but you could feel the profound, aching weight of his confession, intertwined now with the echo of his ancient, lingering remorse.

A tendril of your burgeoning vampiric senses unspooled, reaching out, a silent, almost desperate whisper against the edges of his mind, trying to feel for echoes of who he was, to brush against the deep well of his hidden memories and see who the poor soul was.

He stiffened, a barely perceptible ripple through his still form. His soft eyes, fixed on yours in the gloom, widened fractionally, a silent acknowledgment of your new, intrusive ability, a subtle shift in the air between you. He felt it. That quiet, internal trespass.

He shifted slightly, settling closer beside you. His hand found your shoulder, a gentle, silent invitation into the depths of his being. Then, as if struck by lightning, the image seared itself into your mind: a woman's face, pale and wide-eyed, her breath caught in a silent scream, eyes wide with terror as life drained from her. It wasn't a clear vision, but a blinding flash, a raw, agonizing sensation of panic and finality. His first victim. The very guilt he spoke of now echoed within you, a chilling phantom.

He didn't seem to notice your sudden jolt, or if he did, he made no sign. His thumb, still resting lightly on your finger, began to stroke gently. A quiet warmth, stark against the chilling memory, spread from his touch, settling into your arm, pulling you back from the edge of the vision.

"The guilt clung to me like grave dust, darling" he continued, his voice dropping, carrying the weight of centuries of remembrance. "For years. I saw her face in every shadow."

As his words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of ancient remorse, you didn't just hear them—you felt them. His pain, a profound, centuries-old sadness, bled through his touch, mixing with the phantom terror of the woman's final breath. A prickle started behind your eyes, quickly blossoming into a stinging heat, and then, without conscious thought, tears welled, tracing hot paths down your temples, dissolving into the dusty furs of the bed.

You turned fully to him then, your body shifting on the makeshift bed until you lay facing him, the dim light barely outlining his form in the gloom. His hand, no longer merely stroking your finger, moved. His calloused thumb, surprisingly soft, brushed gently beneath your eyes, wiping away the tears you hadn't even realized were falling.

“How did you learn to cope

"Get some sleep," he murmured, his voice a low, tender thrum against the vast silence. "You are safe now. And you are not alone in this dark world."

As his voice continued, a low, hypnotic lullaby from a forgotten time, the hunger, for the first time, seemed to recede, a tide pulling back from a battered shore. The physical weariness in your limbs dulled. You closed your eyes, finally, truly letting go, pulled into a deep, dreamless slumber by the gentle current of Remmick's past, his quiet presence, and the steady, comforting press of his hand, a shield against the hungry darkness.

#remmick #remmick x reader #remmick x y/n #sinners movie #smut #x reader #remmick x you #sinners 2025 #smoke and stack #shameless smut

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bokonowriter · 24 days ago

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The North Waters

STORY COMING SOON :)

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bokonowriter · 24 days ago

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Crimson & Curls : part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9...

#remmick #remmick x reader #remmick x y/n #x reader #remmick x you #sinners 2025 #shameless smut #smoke and stack #smut #sinners movie #annie sinners

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bokonowriter · 24 days ago

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MASTERLIST

Hello, everyone! Thank you for checking out my Masterlist! 😊

𖹭 My blog is 18+. Why? Because my content contains cursing, smut, and possibly triggering content (tags will follow appropriately). Please proceed with caution

𖹭 I currently write reader insert fics but I am also working on some OC stories that explore TV/Shows such as The North Water, Skins, etc. I have also written many marvel things in the post which are available on my AO3.

𖹭 Please follow my account and turn on notifications to see new fics!

𖹭 Formal requests are currently OPEN. Please do not be afraid to send your shameless hoe thots or fluffy moments as they may inspire something!

Links will be updated as I go. Last update: 6/1/2025

Jack O'Connell

The North Waters - Patrick Sumner

Skins - James Cook

Sinners - Remmick

Sebastian Stan

The Devil All The Time - Lee Bodecker

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bokonowriter · 25 days ago

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Crimson & Curls - Part 6

Remmick x Fem! Reader Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

"Tell me, honey… what else are you hiding? What desires do you keep locked away? Perhaps… I can help you unleash them."

Crimson & Curls

THE SCENT of aged pine and damp earth still clung to your skin, even after the blessedly warm water had sluiced away the grime of yesterday. You toweled off slowly in the small, steamy washroom, your movements still feeling foreign, a strange grace you hadn't possessed before.

Remmick had left clothes folded neatly on a wooden stool: a simple, dark cotton dress, soft and worn, and a sturdy pair of boots. You pulled them on, feeling the familiar fabric against your skin, a faint comfort in their anonymity.

Stepping back into the main room, the twilight had begun its long, slow descent. The air, once thick with apprehension, now hummed with a different kind of tension, a coiled energy that made the hairs on your arms prickle.

Remmick was by the window, a silhouette against the fading light, his posture a study in ancient patience. Joan and Bert hovered near the hearth, their faces etched with the stark lines of worry, but their eyes held a flicker of grim resolve. They had traded their everyday wear for darker, unassuming clothes, ready to blend with the encroaching night.

Remmick turned, his gaze sweeping over you, a silent assessment. "Ready, little dove?" he murmured, his voice a low current in the quiet room.

You nodded, a surge of fierce determination pushing past the lingering uncertainty. The memory of the KKK's cruel faces, the phantom scent of smoke and hate, still burned in your mind.

"Ready," you confirmed, your voice a firm whisper.

"Good." He gestured towards the door, the gesture encompassing Joan and Bert. "We move with the shadows. Quietly."

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

You slipped from the house like ghosts, the only sounds the rustle of dry leaves underfoot and the distant, ever-present song of the cicadas. The world around you transformed, the last vestiges of daylight clinging to the highest branches, leaving the forest floor steeped in indigo and charcoal. You felt a strange exhilaration in the creeping gloom, a primal satisfaction in the burgeoning darkness. Your senses sharpened; every scent, every distant whisper of wind through the pines, every beat of a wild creature's heart, amplified.

Remmick walked beside you, a steady, anchoring presence, moving with a grace that seemed to pull the shadows around him, a silent sentinel in the burgeoning night. Joan and Bert followed closely, their steps hushed, their fear a palpable thing, yet they moved with quiet courage, their eyes constantly scanning the shadows, as if expecting not just Klansmen, but the newly turned horrors from last night to emerge, or perhaps even to question the true intentions of those who walked beside them.

The dusty road unwound like a pale ribbon through the encroaching darkness, leading to the juke joint. Up ahead, a faint, flickering glow pulsed, accompanied by the muffled strains of music and laughter—the careless, vibrant sound of life oblivious to the shadows drawing in around it.

Hidden at the edge of the treeline, the steady trickle of folk heading towards the juke joint was observed. The air grew heavy, thick with the scent of pine, damp earth, and something else—a faint, metallic tang that made newfound senses twitch. It was the scent of anticipation, of coiled violence.

Then, a low rumble, distinct from the distant thunder of the delta, grew louder, closer. Headlights sliced through the deepening gloom, crude, glaring beams cutting across the dirt road. A hulking Ford truck, mud-splattered and familiar, rattled into view, kicking up a plume of dust that billowed orange in the last dying rays of the sun.

At the wheel, his broad shoulders filling the cab, was Hogsworth, his face a grim, determined mask as he drove the lead vehicle. Behind him, a ragged line of other trucks and cars followed, disgorging figures clad in crisp, terrifying white. The Klan had arrived. Their hateful whispers were quickly replaced by guttural shouts, a growing chorus of malice.

Panic flared in your chest, hot and sharp, but it was quickly overshadowed by a cold, protective rage. They were here. For Smoke. For Hogsworth. For all the souls gathered inside.

Before Remmick could utter a command, before Joan could whimper or Bert could even clench his fists, you moved. The world seemed to slow, the air around you a viscous current as you surged forward, not quite visible, a blur darker than the deepest shadow. Your new strength, your speed, was an intoxicating rush, a symphony of power in your limbs. Your eyes, a chilling, ethereal blue, fixed on Hogsworth's truck, the lead vehicle in this procession of terror.

The Klansmen were still dismounting, torches being lit, voices rising in hateful shouts. Hogsworth himself was just climbing out of his truck, his eyes scanning the juke joint, a cruel sneer beginning to form on his lips. Before he could even fully turn, the front door of the juke joint burst open, revealing Stack, a shotgun cradled in his arms. His face, gaunt and shadowed, was utterly devoid of expression, but his eyes, glinting with an unnatural intensity, were fixed on Hogsworth.

"Club Juke, huh…" Hogsworth drawled, his voice thick with malicious satisfaction, a sound like gravel churning in a dry well. "Grand opening last night, tonight the grand closing. Open it up!"

He waved a meaty hand, and two cloaked figures, eager as bloodhounds, flanked him, rushing the heavy double doors that usually swung open with a welcoming groan. But the juke joint, which outwardly hummed with its forced, brittle revelry, held fast. The lock on the front door, a simple bolt, held with impossible tenacity.

"Door's locked!" one Klansman grunted, shoving harder, his breath catching with effort.

"Try the back! They couldn't have possibly locked these people in there," Hogsworth barked, his sneer beginning to falter, a flicker of irritation crossing his face.

"This one is too!" another shouted from the side of the building, his voice laced with confusion, a tremor of unease beginning to snake through the Klan's ranks.

A strange, unnatural silence descended. The Klansmen milled, their easy confidence curdling into baffled frustration. The faint, forced music from within seemed to mock them, a ghostly hum against the sudden, oppressive tension. Then, from the very heart of the juke joint, the front door burst inward with a splintering crash that echoed like a clap of doom.

There, framed in the sudden oblong of yellow light, stood Smoke. His face, usually a mask of forced cheer, was now set in grim resolve, his eyes glinting with a cold, desperate fire. He cradled a sawed-off shotgun in his arms, its twin barrels glinting dully, aimed squarely at the bewildered Klansmen.

"You brought this to our home, Uncle," Smoke's voice carried across the distance, flat and hollow, yet somehow amplified in the sudden, tense silence, like a death knell tolling across the swamp. A ripple of recognition, quickly followed by outright shock, spread through the Klansmen's ranks, leaving them momentarily petrified.

Hogsworth froze, his sneer dissolving into a mask of disbelief, then pure, unadulterated rage. "Smoke? What in God's name...?" He staggered backward, tripping over his own feet in the dust, his eyes wide with fury at the unexpected ambush.

Smoke didn't answer. He simply raised the shotgun. The roar that followed was deafening, a visceral tear through the night's fabric. A Klansman near Hogsworth crumpled, a geyser of dark crimson blossoming on his pristine white robe, painting the pristine cloth a grotesque masterpiece of sudden, shocking death.

The first gunshot was more than sound; it was a physical blow, a raw, primal command that vibrated through your very soul. It sent a shockwave of pure, instinctual hunger through you, hotter and more demanding than any fire. It wasn't the distant, theoretical hunger of a new creature; it was a primal, all-consuming beast stirring from its long, forgotten slumber within the deepest chambers of your being. The scent of fear, sharp and intoxicating, filled the air, mingling with the metallic tang of fresh blood that suddenly bloomed near Hogsworth's truck, a scent that ignited every nerve ending, every desperate, buried craving.

You stood there, rooted to the spot, watching. Your hands clenched, feeling a churning deep in the pit of your stomach. It felt like something molten was igniting inside you, a fire slowly burning through your veins as you watched the life drain from the fallen Klansman. His blood, dark and rich, pooled into the parched earth, turning it to a grim, mucky black beneath the flickering torchlight.

Then the scent called to you, a siren song sung by the very essence of life, resonating with the part of you that had lain dormant, now ravenous beyond any human understanding. It wasn't simple fear; it was the unsettling dread of a swamp creature rising from its slumber, a primal, undeniable truth thrumming a taut string within your chest until it felt ready to snap.

The very air hummed, alive with a promise of hunger so profound, so utterly consuming, you knew, deep down, it would claim your body and soul. The raw, guttural need tore at your insides, a gnawing, aching void that demanded to be filled, to be drenched, to be sated.

The careful plan Remmick had outlined, the subtle terror, all dissolved in a hot, blinding haze. You were no longer just a protector, or a phantom, or even just yourself. You were a predator, a wolf released from winter's starve, a wild beast whose belly ached with an ancient, furious emptiness that demanded to be sated.

Remmick, sensing the monumental shift, turned to you, his hand shooting out to grasp your wrist, his grip like iron bands. "Darling, control—" he began, his voice a low, urgent rasp.

But you were too far gone. The raw power surged through you, a tide that ripped away the last vestiges of human reason, drowning his command in a flood of pure instinct. He couldn't control you—not like he could with the others last night, those newly made things still thrashing in their turning, their hunger less ancient, less absolute than yours.

You launched yourself forward, a dark blur that ceased to be seen, only felt. The Klansmen were still disoriented, stumbling, yelling, firing wildly into the shadows where they thought something might be, their fear quickly escalating into genuine, mind-shattering terror. They were prey. And you were the hunter.

You moved through them like a gale, a whirlwind of inhuman speed and brutal strength. One man, his hood askew, went down with a sickening crack as you slammed into him, his screams cut short. Another shrieked as you twisted the rifle from his grip, the metal crumpling in your hand as if it were mere clay. You didn't stop to simply disarm. The hunger demanded more.

Your fingers, now iron talons, plunged into flesh, ripping, tearing. A fountain of warm, coppery liquid erupted, spraying your face, your clothes, an intoxicating deluge that ignited every nerve ending. You tasted the blood, thick and vital on your tongue, and it sent a shockwave through you, a euphoric, terrifying surge of power that screamed for more, more, more.

Bodies fell, their screams choked off, their white robes stained crimson in the faint, mocking light of the torches. You were a blur of motion, a force of nature unleashed, tearing, biting, rending with a ferocity that startled even yourself. Bone splintered, flesh tore, and the cries of the Klansmen turned from angry shouts to desperate, primal terror. They weren't fighting a person; they were fighting a nightmare made flesh, a creature from the deepest, darkest parts of the swamp itself.

Then, a scent, impossibly rich and vibrant, sliced through the bloody haze, striking you like a lightning bolt. Smoke. Not a face you recognized in the swirling, intoxicating madness, nor a name that registered amidst the primal thrum of your blood-soaked existence, but a scent that spoke of life, of warmth, of a pulse beating with exhilarating strength.

A profound, aching need ripped through you—a dizzying, confusingly strong desire to bite, to turn, to make him one with this glorious, horrifying hunger that consumed you whole. It was a craving not just for sustenance, but for communion, to share this monstrous rapture, to drag him into the very darkness you had just embraced.

Your eyes, once human, now burned a stark, unnatural yellow, twin lanterns in the deepening gloom, reflecting the ravenous fire consuming you. A string of drool, thick and dark with the blood of your prey, slid down your chin, tracing a cold, sticky path across your gore-soaked face. Your dress, once dark cotton, was now a grotesque tapestry of crimson, clinging to your skin, the hot, slick liquid dripping from the hem and squelching into your boots with every predatory lurch, a squishy rhythm to your bloodlust.

You lunged, a silent missile of pure instinct, a dark shape against the chaos, towards the source of that intoxicating scent. Smoke, standing near the juke joint door, his own face streaked with sweat and grime from the fight, saw you coming. His eyes, wide with a grief-stricken terror you barely registered, locked onto yours, not of a man seeing a monster, but a man seeing a loved one irrevocably lost to one.

He raised his shotgun, not at the remaining Klansmen now scattering in terror, but at you, his hands trembling with a profound agony as fresh tears streamed down his face, glistening in the faint light.

Just as the cold, black barrel of the shotgun filled your vision, a breath from your forehead, a guttural roar, ancient and powerful, ripped through the night. The shotgun bucked, firing a deafening blast not at you, but towards the stars, a desperate plea to the heavens. Remmick had moved with the speed of a whisper in a hurricane.

His hand, cold and firm as carved stone, slammed against your chin, pushing your head back, wrenching your lunge to a sickening, abrupt halt. His other hand, equally swift, clamped around the barrel of Smoke's shotgun, tearing it from his grip with a sharp, metallic clang and forcing it skyward, away from your skull, away from the devastating choice Smoke was about to make.

The fight outside continued to rage, a cacophony of fear and fury, but in that sliver of time, the world narrowed to Remmick's iron grip, Smoke's shattered gaze, and the desperate, gnawing hunger that still clawed at your insides.

Remmick held you there, pulling you back from the abyss, his gaze piercing through the bloodlust in your eyes. He watched the last vestiges of human recognition flicker and die in your stark, yellow stare, a terrifying beauty in your primal transformation. The very air around you thrummed with a new, dark power, and for a fleeting, dangerous moment, a forgotten warmth bloomed in his chest.

Your curls, once a deep, midnight charcoal, were now heavy with the wet, glistening sheen of spilled life, each coil clotted with the crimson hue of violence, a grotesque crown for your transformation.

A familiar ache, an almost physical yearning that transcended centuries, coiled in his gut as he witnessed your unleashed ferocity. This raw, untamed force, this creature of savage grace… It was a vision that tore open a centuries-old wound in his soul.

For a fleeting, agonizing instant, the world blurred, and he saw not you, but her. The same tempestuous spirit, the same untamed fire in her eyes, the same cascade of curls, now painted in the same shocking crimson. A ghost from a sun-drenched past, rising from the very soil of his memory, demanding to be seen, to be remembered, to whisper forgotten names in the wind.

He held you, pinning you against his unyielding form, whispering fiercely into your ear, words you couldn't quite decipher, but whose cadence was a desperate, familiar plea for control. The metallic tang of Smoke's blood, still so close, still called to you, a siren song echoing through the storm of your hunger. But Remmick's presence, cold and commanding, slowly began to anchor you, pulling you back from the edge of the abyss.

He looked at you, truly looked at the crimson and curls, the wild, yellow eyes, and the echo of her face superimposed on yours. Could this desperate, broken girl, steeped in the horror of this night, truly be the impossible key? After all these endless centuries, could she finally be the one to bring her back to me? The possibility, as terrifying as it was tantalizing, seized him utterly. The answer, he knew, would either be his salvation or his final damnation.

NEXT CHAPTER>

#remmick #remmick x reader #remmick x y/n #remmick x you #sinners movie #sinners 2025 #x reader #smoke and stack #cw blood #vampire #tw blood #explodes violently #gothic #gothcore #goth aesthetic #romantic goth

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bokonowriter · 1 month ago

Text

Crimson & Curls - Part 5

Remmick x Fem! Reader Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

"Tell me, honey… what else are you hiding? What desires do you keep locked away? Perhaps… I can help you unleash them."

A/N: Thank you so much for the follows and reposts! I hope you all are enjoying reading this as much as I'm writing this! I'm thinking about taking requests soon and possibly writing something on The Northern Water series.

A Taste of Eternity

THE CHILL that settled over you wasn't from death's proximity, but from the ancient hunger in his eyes. It wasn't blood he craved, not yet.

"You have a courage," Remmick murmured, his voice a low thrum that vibrated in the hollow of your throat, "I haven't witnessed in centuries. A courage born of desperation, perhaps, but courage nonetheless." The crimson light within him dimmed, softened, replaced by a gaze that held a disturbing echo of human longing. "Thank you."

From the shadows, Mary emerged, her face a grotesque mask of grief and gratitude, tears carving paths through the dried blood on her cheeks. Her touch, when it came, was surprisingly gentle, a fragile offering of acceptance.

"Welcome home, child," she rasped, the words a chilling inversion of comfort. Stack, ever silent, inclined his head, his eyes reflecting a debt that felt older and darker than any blood oath.

Remmick offered you his arm, the gesture almost courtly, yet tainted with an undercurrent of the predatory. "Come," he said, his voice a silken invitation into the abyss. "Let me take you somewhere more... suitable. Somewhere private."

Still tethered to the fading echoes of the carnage, the screams and the dust, you felt a disorienting vertigo. "Why?" you whispered, the question barely audible above the whisper of unseen things. "Why not just... claim what you came for?"

A flicker of the ancient predator danced in Remmick's eyes, a glimpse of the darkness that lay beneath the fragile veneer of civility. But it was quickly extinguished, replaced by a smile that was both enigmatic and unsettlingly tender. "All good things," he murmured, his voice a caress that sent a shiver down your spine, "come with patience, little one. And this... this is a good thing, a rare thing."

You walked beside him, the cold earth beneath your feet leading you to a wrought-iron gate, half-consumed by rust. Beyond it lay a field of tombstones, leading to a crumbling family crypt.

The crypt was a stark contrast to the carnage you left behind, a small, secluded chamber that felt both intimate and claustrophobic, like the inside of a coffin. Moonlight, cold and spectral, filtered through cracks in the decaying stone, casting long, distorted shadows that danced like restless spirits. The silence here was thick with unspoken desires and a tension that hummed with a dark, seductive energy. Remmick turned to you, his expression a shifting landscape of conflicting emotions.

"I wish," he said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate register that resonated deep within your bones, "I could offer you something more. A place that held meaning... for me. Perhaps even for you. But I promise you, one day, I will share something of myself with you that’s not just memories. Not just... this grim necessity." He gestured to the oppressive crypt, the air heavy with the weight of centuries. "I wouldn't desecrate you, use you merely to... commune with ghosts."

He stepped closer, his presence both overwhelming and strangely, terrifyingly compelling. "The moment you spoke those words," he continued, his gaze burning into you, a gaze that saw too much, knew too much, "About creatures lost and lonesome, searching for a patch of ground that feels like home... I felt a connection. A kinship forged in the shared darkness. But that night..." He reached out, his hand hovering near your face, then gently, reverently, tracing the delicate curve of your cheekbone, a touch that was both possessive and strangely vulnerable. "That night and tonight, seeing you so... exposed, so selfless in the face of such horror... I felt... I felt like I had finally come home."

A tremor ran through him, a subtle but undeniable sign of a longing—a hunger that transcended mortal desires. He moved closer still, his body radiating an unnatural chill, a coldness that seeped into your very marrow. "I wish," he murmured, his voice barely audible, a confession whispered on the precipice of damnation, "I wish the circumstances were different."

He shifted then, not to claim, but to offer a twisted form of comfort. He moved you, gently, deliberately, so that your bodies were almost touching, not in a predatory way, but as if seeking solace, a desperate need for connection in the heart of darkness.

You were hesitant to touch him. Everything about him was a paradox, a grotesque masterpiece of beauty and terror, gentleness and power, life and death. And his skin...

You reached out, your fingers trembling, drawn to him despite the primal fear that coiled within you. You touched his arm.

It was cold. Not the cold of a corpse, but the cold of the grave, the cold of centuries spent in the shadows, a chill that seeped into your bones and extinguished the last vestiges of warmth.

Remmick leaned into your touch, a sigh escaping his lips, a sound that was both ancient and achingly human, a sound of profound loneliness. It was as if the warmth of your hand was a lifeline, something he craved with an intensity that bordered on desperation, something he had long forgotten and desperately missed. A hunger for warmth, a hunger for life.

"Do it," your voice was barely a whisper, yet it carried the weight of finality. You wanted it over. There had been too many moments in your life when the thought of oblivion had been a tempting solace, a release from the constant ache of survival. You had lived a life interwoven with Annie's, finding a measure of peace and purpose in service, and later, a hard-won freedom. But you wouldn't let the memory of freedom chain you to a fate worse than death.

His gaze lingered on your hand, still resting on his arm, the contrast between your living warmth and his ancient chill a stark and unsettling reminder of what he was. He took a slow, deliberate breath, the air in the crypt growing heavy with a sense of anticipation.

"There are things you should know about me," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to emanate from the very stones around you. "Things that... that might change everything." He paused, his red eyes searching yours, as if gauging your reaction. "I wasn't always this... this thing. Once, I walked in the sun, felt the warmth of a lover's embrace, knew the taste of... of life." The word seemed to catch in his throat, a sound of profound loss. "But that was centuries ago. Before the darkness took me. Before..." He trailed off, the unfinished sentence hanging in the air, a promise of a story both tragic and horrifying.

"Before the darkness," you prompted, your voice barely a whisper, drawn into the vortex of his ancient sorrow.

He hesitated, his jaw tightening, as if the words were being forced from him against his will. "Before the hunger," he finally said, the word a guttural rasp. "Before the thirst. Before I became... this." He gestured to himself, the movement a slow, almost weary sweep of his hand over his unyielding flesh. "I was a man. A living man. I had a name, a family, a purpose..." His voice trailed off, the unfinished sentence a testament to the immensity of his loss.

A vision flickered in your mind, unbidden and fleeting: a young man, vibrant and full of life, bathed in the golden light of a setting sun. He was laughing, his face open and joyous, a stark contrast to the tormented creature before you. The image vanished as quickly as it appeared, leaving you with a profound sense of disorientation and a chilling understanding of the depth of Remmick's transformation.

"What happened?" you asked, the question a fragile thread in the oppressive darkness.

He turned away from you, his gaze fixed on the far wall of the crypt, his profile etched in stark relief against the pale moonlight filtering through the cracks in the stone. The shadows seemed to cling to him, to embrace him, as if the darkness itself were a lover.

"It's a long story," he said, his voice distant and hollow, the voice of a ghost recounting a forgotten tragedy. "A story of betrayal, of loss, of a curse that stole everything I was and left me with... this endless night." He paused, his shoulders slumping with a weariness that transcended time. "A story I never thought to share. Not with anyone. Not again."

He turned back to you, his red eyes searching yours with an intensity that made you feel as if he were peering into the deepest recesses of your soul.

"But you..." he said, his voice softer now, almost hesitant. "You are not like the others. You offered yourself. You embraced the darkness for them. For me." He reached out again, his cold hand brushing against yours, the touch sending a shiver down your spine, a mingling of fear and a strange, unsettling empathy. "Perhaps... perhaps you deserve to know."

"...perhaps... perhaps you deserve to know." His gaze searched yours, the red in his eyes swirling with an ancient sorrow, a weariness that seemed to stretch back to the dawn of time. "The truth is," he confessed, his voice barely a whisper, a confidence shared in the heart of a tomb, "I never wanted to hurt anyone. Not truly. The hunger... the thirst... it twists you, corrupts you. But beneath it all..." He hesitated, as if searching for words to describe a feeling long buried, a flicker of humanity struggling to survive within the monster. "Beneath it all, there's still a part of me that remembers... and regrets. So if there’s anything, or, anyone you want I can do that for you."

The admission hung in the air, heavy with a vulnerability that was both unexpected and profoundly unsettling. It was a glimpse behind the mask, a crack in the carefully constructed facade of the predator. And it stirred within you a potent mix of emotions: fear, yes, but also a burgeoning curiosity, a need to understand the creature that stood before you.

"If you truly want to ease that regret," you whispered, your voice a fragile plea, "then show me what you remember, what you want. Let's start there."

The words hung between you, a daring invitation. The unspoken implication was clear: if he was offering eternal life, then perhaps a more personal, profound connection was what he truly craved to fill the void of his regrets. You had nothing—no one who willingly wanted to die—so be it.

You reached out, your hand trembling, drawn to him by an irresistible force. You touched his chest, the cold, unyielding surface beneath your fingertips. But as your hand settled, you felt a subtle shift, a relaxation of the unnatural tension in his muscles. Beneath the chilling surface, there was a strange... yielding. A desperate acceptance.

For a moment, the air held its breath. His gaze locked with yours, the red in his eyes softening, becoming almost... tender.

Then, his voice, low and resonant, broke the fragile silence. "Are you ready?" he asked, the question hanging in the air, heavy with implication. It wasn't a question of physical readiness, but of something far more profound. A question of surrender. A question of crossing a threshold from which there was no return.

You swallowed thickly, the sound echoing in the oppressive silence of the crypt, and allowed him to draw you closer. This time, his cold hand found your face, his touch both possessive and reverent. You tilted your head, offering the vulnerable curve of your neck, but he didn't go for the expected. He pressed his lips to yours.

The kiss was unlike anything you'd ever experienced. It wasn't predatory, but... searching. You were drawn once again into that enigmatic energy, a vortex of ancient power and unsettling tenderness. And against all reason, you kissed him back.

The realization struck you again, with a dizzying clarity: if he had wanted to hurt you, he would have done so already. He had turned Mary with brutal efficiency, without a word, without a touch of this strange... consideration.

Yet with you, he had danced around the edge of intimacy, his every move measured, deliberate. The energy between you was a palpable thing, a taut wire stretched between two opposing forces.

As the kiss deepened, he turned you, your back pressing against the cold, unyielding stone of the crypt. The chill ran up your spine, a stark contrast to the heat that was building within you, a sensation that only made you arch closer, seeking more of him. You could feel the ghost of a smirk on his lips as he kissed you, a subtle acknowledgment of the power you both held.

He was taking his time, savoring the moment. His tongue traced the seam of your lips, a silent invitation, and you parted them, granting him entrance. The kiss deepened, a slow, intoxicating exploration, and a soft sound, a moan, escaped your throat, a sound you barely recognized as your own.

His hands, large and surprisingly gentle, traveled down your hips, tugging you closer, eliminating the last vestige of space between you. His hands spanned the small of your back, his touch both firm and comforting.

"This good, huh?" he murmured against your lips, his voice a low, resonant rumble, a strange confidence with a hint of vulnerability in the question.

You nodded, your arms finding their way around his neck, holding him close, as if you could anchor him to this moment, to this fragile connection.

"Good," he breathed, the word a soft murmur against your skin, drawing you closer still

The world narrowed to the feel of his touch, the taste of him, the scent of ancient stone and something else... something indefinable, something that was uniquely his. The coldness of his skin was a constant reminder, a strange and thrilling counterpoint to the heat that bloomed within you.

His hands, surprisingly gentle yet firm, traced the curve of your spine, pressing you closer until there was no space left between your bodies. You met his gaze, a silent understanding passing between you, and with a delicate movement, you shimmed your undies down your legs.

He anticipated your every move, and with a powerful grace, hoisted you up, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, pulling him in even tighter. He leaned in, his breath a cool whisper against your ear, sending shivers down your arm before his lips found the sensitive skin beneath your jaw. A soft groan escaped your lips as his hips began to move, a slow, deliberate rhythm that pulled you deeper into the moment.

Then, he began to enter you. The first press was surprisingly gentle, a slow, measured invasion that promised to fill every inch of you. You gasped, your breath catching as he stretched you, slowly, relentlessly, his vastness pushing past every natural boundary. He took his time, feeling your every curve, a quiet exploration that somehow amplified the anticipation. A shiver ran through you as he bottomed out, the sheer size of him pressing against your deepest walls, a feeling of being utterly, completely possessed.

Desire, sharp and undeniable, flared through you, eclipsing all else. Your body arched, an instinctive response to the insistent, unhurried press of his, each slow, deep stroke building a quiet inferno within. The hunger that had just been sated was already starting to rouse again, a subtle hum beneath your skin, making you crave more of him, a different kind of satiation. He was getting hungrier, too, you could feel it in the tightening of his muscles, the subtle shift in his scent, yet he remained gentle, agonizingly so.

You tangled your fingers in his hair, pulling his mouth back to yours, desperate for more. The kiss deepened, a swirling vortex of sensation, his tongue mirroring the movements below. Every brush of his skin against yours, every ragged breath he took, fueled the burgeoning fire.

You could feel the subtle tremor in his muscles, the tautness of his form, a testament to his own barely contained desire. His fingers tangled in your hair, pulling gently, tilting your head back, offering your throat. His gaze, dark and intense, dropped to your exposed neck, and for a heart-stopping moment, you saw it—a thin, gleaming string of drool at the corner of his mouth, a raw, untamed hunger in his eyes that made him look like a beautiful, dangerous beast.

“Yeah, god, yes," he rasped, the word a thick, guttural sound torn from deep in his chest.

His movements quickened, a relentless, primal beat, fastening his pace until he was hitting a spot deep inside you that sent lightning through your veins. "That's it, love, let go. Let it all go for me." His voice was thick, a low growl of encouragement as he pushed you over the edge. His own breath hitched, a deep groan rumbling in his chest as he, too, found his release, a fierce, primal cry torn from his throat.

Just as the pleasure began to truly bloom, a different sensation registered at your neck—a subtle pressure, then a dull, pleasant throb. It wasn't pain; it was a strange, alluring shift in the intensity, a feeling that paradoxically heightened the rising tide of sensation.

A small gasp escaped you as his mouth found your neck, his lips parting, and then you saw it—the familiar crimson bloom as his mouth once again bloodied. Yet, even as he drew from you, his gaze, dark and intense, locked with yours. He continued to thrust, a slow, insistent rhythm, as he suckled the blood from your neck. The pull was primal, intoxicating, merging with the building tension in your core, making your hips instinctively buck against his.

His lips moved, a soft, almost inaudible murmur against your skin, before he pulled back, a soft, ragged sound escaping him. He was out of breath, his chest heaving slightly. His tongue flicked out, a slow, deliberate lick of his lips, before he leaned in and kissed you, deeply, tasting of your own essence and something wild, ancient.

"Are you okay?" he murmured against your mouth, his voice a low rumble.

You nodded, a little dazed, a delicious dizziness swirling through you, a strange lightness in your limbs. Your head fell back, a soft moan escaping your lips as the wave of your climax began to crest, a powerful, shuddering release building with each last, desperate thrust.

“Fuck," he muttered, a raw curse under his breath, his own body tensing, driving into you with renewed force.

His voice was thick, a low growl of encouragement as he pushed you over the edge. His own breath hitched, a deep groan rumbling in his chest as he, too, found his release, a fierce, primal cry torn from his throat.

Together, you collapsed onto the ancient stone. He held you, his arms wrapping around you like a shield, pulling you flush against his cold skin. You felt the subtle tremor in his embrace, and when you looked up, his eyes were wet, glistening with unshed tears. He began to coo, a soft, almost mournful sound against your hair, a lullaby of deep, ancient regret and profound relief.

“Just relax now, my love," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. He held you, stroking your back, until the strange coldness of his skin became a comforting anchor against your still-heated body, and the world around you dissolved into a soft, velvety darkness, the echoes of pleasure and the faint scent of blood lingering in the air.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The return to consciousness was slow, like surfacing from a deep, thick mud. Your eyes fluttered open, but the world that greeted you was entirely unfamiliar. It wasn't the stark, ancient stone you remembered, nor the chilling air of Remmick's hidden lair. Instead, you lay on a bed covered in a worn, patchwork quilt, a gentle weight that smelled faintly of lavender and old wood.

The room was steeped in the scent of aged pine and the humid, earthy sweetness of the North Carolina night from the open window. Beneath that, something subtly metallic, like the coppery taste of an impending summer storm.

The light, soft and diffused, stole through thin, yellowed curtains, painting the small room in strokes of pale gold and amber, highlighting the dust motes dancing in the oppressive, unmoving heat that clung to every surface. This wasn't a grand mansion; it was a humble, wooden rancher, its paint likely peeling, its porch probably sagging, its heart warmed by generations of ordinary lives and quiet secrets.

You pushed yourself up, the quilt rustling softly beneath your weight like dry leaves. Your stomach felt… strange. Not empty, not full, but an unfamiliar lightness, a subtle hum beneath your ribs, like a tuning fork humming deep within your bones, or perhaps the distant thrum of a funeral drum. Curiosity, a burning, primal curiosity that eclipsed any lingering sleepiness, pulled you from the bed. The bare wooden floor was cool beneath your feet, silencing your steps as you moved, as if you were treading on forgotten sorrows.

The room was small, simply furnished with practical, well-worn pieces that seemed to absorb the muted light rather than reflect it, whispering tales of hushed conversations and shared burdens. A small, upright piano stood silent in one corner, its polished surface reflecting the faint light, a forgotten hymnal yellowed on its stand.

Every dust motte dancing in the diffused light, every faint scent of the aged wood, the simple lace on a dresser, seemed sharper, more vivid, as if the world had suddenly gained a thousand new, unsettling details.

Through the single, unadorned window, beyond the swaying curtains, you could glimpse the thick, dark tangle of a small, overgrown backyard, where ancient oak trees, gnarled and solemn, stood sentinel, their branches heavy with the humid summer air, all cast in a perpetual, muted glow.

You found him by the kitchen table, his silhouette dark against the shadowed expanse of the humble yard beyond. He held a worn, leather-bound book idly in one hand, looking as if he'd been born here, steeped in the quiet, persistent spirit of the rural South. He turned as you approached, his dark eyes instantly assessing, a gentle, almost melancholic smile touching his lips.

"Awake, at last, little dove," he murmured, his voice a low, comforting rumble, like distant thunder gathering over the delta. He stepped toward you, his hand reaching out, not quite touching, as if seeking permission from a wild thing caught in a snare. "How are you feeling? Did you rest well?"

You nodded, a soft sigh escaping your lips. "Better than I have in years, honestly. I almost wish I could go back to it." The words felt oddly light, detached, as if someone else spoke them.

He chuckled, a rich, warm sound that filled the expansive room, like the buzzing of cicadas on a stifling afternoon. "Oh, there will be plenty of time for lying about, my love. Plenty of time. An eternity, even." He paused, his gaze searching yours, deep and unreadable, holding the weight of countless forgotten sunrises. "Are you hungry?"

You considered it, the strange lightness in your stomach persisting, a curious, almost electrical current flowing through you, a hollow ache that wasn't quite hunger but something deeper. "I'm... not sure," you admitted, the sensation truly foreign, unnerving.

Remmick's smile softened, a knowing glint in his eyes that held the wisdom of centuries. "Oh, you'll know," he murmured, his voice a low, confident drawl, "when the time comes. There'll be no mistaking it, not for creatures like us."

A chill, colder than the North Carolina night, snaked down your spine. Your breath hitched, shallow and uneven. "I don't want to do what they did," you managed, the words a raw confession. You meant Mary, you realized. That desperate hunger, the loss of self, even if it was for love. The image of Smoke's grief would surely haunt her forever, and you, too, would feel what Remmick spoke of: regret. "I don't want to kill people—not undeserving people."

A shadow of a smirk played on Remmick's lips, quick as a snake in the tall grass. Life ain't fair, his eyes seemed to say, and you would spend years learning that if you hadn't already. Nobody deserved a thing in this forsaken world. But he didn't strike up an argument, only softened his gaze as he added, "The hunger... it finds its own way home."

The words echoed, but more than that, his thoughts, clear as glass now, resonated in your mind—a cynical weariness, a deep-seated belief in humanity's innate lack of innocence. You looked down at your dress, the same one from last night, crumpled and stained. A sudden, visceral feeling of dirt and filth crept over you, a chilling awareness of what you had become. Your fingers, strangely delicate yet strong, went instinctively to gloss over the place on your neck where he had bitten you, a mark that now felt both raw and irrevocably, terrifyingly, yours.

Remmick shifted, pulling you from your dark introspection. "Wash room is down the hall to your right," he instructed, his voice gentler now. "I laid out a pair of clothes that I think would fit you."

Suddenly, a new, unsettling question clawed its way to your throat, one that felt vital in this strange, borrowed space. "Whose clothes?" you compelled yourself to ask, your gaze sweeping the humble, well-lived-in kitchen. The lace curtains, the worn wooden table, the faint scent of lard and coffee – it was someone else's life, someone else's ordinary existence you had intruded upon. You knew, with a sudden, sinking dread, whose house this must be. You swallowed, the taste of blood and fear still clinging to your tongue. "Whose house is this, Remmick?"

We're at Joan and Bert's place, darling. Just outside their farm."

As the words "Joan and Bert's" left his lips, the scent of aged pine and lavender in the air twisted, suddenly acrid and sharp. Your vision blurred, then snapped into brutal focus.

You saw it – not with your mortal eyes, but with a horrifying, absolute certainty that imprinted itself directly onto your mind. The crisp, stark white linens of the Klan, their cruel, hooded faces, flickered in the orange glow of phantom torches. The air cracked and hissed with their hate, a suffocating, palpable thing, as a chilling threat loomed over the familiar wooden walls of Hogsworth. Every sickening detail, every shouted obscenity, every desperate, futile struggle that would come, burned itself into your newly awakened senses.

Your voice was a raw whisper. "Hogsworth... they're coming for the joint."

A shared look of grave understanding passed between Remmick and the shadows beyond the kitchen, where you now instinctively sensed other presences. Joan, a small, resolute woman, stepped forward from the doorway, her face etched with exhaustion but her eyes clear. "Yes, child," she said, her voice weary. "They came by a few nights ago. Said they'd be back to finish what they started."

Bert, a large man whose shoulders seemed to sag under an unseen weight, nodded grimly from beside her, his gaze fixed on the floor. "Brought you two here after... after. Wasn't safe, not with him like he is, and you... you were changing." His voice was a flat drone, heavy with dread.

Your eyes snapped back to Remmick, a desperate plea forming on your lips. The cold fury was gone, replaced by a raw, pleading urgency. "Remmick," you implored, your voice shaking, your gaze fixed on his. "Please. They're coming back. We have to help them. You said we could protect them, protect everyone."

Your hand instinctively reached for his arm, gripping it with a strength you hadn't known you possessed. "I... I don't know what to do. But you do. Please, help me. We can't just wait here!"

Remmick stepped forward, his cool hands gently grasping your shoulders. "It's daylight, we have to wait. We can't move against them now."

"No!" The word burst from you, a new strength in its utterance. "We can't wait. They won't wait. We need to move. Now. Before the sun sets and they return." Your eyes, no longer merely wild, held a dangerous, unyielding resolve, and within their depths, a glint of cold, ethereal blue flashed, betraying the burgeoning power thrumming beneath your skin.

Remmick stared at you, his dark eyes searching, then a slow, grim understanding dawned on his face. He looked at Joan and Bert, then back at you. His grip on your shoulders tightened, a subtle reassurance.

"Their plan is for dawn, little dove," Remmick murmured, his voice a low balm against your rising panic, yet resonant with an authority that settled something deep inside you. "But our strength, our true dominion, awakens with the sundown. Think of it: in these shadowed woods, beneath the creeping twilight, you will be a swift whisper, a true phantom. Stronger. Swifter. While their human eyes strain against the fading light, their courage will dwindle with each swallowed shadow."

He glanced towards the dense tree line, a faint, almost wistful weariness touching his ancient gaze. "I've seen such men before, boastful in daylight, but brittle when the darkness lays its claim." He turned back to you, his eyes locking with yours, brimming with a calm, unwavering certainty. "We will not merely confront them. We will dissolve them. I promise."

He drew in closer, his thumb tracing a path along your cheekbone, a gentle warmth that seemed to search for the last flicker of that unsettling blue in your gaze. You felt the rigid tension in your shoulders begin to soften, a slow, aching release as you leaned into his touch, exhaling a sigh you hadn't realized you'd been holding.

"You promise?" you asked, the words thin with a lingering tremor of disbelief, a ghost of your former self's uncertainty.

He nodded, a silent vow in the steady depth of his eyes. His finger looped around a loose curl that had sprung before your face, a dark wisp that tickled your cheek as he gently swiped it back, tucking it behind your ear. The gesture was familiar, tender, grounding you in a way you hadn't felt since... since before.

"Go and change," he encouraged, his voice a low, steady current, pulling you back to the quiet reality of Joan and Bert's humble home. "There will be time enough to reckon with the night."

NEXT CHAPTER>

#smut #remmick #remmick x reader #remmick x y/n #sinners movie #x reader #remmick x you #shameless smut #sinners 2025 #smoke and stack #gentle d0m #fluff #angst #gentleness

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bokonowriter · 1 month ago

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Crimson & Curls - Part 4

Remmick x Fem! Reader Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆ "Tell me, honey… what else are you hiding? What desires do you keep locked away? Perhaps… I can help you unleash them."

Warnings: This story contains explicit content (DO NOT INTERACT UNLESS 18+) including: oral smut, public smut, explicit language, fingering, intense sensual detail, moaning/whimpering, female orgasms, and squirting, penetration, gentlee smut, biting, violence, mentions of death, character deaths, mentions of supernatural. (more will be added as the story continues). A/N: Thank you so much for the follows and reposts! I hope you all are enjoying reading this as much as I'm writing this! I'm thinking about taking requests soon and possibly writing something on The Northern Water series.

DANSE MACABRE

Consciousness bled back in jagged shards, like shattered stained glass reassembling itself into a grotesque mosaic, each sliver reflecting a distorted facet of a reality warped beyond recognition. First, there was the absence of sound, a profound, unsettling silence that tasted of old dust and unspoken sins, pressing against your eardrums with the weight of a long-sealed tomb. Then, a dull, throbbing ache bloomed behind your eyes, a relentless pulse that tolled like a mournful dirge for a world you no longer understood, each beat a hammer blow against the fragile walls of your sanity.

The world swam into focus slowly, blurring at the edges, like a waterlogged photograph of a nightmare, the colors leaching away in the humid air, leaving behind a skeletal grayscale. You were lying on something hard and cold, the rough-hewn floorboards slick with a film of grime and the faint, acrid stench of vomit mingling with the cloying sweetness of decay – the scent of rot and revelation.

Disorientation clung to you like a shroud woven from Spanish moss and the shadows of ancient oaks, a suffocating embrace that stole the breath from your lungs and left you gasping for purchase in a shifting landscape of dread. Where were you? What had happened? The last coherent memory was of Remmick's crimson eyes, twin embers glowing with an unholy fire, the juke joint contorting into a spectral mockery of itself, a grotesque cathedral where the damned held court, and then... nothing. A gaping void, blacker than any Mississippi night, a bottomless abyss that threatened to swallow you whole.

A wave of nausea rolled over you, and you instinctively curled tighter, your body recoiling from the returning awareness as if from a physical blow. Every muscle ached, as if you'd been dragged through the thorny undergrowth of a haunted swamp, the briars tearing at your flesh and leaving behind wounds that festered with unseen corruption, though you couldn't recall any tangible struggle.

Your head throbbed with a painful intensity, each beat a reminder of the sheer terror that had overwhelmed you, a terror that felt ancient and primal, like the dread that clung to the very bones of this land, a legacy of blood and betrayal etched into the soil itself.

As your senses sharpened, the weight of what you'd seen crashed back into your mind, a suffocating wave of grotesque visions and spectral figures, Remmick's monstrous form burned into your memory like a brand seared into your soul. It wasn't a dream. It was real. Or, at least, it felt real, with a visceral intensity that defied explanation, a glimpse into a reality that lurked just beneath the veneer of the everyday, a hidden world where the dead walked and the shadows held teeth, where the laws of nature bent and broke like brittle twigs.

Fear, cold and sharp as a rusty blade honed on a tombstone, pierced through the confusion, leaving you trembling and vulnerable, your sanity teetering on the precipice of madness, the abyss yawning before you. You were awake, but the nightmare hadn't ended. It was as if you'd woken into a world where the rules of reality no longer applied, where the veil between the living and the dead had been torn asunder, leaving you stranded on the precipice of a terrifying new existence.

Then, a new sound pierced the silence, shattering the fragile hold you had on consciousness. A frantic, desperate pounding on the door, followed by voices, rough and urgent, like the cries of lost souls echoing through a forgotten cemetery, their pleas laced with the desperation of men staring into the abyss.

"Fawn! Fawn, you in there?" It was Smoke and Stack, their voices distorted by panic and the thick wood of the door, laced with an urgency that spoke of a danger far greater than a simple brawl, a terror that resonated with the ancient evil you'd glimpsed.

For a long, agonizing moment, you remained where you were, sprawled on the cold, filthy floor, your body trembling uncontrollably. The sounds barely registered, your mind still trapped in the grotesque tableau you’d witnessed. The pounding could have been the beating of your own pulse, the voices a distant echo of the madness that threatened to consume you.

Outside, Smoke and Stack exchanged a look, their faces grim in the spectral light that still clung to the juke joint.

"She ain't answerin'," Stack growled, his hand hovering near the pistol tucked into his waistband.

"Somethin' ain't right," Smoke said, his gaze fixed on the locked door. "That ain't like her."

They tried the door again, harder this time, the wood groaning under the force of their combined efforts. "Fawn! Open up! It's us!"

Inside the storage room, some primal instinct flickered within you, a spark of self-preservation cutting through the fog of terror. The sound of their voices, familiar yet distorted by the surrounding chaos, began to penetrate the darkness. Smoke... Stack... Could you trust them? A sliver of doubt wormed its way into her consciousness. They were part of this world, this world that had just revealed its monstrous underbelly.

With a groan, you pushed yourself up, your limbs heavy and unresponsive. The room spun, the stench of vomit and decay assaulting your senses. You stumbled towards the door, your movements clumsy and uncoordinated, like a puppet with severed strings. Each step was an act of defiance against the overwhelming urge to curl up and surrender to the darkness.

Reaching the door, you hesitated, your hand hovering over the lock. Through the thick wood, their voices were muffled but insistent.

"Fawn, we're gonna break this door down if you don't open up. You hear me?" Smoke's voice brooked no argument.

A flicker of something akin to trust, or perhaps just a desperate need for connection, flickered within you. With trembling fingers, you fumbled with the lock, the cold metal biting into your skin. The click of the bolt echoed in the silence, a small sound of surrender in the face of the encroaching darkness.

Behind them, Annie appeared, her face etched with worry. She pushed past the two men and wrapped you in a tight embrace, your small frame trembling. "Oh, Fawn," she murmured, the old nickname a soft lament.

Mary, however, was not so gentle. Her eyes, usually bright with a fierce independence, narrowed with a cold fury as she took in your condition. "What the hell happened to her?" she demanded, her voice dangerously low. "What did that motherfucker Remmick do?"

Stack moved to intervene, but Mary shoved past him, her gaze fixed on you with a terrifying intensity. Stack, his face a mask of grim determination, wordlessly pressed his own pistol into Mary's hand. It was a silent, chilling exchange, a tacit understanding that some lines had been crossed.

"Mary, no," you managed to croak, your voice weak and trembling. You reached out, but there was a fierce resolve in her eyes that brooked no argument. She was a woman on a mission, fueled by a righteous anger that bordered on the primal.

Annie, still holding you, looked up, her dark eyes searching yours with a desperate plea for understanding. "What is it? What's going on?"

The question broke the dam. The fragmented visions, the monstrous truth of Remmick, the horrifying glimpses into the hidden realities of those around you – it all came pouring out in a rush of broken words and ragged breaths. "It's... it's happening again, Annie," you gasped, the old terror seizing you anew. "I'm seeing things... things I shouldn't be seeing. They're not... they're not what they seem."

The weight of your words hung heavy in the air, thick with the unspoken history that bound you all together. Annie's embrace tightened, her dark eyes filled with a sorrow that went beyond mere concern. She knew. She knew about the fire-and-brimstone sermons that had scarred your childhood, the twisted scriptures wielded like weapons, the constant threat of damnation that had choked the joy from your young life. She knew about the visions that had started then, dismissed as the fevered imaginings of a "possessed" child, the cruel attempts to "cure" you that had only deepened the trauma.

And she knew about your mother, Seraphina. A woman of fierce grace and untamed power, a rootworker and healer descended from a long line of women who carried the old magic in their blood. A magic that flowed in your veins, too, a legacy you had been taught to fear and deny. Seraphina had died young, under mysterious circumstances whispered about in hushed tones – some said it was a sickness, others spoke of a curse, a price paid for the power she wielded. You always suspected the truth was far more complicated, and far more sinister.

Your white father, a wealthy landowner who had seduced and abandoned Seraphina, leaving her to raise their mixed-race daughter alone in a world that offered you little kindness, was a ghost you refused to acknowledge. He represented everything you had tried to escape: the hypocrisy of the white world, the violence it inflicted on Black bodies and spirits, the denial of your heritage, and the source of your mother's pain. He was a wound you kept carefully sealed, a chapter of your life you had buried deep.

Annie and Mary, along with Smoke and Stack, had become your chosen family, bound together by a shared understanding of the shadows that lurked beneath the surface of your world. They had seen you through the worst of it, the years of nightmares and self-doubt, the desperate attempts to outrun your own nature.

They knew that your "visions" were not madness, but a manifestation of that ancient power, a power that was now awakening with terrifying force. They were protective of you not just out of friendship, but out of a fierce loyalty to Seraphina's memory and a recognition of the immense, dangerous potential that resided within you. They knew what was at stake.

Annie held you tighter, her voice a low, steady murmur against your hair. " Just breathe with me. It's been so long... what could have brought it back? What triggered this, child?" Her gaze flickered to Smoke and Stack, a silent question passing between them.

You pulled back slightly from Annie's embrace, your eyes wide and still wild with the visions. Your voice was a ragged whisper, raw with the truth you had to speak. "Him. Remmick. I... I saw something in him, Annie. Something else. He's not... he's not right." The words hung heavy in the air, a cold declaration that shattered the last vestiges of normalcy.

"Knew something was off 'bout that cracker," Smoke grumbled under his breath, his hand already moving to the pistol tucked beneath his vest.

The casual anger in Smoke's voice solidified into something far more dangerous as your words truly sank in. The shared understanding in the room deepened into a chilling realization: this wasn't just about a drunk, or a fight, or even about the visions alone. This was about something bad. And Mary was out there, alone, with it.

Stack's face, already grim, hardened further. Without a word, he turned, his hulking frame a blur as he stomped away, taking the stairs to the lower level two at a time. The distant thud of his boots was a promise of swift, brutal action.

"Smoke, help me get her steady," Annie commanded, her voice sharp with purpose as she tried to brace your trembling body. "I'll be right back with some water." She guided you to a nearby stool, her hands quick and sure, before disappearing into the clamor of the juke joint.

Smoke's presence was a solid, comforting weight beside you, his hand firm on your shoulder. His eyes, usually unreadable, now held a deep, familiar concern. "We'll sort this, Fawn," he murmured, his gaze sweeping the room as if searching for hidden threats. "Just breathe. We'll get you through this."

Annie returned, her steps quick and efficient, a glass of cool water already in her hand. "Here, Fawn," she said, pressing it into your trembling fingers. The cold against your skin was a stark contrast to the internal fire still raging.

You took a tentative sip, the water tasting like pure grace after the acrid burn of terror and vomit. Annie gave Smoke a brief, meaningful nod, then turned and headed back downstairs, her presence still a comforting warmth even as she moved away.

You drank, the cool liquid a balm to your raw throat, the rhythmic thud of the blues music downstairs a strangely grounding presence now. Your gaze, still flickering with unwanted insight, found the doorway.

Just as your mind began to drift back to the terror, Mary rolled back into view, striding through the crowd. A profound sigh of relief escaped your lips. She was whole. Unharmed. Her face, still set with grim purpose, held no new lines of fear or injury. She moved with a dangerous grace, a coiled fury that hadn't yet been unleashed, straight towards Stack, who was now visible again near the main bar. The sight of her, safe and sound, was a momentary anchor in the swirling chaos of your mind.

The tension that had held you rigid began to bleed out of your muscles, replaced by a weary lightness. You eased back against the stool, the rough wood a surprisingly welcome support, and lifted the glass of water, focusing on the distorted reflection of your own face in its depths. The swirling liquid seemed to mirror the turmoil within you, slowly settling into some semblance of calm.

Turning to Smoke, who stood nearby, his expression still guarded but less frantic, you offered a shaky apology. "I... I'm sorry, Smoke. For falling apart like that."

He turned to you, his gaze softening, a hint of a familiar, fierce protectiveness in his eyes. "Don't you ever apologize for that, Fawn. Not ever." The words were weighted with a memory, a shared history of violence and retribution. "Not after what that bastard pastor tried to do to you." A ghost of a smile touched his lips, a grimly satisfied curve. "You shoulda seen his face when I introduced him to his own bible."

A reluctant chuckle escaped your lips, the sound rusty and unused. The image flickered in your mind: Smoke, a whirlwind of righteous fury, delivering a brutal sermon of his own, the pastor's shock and pain a stark counterpoint to the holy words. It was a dark memory, but one that spoke of fierce loyalty and unwavering protection.

The moment of shared remembrance, of dark humor and unspoken gratitude, was a fragile bubble of warmth in the tense atmosphere. Just then, a piercing whistle echoed from below, cutting through the din of the music. Bow Cho's distinctive call. Both you and Smoke looked over the edge of the landing, down into the swirling mass of bodies. Bow Cho was gesturing urgently, his face unreadable in the dim light.

"Go ahead, handle your business," you said to Smoke, a newfound steadiness in your voice. The lingering tendrils of the visions still clung to your perception, but beneath the fear, a grim determination was solidifying. You offered him a small, reassuring smile. "I'll be right here."

He hesitated for a moment, his gaze searching yours, then relented with a curt nod. Leaning down, he pressed a quick, hard kiss to your forehead, a silent promise of his return, before disappearing down the steep, uneven stairs of the old sawmill, melting into the chaotic heart of the juke joint.

From your vantage point, you could hear the sounds of escalating conflict – raised voices, angry shouts, the unmistakable thud of fists meeting flesh. It sounded like a brawl, a dispute over money, perhaps, or some other transgression in this lawless space. "Men," you muttered under your breath, a wry, weary comment lost in the general din, and leaned back against the wall, closing your eyes for a brief respite.

The moment of stillness was fleeting. Just as your muscles began to relax, the tension easing its grip on your shoulders, the sounds of fighting were abruptly overshadowed by a new, terrifying sound. The sharp, deafening crack of gunfire...

The revelry of the Juke Joint screeched to a halt, the joyous cacophony abruptly silenced, as if a malevolent hand had choked the life from it. The blues band, mid-note, became a tableau of frozen horror, Sammie's soulful wail dying on the strings of his guitar, replaced by a sharp, deafening crack that echoed through the suddenly oppressive silence. Gunshots. Not the drunken brawl kind, but the unmistakable report of a firearm, close and brutal, a sound that spoke of finality and dread.

You reacted without thought, driven by instinct and adrenaline, the primitive urge to survive. Dropping to the floor, you scrambled for cover behind an overturned table, the rough wood biting into your flesh. A second shot ripped through the stunned silence, followed by a chorus of screams that seemed torn from the throats of damned souls.

Time seemed to stretch and distort, each second an eternity in this macabre ballet. The chaos that erupted below was a symphony of the damned – shouts of terror, desperate sobs, the sickening thud of bodies hitting the floor with a wet, final impact. You lay frozen, heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, the taste of bile rising in your throat, waiting for the onslaught to end, for some semblance of order to claw its way back from the abyss.

The sounds slowly began to subside, replaced by a heavy, ominous silence, thick with unspoken dread. After what felt like an age, you cautiously peered over the edge of the landing, your gaze sweeping across the scene below.

The vibrant energy of the Juke Joint had been brutally extinguished, replaced by a stunned, terrified stillness that felt heavier than a coffin lid. Faces, contorted in shock and grief, reflected a primal fear, their eyes wide and haunted, all turned towards the back of the room, towards the gaping maw of the old storage closet, as if something ancient and malevolent had been unleashed from its depths.

A primal fear, cold and sharp as a rusty blade, pierced through the numbness, the icy tendrils of dread wrapping around your heart. Something terrible, something unspeakably evil, had happened. And you knew, with a chilling certainty that settled deep in your bones, that you had to act, that you could no longer remain a mere spectator to this unfolding nightmare.

Ignoring the trembling in your limbs, you sprang into action, adrenaline coursing through your veins like liquid fire. You scrambled out from behind the table, heedless of the rough wood tearing at your skin, and raced towards the stairs, your boots pounding against the aged wooden steps with a frantic urgency.

You fought against the tide, a lone swimmer battling a riptide of fear, as Slim began to herd the panicked patrons out of the juke joint. The joyous cacophony of moments before had been replaced by a chilling silence, broken only by the ragged gasps and whimpers of the fleeing, their faces contorted in a grotesque ballet of terror. The air hung heavy with the metallic tang of blood and the acrid bite of gunpowder, a grim perfume that clung to the shadows like a death shroud.

Pushing through the press of horrified onlookers, past Bow Cho's stricken face and Grace's wide-eyed terror, you finally reached the source of the commotion: Stack lay sprawled on the floor, his massive frame unnaturally still and broken, like a felled oak, a dark, ominous stain spreading across his chest, soaking into the worn fabric of his shirt. Smoke knelt beside him, cradling Stack's head in his hands, his face inches from Stack's...

"... I could have stopped it," Sammie stammered, the words barely audible, a broken lament. “Thought they was... making love," he mumbled, the words muffled and thick with disbelief.

"Oh, Sammie, this is not your fault," Annie said, her voice softening slightly, though her eyes remained hard. She reached out, a hesitant touch on his shoulder. "Did she say anything? Anything at all?"

Sammie lifted his head, his face pale and tear-streaked. "She... she said we gon' kill all of you."

"We... she said we?" Annie stepped forward, her body tense, her eyes flashing with a dangerous light. "Smoke..." Her voice cracked, then steadied. "We gotta move his body outside. Just for now.”

“Don’t touch him. Nobody move him,” Smoke grumbled.

"Smoke, this isn't coincidence," you said, your voice tight with urgency. "You shot Mary, and she got back up like it was nothing."

"Wait—you're saying Mary did this?" You asked, your voice a low, disbelieving growl.

Annie nodded, her face grim.

That was all you needed. The confirmation of your worst fears. "Smoke..." you pleaded, grabbing his arm, your fingers digging into his flesh.

He looked at you, his eyes wide and haunted, the warmth you knew replaced by a terrifying coldness. But then, with a visible effort, he pulled himself together. He rose, his movements stiff and unsteady, and walked out of the room, stumbling slightly as he reached the rough wooden bench outside. You followed, your heart aching, and sat beside him, watching him in helpless silence.

The world seemed to recede, the edges blurring. The raw grief, the chilling implications of Mary's unnatural resilience, the sheer impossibility of what had happened – it all coalesced into a numbing wave that washed over you, leaving you adrift. Sounds became muffled, the frantic whispers and movements around you fading into a distant hum.

You were distantly aware of the rough wood of the bench beneath you, the cool night air on your skin, but they held no real meaning. You watched Smoke, a figure moving in slow motion, as he finally pushed himself up from the bench, his face a mask of shock and pain, and began to move. It was only then, the sudden shift in your focus, the realization that he was leaving you, that the fog began to clear. Your gaze snapped to where he was walking, and you saw Cornbread, standing just beyond the doorway, his swaggering entrance jarringly out of sync with the surrounding horror.

“Gawd dog, what happened to you, Smoke?"

"Stack's dead, nigga what the fuck happened to you?"

Cornbread's bravado crumbled. He stared at Stack's body, his face slack with shock. "I'm... I'm sorry," he stammered, then, with a surge of desperate energy, "Alright, well, let me in so I can help."

"Hold on," Annie interjected, her voice sharp and firm. She took a few steps forward, her gaze fixed on Cornbread, her expression unreadable.

"What y'all doin'?" Cornbread demanded, his voice rising, laced with a growing agitation. "Just step aside and let me in now!"

“You been in and out all night. Why can't you just walk your big ass in here without an invite, huh?" Annie pressed. "Go ahead, admit it."

"Admit to what?" Cornbread asked, his smile faltering.

"That you're dead. That one of them white folks out there killed you, and you're a haint now."

Cornbread laughed, a harsh, brittle sound. "Smoke, you listening to this? Woman, this man showed me kindness, employed me, pulled me out the field. Now his brother's been killed. The man needs comfort, not you filling up his head with that old Louisiana bouye bullshit." He gestured around the room. "Now we out here playing games and telling ghost stories instead of doing what we ought to do."

Slim, his face still pale with shock, called out, "And what is it that we're supposed to be doing, Cornbread?"

"Being kind to one another. Being polite," Cornbread declared, his voice taking on a strange, sanctimonious tone. "We're all one people. We shouldn't go into other folks' place uninvited."

"Been in and out all day," Annie snapped, "Never needed an invite then. Yeah, something ain't adding up."

"Shit," Cornbread said, his composure cracking. "Stack was my ride up here. Am I supposed to walk back?"

"That ain't my problem," Snoke said coldly.

"Well, it be your own people's problem," Cornbread spat, his eyes gleaming with resentment. "You're just like the white man... Can I at least get my money?"

"Careful," Annie hissed, her eyes widening. Smoke ignored her, pulling out a wad of bills and reached out to hand them to Cornbread.

Cornbread lunged. Not for the money, but for Smoke's arm. His teeth, suddenly sharp and elongated, snapped like a feral animal's.

Smoke recoiled, a strangled cry escaping his lips. In the same instant, he drew his pistol and fired.

The shot was deafening in the confined space. Cornbread stumbled back, a dark blossom blooming on his forehead. But he didn't fall. His skin, where the bullet had grazed, peeled back, hanging in grotesque strips. His eyes, now milky white and devoid of life, stared blankly ahead.

"The world left you for dead," Remmick said, his voice a silken promise, dripping with menace. "It's better this way," he continued, his gaze sweeping over them, lingering on you with an unsettling intensity. It was not a physical grasp, but an undeniable pull, a cold hand reaching into the deepest part of your mind. His presence, unseen and unheard by others, pierced through you, overwhelming your senses as if he had plunged you into icy water. "So why don't you just invite us in?"

Remmick stepped back, allowing Bo Chow to move closer to Grace, his tone hardening. "You should listen to him, or listen to me. I know everything he knows now. And I want you to let us in there, or we're gonna go to the grocery store and give little Lisa a visit."

Grace's scream tore through the night, a sound of pure, animal terror. Smoke and Slim had to physically restrain her, her body wracked with sobs as she fought against them.

"You the devil, ain't you?" Sammie asked, his voice trembling but defiant.

Remmick's face lit up with a grotesque parody of warmth, a disarming smile that didn't reach his ancient eyes. "Sammie!" he exclaimed, his voice dripping with false camaraderie. "Hey! Sammie, Sammie, Sammie. Ya'll give him to me now, just give me lil' Sammie, and I'll let y'all live. Or I'll take my sweet girl back there," he said, his gaze settling on you, a possessive hunger in his eyes.

"Better yet," he mused, his gaze flicking between you and Sammie, "Give me both, and I'll definitely let you live."

You and Sammie exchanged a look of revulsion, a shared understanding of the casual cruelty in his words. Sammie started to move forward, his hand reaching for a weapon, but you grabbed his arm, holding him back. "You can't have him," you said, your voice low and fierce. "He belongs with us."

"You can't save him any more than you could save your brother," Remmick hissed, his smile vanishing, replaced by a snarl. "No matter how many guns or how much money they gonna take from you when they want. You built something here tonight, and it was beautiful, but it was built on a lie." He gestured to Bert, who stood silently at his side, a spectral figure. "Hogworth, he's the Grand Dragon of the KKK. This is his motherfuckinging nephew. They was always planning to kill you. I just happened to show up in the right place at the right time."

A collective gasp rose from the group. The revelation hung in the air, heavy with the stench of hatred and betrayal.

Then, Stack's voice, raspy and weak, came from behind you, from the closet. "He's telling the truth, Smoke. I can see his memories."

A wave of dizziness washed over you. Memories? Stack seeing memories? Was this connected to what you were experiencing? The room began to spin.

"Why can't y'all just go?" Annie pleaded, her voice cracking, her gaze darting between the monsters and the dwindling hope.

"We ain't leaving without y'all," Mary said, her voice hard but laced with a strange, twisted affection. "We family. I know it sounds crazy, but after we kill y'all, we gonna have heaven on earth."

The heavy wooden doors slammed shut, the sound echoing like a death knell. Grace, finally breaking free from Smoke and Slim, whirled around, her face contorted with rage and terror. She stalked towards a table littered with bottles and rags, her movements jerky and desperate, already preparing a makeshift weapon.

"He threatened my daughter! I'm not letting him take my baby!" she screamed, her voice raw with grief and fury.

You grabbed her arm, trying to reason with her. "Grace, no! We can hold them off. We just need to survive the night."

"Survive?" Grace snarled, pulling away from him. "Survive and do what? Wait for him to turn the whole damn town into monsters? That white devil done spoke Chinese! They got a buzz mind! We gotta stop them, Smoke! Now!" As she spoke, she frantically poured a flammable liquid into a bottle, stuffing a rag into the neck.

"Grace, just slow down! Just give me a second to think!" Smoke pleaded.

“Aren't you a soldier?" Grace screamed at Smoke, her voice cracking with fury. "They killed your brother! My Bo said he's gonna kill my Lisa! If now ain't the time to go, I don't know what is!" She frantically poured a flammable liquid into a bottle, stuffing a rag into the neck.

Annie yelled, "Grace, stop that!" and lunged to grab the bottle and lighter from her hands. A desperate struggle ensued, the glass clinking ominously as they fought.

Just as Annie managed to wrench the makeshift bomb away, a chilling sound cut through the chaos. The vampires outside began to sing.

"Picked poor Robin clean..." The voices, low and guttural, rose in a twisted, mocking harmony, a macabre serenade.

Grace's eyes widened with primal fear. "No..." she whimpered, the fight draining from her as the horrifying chorus grew louder. She turned and ran towards the barred doors, her screams echoing over the vampiric song, a desperate, suicidal defiance.

The singing stopped abruptly, and the doors crept open. Remmick stood framed in the doorway, his face a mask of ancient hunger. "Right on," he said, his voice a low, satisfied purr.

All hell broke loose.

Grace hurled the Molotov cocktail, but Remmick, with inhuman speed, batted it away like a malevolent god rejecting a meager offering. The flaming bottle shattered against the doorframe, showering them all in a brief, fiery rain that hissed and sputtered, the stench of burning liquor mingling with the metallic tang of blood and the acrid scent of sulfur.

Guns roared, stakes were driven, and blood, both human and inhuman, began to flow in a grotesque ballet of violence, a dance macabre performed under the jaundiced lamplight. Grace, with a desperate cry that echoed the loss of her child and the shattering of her world, plunged a stake into Bo Chow's chest. He screamed, a high-pitched, unearthly sound that grated on the soul, a sound that belonged to the abyss, before collapsing into dust, leaving behind only the faint, lingering scent of brimstone.

Annie was tackled by Stack, his movements a horrifying parody of brotherly affection, a grotesque embrace turned deadly. His teeth, elongated and sharpened into instruments of grotesque beauty, sank into her neck with a wet, sickening sound, a crimson stain blooming on her pale skin like a cursed rose. Smoke, held down by Remmick with an effortless strength that spoke of centuries of accumulated power, writhed in agony, knowing he had to end Annie's suffering, his face a mask of unimaginable pain and despair, a grief that threatened to consume him whole.

It was a bloodbath. A grotesque tableau of death and desperation, limbs flailing, faces contorted in terror and rage, the juke joint, once a sanctuary, now transformed into a charnel house, a monument to despair.

Then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped. The sounds of struggle faded, replaced by an eerie silence that was more terrifying than the cacophony of violence, a silence that spoke of finality. The juke joint was still, the figures frozen in grotesque poses, caught in a macabre dance of death, a tableau vivant of loss.

You were standing before Remmick, the crimson light in his eyes unwavering, burning into your very soul, a gaze that promised not damnation, but something far worse: oblivion. The memory of the carnage was fresh, the faces of your fallen friends burned into your mind, their screams echoing in the hollow chambers of your heart, a chorus of the damned.

"It doesn't have to be this way," you said, your voice barely a whisper, a fragile sound in the face of such overwhelming darkness, but carrying with it a terrible resolve forged in the crucible of despair. "They don't have to die."

Remmick's expression softened, a flicker of something akin to understanding, or perhaps a predatory patience, in his ancient gaze, a gaze that had witnessed the rise and fall of empires.

"There's another way," you continued, your eyes locked with his, offering a sacrifice in the face of annihilation, a desperate plea for a reprieve. "Take me instead."

Annie, hearing your words, finally broke free from the shock, her face a mask of horrified disbelief, her eyes wide with a grief that threatened to drown her. "Fawn, no! What are you saying?"

You turned to her, your gaze unwavering, your voice steady despite the tremor in your heart. "I have to do this, Annie. Don't you see? I can't let you all die. Not like this."

"Die? Please, don't say that." Annie reached for you, her hand trembling, her touch desperate and clinging.

You took a step closer, your voice dropping to a low, urgent plea, a confession whispered on the precipice of eternity. "Trust me, Annie. Please. You have to trust me."

Annie's eyes searched yours, her face a battleground of grief and fear, a desperate hope clinging to a thread of faith. "Of course I trust you, Fawn. Always."

You took a deep breath, the scent of blood and decay heavy in the air, the stench of mortality clinging to everything. "Remember what you always said? About what that preacher man did to me? How he swore I was the devil, being the child of a white man and seeing things... things you ain't supposed to see?"

Annie nodded slowly, her brow furrowed with confusion and a dawning horror, the pieces of a terrible puzzle beginning to fall into place.

"Well," you said, your voice thick with a sorrow that went beyond words, a grief that transcended the present moment, "Tonight, I saw it, Annie. I saw what's coming. I saw you all dead. Except Sammie. He will be the only one who makes it out alive tonight. This... this is the only way."

The air in the room became thick and heavy, the silence pressing down on them like a shroud, a silence that spoke of inevitability. Every eye was on you, every breath held, as the weight of your vision settled upon them, a prophecy delivered in blood and tears.

"If that's true," Annie whispered, her voice barely audible, the words heavy with grief and a terrible acceptance, a surrender to a fate she could not comprehend.

"Then... then let me set my own soul free. I'll be with my momma from now on,” You completed the sentence for her. A single tear traced a path down your cheek, a farewell to the life you were about to leave behind, a lament for the family you were about to abandon. "I'm sorry, Annie. But I'll take care of Stack. I promise you that. The way you all took care of me. It's time... it's time to pay back the favor."

You turned back to the door, your hand trembling as you reached for the latch. The weight of their lives, their deaths, rested on your shoulders, a burden you could no longer bear, a sacrifice you were compelled to make.

With a final, desperate resolve, you pulled the door open.

"That's my girl," Remmick murmured, his voice a low caress, a chilling possessiveness that sent a shiver down your spine. A strange tenderness flickered across his face, a grotesque parody of affection. "I promise, this will be gentle."

For a fleeting moment, you almost believed him. Hope, fragile and foolish, flickered in your heart.

You stepped out into the light, the sobs of your friends a mournful chorus behind you, and took the hand that Remmick extended. His touch was surprisingly warm, almost... human. You saw his inhuman nails retract, receding into what appeared to be normal, unthreatening fingers.

"Thank you," he whispered, his voice a soft, seductive melody.

Remmick stood there, framed in the doorway, the crimson light in his eyes burning with a predator's smile, a chilling anticipation that promised not salvation, but eternal darkness, a hunger that would never be sated–but maybe neither would yours. NEXT CHAPTER >

#remmick #remmick x reader #remmick x you #remmick x y/n #sinners movie #sinners 2025 #smut #cw blood #vampire #shameless smut #smoke and stack #annie sinners #x reader #tw blood #char

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bokonowriter · 1 month ago

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Crimson & Curls - Part 3

Remmick x Fem! Reader Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, part 5, Part 6

Description: That night in the rain with Remmick… it was more than chance; a raw vulnerability laid bare between you and him. A mutual curiosity thrummed, a silent question about the power leashed beneath his elegant coat. And behind that devilish smile, a promise of shadowed pleasures, a darkness that whispered a dangerous invitation to your very soul. Find out, what is that devil hiding? ⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆ "Tell me, honey… what else are you hiding? What desires do you keep locked away? Perhaps… I can help you unleash them."

The Sight Unseen

THE AIR in the Juke Joint hung heavy and still, a suffocating blanket woven from the scent of frying catfish and the nervous sweat of anticipation. It was opening night, a resurrection whispered on the humid breeze like an old wives' tale, and the very floorboards seemed to hum with a restless energy. Shadows clung to the corners like secrets, refusing to be chased away by the bare bulb casting a sickly yellow glow across the room.

In a dim alcove, where the dust motes danced in the stagnant air, Grace hunched over her easel, her brow furrowed in a fierce concentration that bordered on a trance. The vibrant hues of her brushstrokes blazed against the aged wood, the freshly painted "Juke Joint" leaping out in a defiant, almost blood-red. The sharp, acrid tang of turpentine mingled with the cloying sweetness of decay that always seemed to linger in the old building.

Smoke, his frame as lean and watchful as a graveyard cypress, oversaw the placement of whiskey barrels with a silent authority that brooked no argument. His dark eyes, like still pools reflecting a stormy sky, scanned the room, missing nothing.

Stack, a hulking presence whose very stillness seemed to vibrate with contained power, arranged the mismatched chairs around scarred tables, his movements surprisingly tender, as if handling relics of a forgotten time. They were silent sentinels, guarding the fragile rebirth of this haunted place.

Annie moved through the empty room with a quiet efficiency, her apron bearing the greasy testament of fried catfish and the ominous stain of her pepper relish. Her presence was a calm anchor amidst the rising excitement, her gaze steady as she served.

She paused beside you, her dark eyes, usually filled with a quiet understanding, now holding a flicker of concern that sent a fresh wave of unease through you. The sound of that old name, a relic from a childhood where your pale skin had earned you the moniker of "Fawn," felt suddenly alien, a whisper from a past you were struggling to hold onto. "You ain't right, Fawn," she murmured, her voice low and laced with a familiar concern that felt less like a comforting hand on a fevered brow and more like a cold premonition, a touch from beyond the veil. "You got the look of someone who's seen a ghost... or maybe been touched by one."

You turned slightly, offering a weak smile, a fleeting thing that didn't chase away the trouble in her gaze. "Just the jitters, Annie. Opening night and all."

The lie tasted like ashes in your mouth. The truth – the fragmented memories of a night swallowed by darkness, the lingering scent of Remmick like a musky shroud, the gnawing suspicion that something vital had been stolen from you, leaving your mind a violated tomb – was a poisonous secret you couldn't yet unleash into the already thick atmosphere of the juke joint, a place where the boundaries between the living and the dead, the seen and the unseen, were already blurring with every passing hour.

Annie’s gaze lingered, a knowing glint in her eye that saw deeper than your flimsy facade. “There’s more to it than that. Somethin’s… unsettled in your spirit.” She paused, her gaze softening with a sudden, unsettling familiarity, as if she were peering into the murky depths of your soul.

Your lips parted, the half-formed confession – the lost hours, the unsettling void in her memory – rising like a bubble from the murky depths of her mind. You were about to speak, to finally give voice to the creeping dread that had been your unwelcome companion since the dawn broke on a lost morning, when a voice boomed through the expectant hush, as sudden and jarring as a gunshot in the stillness.

“Alright, you beautiful sinners,” Smoke’s voice drawled, thick with a Southern charm that held a hint of underlying steel, his gaze sweeping over the waiting crowd. “Let the good times… and maybe a little bit of trouble… roll! The Juke Joint is officially open for business!” The words hung in the air, drawing the hungry gazes of the patrons, effectively snapping the fragile thread of your intended confession, leaving the unspoken words to fester in the shadows of her heart.

The moment Smoke’s last drawing word hung in the thick air. It was like a match striking dry kindling, as a hell-raisin', foot-stompin' beat roared through the Juke Joint like a Saturday night bonfire. The bare bulbs, just moments before casting a sickly pallor, now blazed with a defiant, almost feverish light, chasin' them shadows back into the cypress swamps where they belonged.

Faster than a scalded dog, the bottles behind the makeshift bar started disappearin'. Whiskey and gin flowed like the Big Muddy after a spring rain, chased by the white lightnin' of the moonshine. Annie’s quiet disapproval, a dark look sharp enough to cut cane, was nothin' but a pesky mosquito buzzin' 'round your ear as you slammed glasses down, pourin' with a speed born of long habit and a desperate need to outrun the ghosts in your head.

Every now and then, a quick tip of the bottle, a fire burnin' down your throat – a little somethin' to help you forget the tang of yesterday — and it worked. The warmth started low, a tickle in your toes like ants marchin', then spreadin' up your legs 'til that foot-tappin' beat just yanked you onto the crowded dance floor, losing yourself in the joyful noise.

Maybe the liquor had its say, but the night took on a life of its own, like a current pulling the early hours into the abyss of the morning with a reckless, almost desperate energy. It wasn’t just the music, though the blues band wailed with a raw intensity that spoke of sweat-soaked nights and long-buried sins. It was the crowd, a writhing mass of bodies caught in the throes of release, their laughter a little too loud, their joy edged with a hint of desperation.

You moved through them, the scent of spilled whiskey and cheap perfume clinging to you like Spanish moss. The earlier anxieties had faded with the setting sun, leaving behind a quiet awareness of the room's pulse. The juke joint was alive, yes, a vibrant hum rising from the floorboards, a dark, fertile energy that felt both ancient and untamed.

The walls, adorned with relics of the past – faded portraits of stern-faced ancestors, hand-scrawled warnings on scraps of parchment, and a rusted iron plow that seemed to breathe with the building's earthy rhythm – seemed to observe the revelry with a silent knowing.

A woman you vaguely recognized from around town, Delilah, her eyes wide and her voice catching with a strange thrill, grabbed your arm. “Girl, yall done conjured somethin’ fierce here. This place got the spirit in it, the real spirit!”

You nodded, your eyes shining as you surveyed the room. "The spirit's in this music, Delilah, in this crowd... It's in the very air we're breathin'. Feels like coming home."

Your gaze softened, a faint smile gracing your lips as a memory surfaced, warm and bittersweet. Mama would have loved this, you thought, picturing your mother's head thrown back in laughter, your voice joining the chorus, a vibrant thread in this rich tapestry of your people. The way her hands would clap along to the rhythm, her stories woven into the very fabric of nights like these…

A familiar ache bloomed in your chest, but it was a gentle ache, wrapped in the comforting embrace of belonging. This wasn't just a juke joint; it was a living testament to their resilience, their joy, their shared history – a place where the echoes of generations past danced with the promise of a future forged in rhythm and soul. But the warmth was quickly shadowed by a prickle of curiosity. Your gaze snagged on the commotion near the entrance.

Smoke and Stack, their imposing figures a formidable barrier, were flanked by Cornbread, his usually jovial face tight with a rare tension. You navigated through the press of bodies, the humid air thick with the mingled scents of sweat, cheap whiskey, and jasmine, until you reached Cornbread's side.

"What's the hang up Cornbread?" you asked, your voice barely audible above the din.

He leaned down, his brow furrowed. "Some white folk tryin' to push their way in. Sayin' they heard the music." A short, disbelieving laugh escaped your lips. The audacity. But before you could even frame a witty retort, a voice, low and resonant, a familial tremor that sent a shiver tracing down your spine despite the heat, cut through the boisterous air from just beyond the open doorway.

I picked poor Robin clean, picked poor Robin clean

I picked his head, I picked his feet

I woulda picked his body, but it wasn't fit to eat

Oh, I picked poor Robin clean, picked poor Robin clean

And I'll be satisfied having a family

Lord, didn't that jaybird laugh when I picked poor Robin clean?

"Alright, that's enough." Smoke's voice, low and gravelly, cut through the air like a snapped root.

“Ahh it was just about to get good,” Remmick drawled, his voice slick with a forced charm that grated against the humid night air. He wore a linen suit that looked out of place in this rough-hewn establishment.

Smoke’s jaw tightened. “Nah I believe ya, but this here a juke joint,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, a warning growl. "But this here a juke joint."

"But we got money," the other man, younger and more brash, stepped forward, flashing a roll of bills, the crisp paper a stark contrast to the worn wood of the porch. "And we ready to spend it with y'all."

Remmick scoffed, a dangerous edge to his smoothness. "We were damn near perfect, and you're sayin' we ain't welcome?"

Stack's gaze hardened, his eyes glinting in the dim light. "Nah, I'm saying you get down that road and you get back into town. Plenty of white barrel houses down there where they cater to your kind."

“Oh, I see," Remmick said, his voice dripping with a mocking understanding. "This is 'cause we're...all right." He let the word hang in the air, a poisonous accusation.

You stepped forward, placing a hand on Smoke’s arm. "Hold on a minute, Smoke."

Smoke turned to you, his face a mask of stubborn resistance. "Why the hell would we do that? You know better."

"I owe him a favor," you said, your voice low and urgent, your gaze flicking to Remmick, then back to Stack.

Stack, who had been silent until now, his expression unreadable, raised a dark eyebrow. "Him? You owe him a favor?"

You pulled them both aside, away from the doorway and the prying ears of the crowd inside. "He helped me take cover from the Klan the other day, when I was walkin' back to Annie's. They were ridin' hard, and he pulled me off the road."

Stack's face softened, but only slightly. A muscle ticked in his jaw. "You shoulda told us. We woulda taken care of it." His voice held a low growl of brotherly protectiveness.

You shrugged, the memory of that night still a raw nerve. "It doesn't matter now. It's done. Can we just...can we let him in?"

Smoke looked back at the doorway, his expression torn. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again, a long sigh escaping his lips. "Look Fawn...I don't know...I can't make folks inside feel uncomfortable. This place...it's built by us, for us. It's all we got." He looked at Remmick, then back at you, his eyes filled with a weary regret. "Tell him to hit the road."

Remmick expelled a slow breath, a hiss of frustration that mirrored the weary resignation settling in your own chest. What more could you say? The juke joint wasn't yours to command.

"Can't we be family...just for one night?" he asked, the word "family" hanging in the air. Smoke's patience, already stretched thin, finally snapped. He reached beneath his vest with a deliberate slowness that spoke volumes, his fingers brushing against the cold steel of the hidden weapon. The air crackled with the unspoken threat.

Remmick's hands shot up, palms facing outward in a gesture of surrender that was almost too theatrical, too smooth. "You don't need to do that, sir," he said, his voice losing some of its earlier bravado, replaced by a careful, measured tone. "We'll be on our way. But we're gonna walk away real slow. Just in case y'all...change your mind." The last words lingered, a subtle dare, a hint of the darkness that lay beneath his polished veneer.

"Come on now," Stack murmured, his hand a firm, guiding pressure on your back, steering you back into the smoky embrace of the juke joint. Smoke watched you go, his expression unreadable in the dim light, before turning to address the crowd.

Mary, who had been a silent witness to the exchange, stayed close to Stack's side, her gaze lingering on Remmick's retreating figure. Once you and Stack reached a less crowded corner of the room, she finally spoke, her voice low and hesitant. "She might have a point, Stack," she murmured, her brow furrowed with a mixture of concern and something else... a flicker of longing? "Maybe... maybe we should reconsider. Just a little?"

Stack's jaw tightened. "I ain't goin' behind Smoke's back, Mary. You know that. He made the call." He paused, then sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Besides... I can't let him in here. Not after all that."

Mary's gaze softened, and she reached out to touch his arm. "I know, baby. But... maybe we could go get him somethin'? A plate of food, a drink? You could use the money after all."

Stack considered this, his expression still troubled. The juke joint's music swirled around you, a bittersweet counterpoint to the tension in the air – a mournful blues that seemed to echo the unspoken sorrows of the night. Finally, he nodded, a reluctant agreement. "Alright," he conceded, his voice heavy with a weariness that belied his size. "But be careful out there. And don't be long."

But you weren't listening to the caution. A strange compulsion had taken hold, a need to rectify the harshness of their rejection, to understand the darkness that flickered beneath Remmick's polished surface.

This ain't right, you thought, the words echoing the unease that had settled in your gut. You turned, the juke joint's raucous sounds fading slightly as you stepped onto the porch. The night air, thick with the scent of jasmine enveloped you as you moved to speak to Remmick, drawn back to him like a moth to a dangerous flame.

There, perched on a gnarled oak stump, Remmick plucked a hauntingly familiar melody on a battered banjo – a mournful rendition of "Lassie Come Home" that seemed to echo the loneliness of the surrounding swamp. The notes hung in the humid air, each one a drop of sorrow distilled from the night itself.

He looked up as you approached, and a soft, welcoming smile spread across his face, a look of relief and quiet expectation, as if he'd known you'd find your way to him. "Bert. Joan. This is the girl I told y'all about."

Two figures emerged from the shadows behind him, their forms indistinct in the dim light. Bert, a gaunt man with eyes that seemed to absorb rather than reflect the light, nodded slowly. "We heard some about you."

"Good things," Bert offered, his voice a dry rustle, like the wind whispering through dead leaves.

"Very good things," Joan echoed, her voice a strange, unsettlingly smooth counterpoint to her husband's, the words drawn out with a languid, almost hypnotic cadence that sent a shiver crawling down your spine. They spoke in eerie unison, their faces mirroring each other's blankly, as if they shared a single, unknowable thought.

A prickle of unease ran beneath your skin. There was something profoundly unsettling about the way Bert and Joan moved and spoke, their words and gestures too perfectly synchronized, their expressions devoid of any discernible individuality.

They felt...connected in a way that defied easy explanation, like puppets on the same invisible string. But the warmth in Remmick's gaze, the quiet reassurance in his smile, eased your apprehension slightly. You pushed the unsettling feeling aside, attributing it to the strangeness of the night and the lingering confusion in your own mind, and sat down next to the man on the stump.

"Thank you," you said to Bert and Joan, offering a tight, artificial smile. They simply nodded, their movements disturbingly synchronized, and returned to their instruments with an unsettling, almost inhuman grace. The music flowed from them as if they were mere conduits, their expressions blank and unchanging.

You turned back to Remmick, a knot of unease still twisting in your stomach from the encounter with his companions. "I... I apologize for all that. Can I get you something? Food, a drink? You did walk all this way..."

He waved off your offer, his gaze fixed on you with an intensity that made your pulse quicken. "Truth is, I just wanted to see you again. And well," he said, his voice a low murmur, "I got what I wanted." A warmth bloomed in your chest, and a blush crept up your neck.

"Don't be ridiculous," you managed, though the heat in your cheeks betrayed you. You glanced down at your evening gown – a simple but elegant affair of deep emerald silk, the high neckline and long sleeves offering a demure contrast to the vibrant color, a style perhaps a touch more sophisticated than the usual juke joint attire, a subtle nod to a past life – and shook your head. "There's no way you came all this way just to flatter me."

He smiled, a slow, disarming curve of his lips. "I swear, that's the only truth."

You hesitated, then a mischievous glint sparked in your eyes. "Well, then, I know a place where we can still enjoy some good music... where the wood of the joint is thin, and the sound pours out just perfectly."

Remmick raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Lead the way." He turned back to Bert and Joan. "You two mind if I... step away for a bit?"

They nodded, their movements as synchronized as ever, their eyes never leaving their instruments. The music continued, a relentless, hypnotic pulse.

A joyful silence fell between you as you led Remmick around the back of the juke joint, the sounds of revelry fading slightly with each step. As you rounded the corner, you pressed your ear against the rough-hewn planks of the wall.

"Sammie," you breathed, a fond smile gracing your lips. "He's playing his heart out tonight."

Remmick stepped closer, pressing himself against your back to listen through the crack in the wall, his breath warm against your neck. The familiar scent of him mingled with the earthy aroma of the swamp, a strange comfort in the gathering darkness.

You tilted your head back into his chest, the solid warmth of him grounding you, a silent echo of countless nights spent lost in Sammie's music. A memory flickered: a small hand in yours, calloused and strong even then, as Sammie strummed a lullaby on a battered guitar, chasing away the shadows that crept through the cracks in your childhood home. You didn't need to explain. The way your body instinctively sought the steadiness of Remmick's, the almost unconscious surrender to the rhythm he shared, spoke volumes.

"He's... incredible," Remmick murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your spine, and you knew, in that moment, he wasn't just hearing the music. He was hearing you. His hand settled on your waist, a light, possessive touch that sent a shiver through you, not of fear, but of a deep, resonant connection that transcended words.

Your bodies swayed almost imperceptibly with the music, a shared, silent communion. As the tempo quickened, the music swelling into a passionate crescendo, Remmick's hand tightened on your waist. "Dance with me," he said, his voice a husky command.

And then, you were dancing. Not no fancy ballroom two-step, but a slow, close sway, bodies moving together like they'd been doing it for a lifetime... or maybe for a single, stolen moment teetering on the edge of something forbidden. You hesitated for a beat, the question burning on your tongue, the one you'd been replaying in your head since waking up in a haze of confusion and a nagging sense of... lost time. Was it the moonshine? Had you finally succumbed to the juke joint madness? Or was there something else, something... with him? You swallowed, the words catching in your throat. You opened your mouth to speak, to break the spell of the music, to ask...

"Remmick?" you said, your voice barely a whisper above the soulful whaling of the blues.

He dipped his head, his gaze intent on yours. "Yes, darling?" he murmured, the word a caress.

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, a sound that sent a shiver down your spine. He paused, his eyes gleaming with a mischievous light.

"Let me show you," he offered, his voice a low, seductive murmur that promised a glimpse into a world you weren't sure you were ready for. And then, before you could even form a coherent thought, he dipped you, his hand firm on your back, your body tilting precariously close to the floor, the world spinning in a dizzying swirl of sensation. He brought you back up slowly, his gaze locked on yours, and then he kissed you.

It wasn't a chaste brush of lips; it was a deep, hungry claim, a kiss that stole the breath from your lungs and ignited a fire in your blood. The blues seemed to pulse through the kiss itself, a raw, yearning energy that bound you together. When he finally broke away, you were breathless, disoriented, and utterly captivated.

"Like this," he said, his voice a low, satisfied growl. And then, with a swift, fluid motion, he swung you around, your skirts flaring out around you like dark wings, the world blurring into a kaleidoscope of light and shadow. It was like the blues was pullin' you, drawing you in with its low, soulful moan, a sound that wrapped around you both like a humid shroud, thick with secrets and unspoken desires.

It wasn't just dancing anymore. The blues wasn't just a sound; it was a living thing, a current surging through the juke joint and through you, pulling the very soul from the Mississippi soil. The night didn't shrink; it expanded, the smoky haze swirling into visions. Faces flickered at the edge of your sight – your ancestors, their eyes blazing with a fierce, ancient pride, their movements a whirlwind of forgotten steps.

And then, her. Your mother, tall and regal, her dark skin shimmering with an otherworldly light, a hint of old magic in the way she moved, her laughter a low, resonant hum that vibrated in your bones.

The air thrummed with a power that transcended time and blood, and you saw, impossibly, among the swirling figures, a knot of red-haired men and women, their feet stomping the earth with a wild, joyful abandon that echoed the rhythms of a distant, green land. You barely registered them, so caught were you in the tide of his eyes.

It was as if the music had torn a hole in the fabric of the world, and you and Remmick were caught in the ecstatic, terrifying center of it all, bound together by a force far greater than desire, a force that whispered of blood and bone and the enduring power of the past.

As Sammie's song reached its final, soaring note, the juke joint didn't just glow; it burned. Not with ordinary fire, but with an unearthly radiance that pulsed from the very wood, the very air, bathing everything in a light that was both beautiful and terrifying. The heat pressed against your skin, not with warmth, but with a vibrant, almost painful energy.

Remmick was alight with a genuine, feverish excitement. His crimson eyes, glowing like embers in the inferno, locked onto yours. He seemed to drink in the spectacle, then turned that burning gaze back to you, his expression a mixture of triumph and something deeper... a raw, desperate hunger.

You were still lost in the vision, the echoes of your ancestors, the potent magic of your mother, the surreal dance of the Irish, all swirling within you. It was a high unlike any other, a glimpse behind the veil.

Then, Remmick's hands found your face, his touch surprisingly gentle amidst the chaos. He kissed you, not with the tentative exploration of desire, but with a gentle, possessive passion that hooked your attention. You clung to him, a dizzying mix of exhilaration and growing unease bubbling up inside you.

When the kiss broke, he spoke, his voice a low, urgent murmur. "You see them, don't you? You can see them."

Confusion clouded your mind. "See what? What are you talking about?"

He dropped to his knees before you, his grip on your waist tightening, his gaze intense, almost pleading. It was as if he were begging, or perhaps...offering himself. "Look around. Really look."

Your gaze finally broke free of his, and what you saw made your blood run cold. The juke joint was ablaze, not with flame, but with spectral light. The shadows writhed with half-seen figures, the faces of the long-dead mingling with the living. It was a grotesque parody of the vibrant celebration it had been moments before.

Panic seized you, a cold fist squeezing your heart. You stumbled back, but Remmick's hold was relentless.

"It's you," he said, his voice a hypnotic caress, "and Sammie. You're gifted. Both of you."

But his words offered no comfort. Locked in his crimson gaze, you saw not reassurance, but something ancient and predatory, a truth that shattered the carefully constructed reality of your world. You saw him, his true form, and the sight was monstrous.

You tried to pull away, to wrench your hands free, but his grip was like iron. "Don't you see?" he hissed, his voice laced with desperation.

"No! No, I'm not... I'm not special," you choked out, denial rising in your throat like bile. "Those visions... it was fake. All fake. Just... childhood delusions. Ain't none of that religious shit real."

"You asked me to remember the other night," he said, his voice raw with a terrible intensity. "It was this. You touched me... and you saw my past. You saw me." The hunger in his eyes was terrible, the intensity of being seen for himself both terrifying and tragically vulnerable.

The truth crashed down upon you, a tidal wave of horror and understanding. You had seen. And what you'd seen was not human.

You tore yourself free, the sound of tearing flesh echoing in the spectral light, "Get away from me! Get away!"

You spun and fled, abandoning Remmick to the grotesque spectacle of the burning juke joint. You burst back into the main room, the revelry now a distorted nightmare. You collided with Cornbread, his jovial face contorted in confusion.

"Hey? What's wrong—"

You flinched away from him as if burned, your mind reeling. Standing beside him, clear as day, was a young girl, a miniature version of Cornbread, her hand clasped in his. His unborn daughter.

The scream lodged in your throat, a silent, petrified shriek that threatened to tear you apart from the inside. You didn't stop to apologize. You didn't stop at all. Every face you passed was a fractured mirror reflecting a reality you were never meant to witness, a grotesque tapestry woven from stolen moments in time. Pearline, her features twisted in a silent, ravenous hunger, writhed in a grotesque parody of intimacy with Sammie in a shadowy corner, their bodies contorted like puppets on broken strings.

Faces aged and withered before your eyes, the bloom of life decaying into the stark, grinning rictus of bone in a heartbeat. Unborn children, their spectral forms translucent and cold, reached out to you with skeletal fingers, their silent cries echoing in the hollow chambers of your mind.

You stumbled blindly, desperately, until you found an empty storage room, a small, blessedly silent space. You slammed the door shut, fumbling with the lock, your hands shaking so violently you could barely manage it. The click of the bolt was the only sound in the universe.

Then, the world tilted, and your stomach lurched. You collapsed onto the filthy floor, vomiting violently, the contents of your stomach a grotesque offering to the horrors you'd just witnessed. Your breath hitched and shuddered in your chest, each gasping a desperate, futile attempt to draw air. You were spiraling, falling into an abyss of madness and terror, a full-blown panic attack ripping you apart from the inside out.

And then, mercifully, there was nothing. Only blackness. NEXT CHAPTER>

#remmick #remmick x reader #remmick x you #remmick x y/n #sinners movie #sinners 2025 #smut #cw blood #vampire #shameless smut #cornbread #smoke and stack #x reader

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bokonowriter · 1 month ago

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Crimson & Curls - Part 2

Remmick x Fem! Reader Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

"Tell me, honey… what else are you hiding? What desires do you keep locked away? Perhaps… I can help you unleash them."

A/n: The reader in this is mixed ethnicity, and thus light skinned. She is white passing due to her lightly tanned skin tone. Warnings: This story contains explicit content (DO NOT INTERACT UNLESS 18+) including: oral smut, public smut, explicit language, fingering, intense sensual detail, moaning/whimpering, female orgasms, and squirting, mentions of supernatural. (more will be added as the story continues).

Heart of Darkness

THE SUN bled with a bruised purple and rust onto the horizon, staining the sky like an old wound. Grotesque, skeletal shadows claw from the gnarled cypress trees, mimicking the restless spirits the locals whispered still clung to the land.

The air hangs thick and suffocating, a cloying perfume of decaying magnolias mingling with the damp, black earth smell that always spoke of secrets buried deep. A relentless, feverish drone of cicadas pulsed like a collective anxiety, amplifying the profound stillness and hinting at unseen things stirring beneath the surface.

Your pale but tanned skin, a spectral shimmer in the encroaching gloom, was a solitary trespasser in the haunted tableau. The metal bucket in your arms, heavy with the promise of forbidden brew, felt like it dragged towards the dust with the weight of cracked corn and secrets yet untold. The burlap sack, clutched tight to your chest, held a sweetness that belied the bitter realities of this land, a contraband comfort against the gnawing unease of twilight.

Your steps were slow, each footfall on the rutted track a weary testament to the miles already trod and the heavier ones yet to come. Despite your cottage clinging to the edge of town like a forgotten memory, days like this, steeped in the swampy breath of the Mississippi heat, made even the stillness of shade a battle against the languid, oppressive air. The sun, though hidden behind the skeletal arms of the trees, still bled its malice through the leaves, turning every task, even the thought of one, into a herculean effort.

There was a rumble that tore through the oppressive, but you didn’t bother looking back. As if to chase you, the Ford Model A crawled from the hazy distance like a phantom drawn from the swamp mists, its dark paint seeming to absorb the last vestiges of light, carrying with its rattling engine the mournful sighs of forgotten souls. Remmick, behind the wheel, was a figure sculpted by the deepening twilight within the car's shadowy embrace.

His fair hair and pale skin, an unsettling contrast in this sun-baked land, gleamed with an almost unholy luminescence in the dimness, as if reflecting an inner, eternal cold. His gaze, as it fixes on yours amidst the encroaching shadows, burned with a peculiar intensity. He eased the vehicle to a halt, the engine sputtering its last ragged breaths like a dying man.

"Well now," his voice slithered through the stillness, a smooth, almost sepulchral tone that seemed to rise from the very soil. "That's a heavy-looking burden for such a fragile girl, ain't it?" His eyes, the color of a stormy, moonlit sky, fixed on yours, a predatory gleam flickering within their depths. A stare you would come to welcome.

A wave of unexpected relief washed over you at the sight of him, a familiar figure emerging from the hazy heat like a welcoming mirage. A warmth, not entirely from the oppressive air, stirred in your chest – a foolish, hopeful feeling at his presence.

"Oh, maybe just for a little," you admitted, a small sigh escaping your lips as you paused, the weight in your arms suddenly feeling less burdensome.

"Get in," he offered, his voice a low, courteous drawl, a hint of concern softening the edges. Without a second thought, a sense of trust overriding caution, you found yourself moving towards his car.

The memory of his previous kindness lingered, a comforting shadow in the harsh light. Though a flicker of awareness sparked – a white man offering a Black woman a ride in this place – it was quickly overshadowed by a burgeoning curiosity and a subtle, undeniable pull.

There was a gentleness in his eyes, a quiet strength that set him apart. And as you settled into the cool shadows of his car, a delicate thrill, a whisper of something more than gratitude, danced along your skin.

He practically tumbled out of that Ford, all elbows and good intentions, to wrestle that bucket and sack from your grasp.

"Well now, darlin'," he drawled, a grin spreading like sunshine after a rain shower, "you look like you're fixin' to sweeten up the whole darn county! I reckon you a baker?"

"A baker?" you echoed, tilting your head like a confused hound dog. He slammed the car door shut behind you with a thwack as you slid onto the worn seat.

"Shoot fire," he chuckled, his eyes twinkling. "With that cracked corn and enough sugar to keep a hummingbird happy for a year, I figured you was plannin' on conjurin' up a cake big enough to feed all the Baptists after Sunday service. What else you gonna do with all that?"

"Bake a cake... with cracked corn?" you repeated slowly, the absurdity of it tickling a laugh out of you despite yourself.

He slid onto the seat beside you, the springs groaning a hearty welcome, and let out a genuine belly laugh that rumbled through the old car. "Well, darlin'," he said, wiping a tear from his eye, "if you manage that miracle, you just let ol' Remmick know. I'll be the first in line for a slice!"

“You met me once and already got a hankerin' for a slice of my cake, huh?" you drawled, a playful smirk curving your lips, your eyes lingering on his.

Remmick's gaze dropped to your mouth, a slow burn igniting in his stormy eyes. "Darlin'," he purred, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the very air, "a taste ain't what I'm after. I got a sweet tooth for the whole damn thing."

Without a beat, a heat thick as the outside air began to seep into your core. Your cheeks, they didn't just blush; they stained themselves a deep, feverish crimson, like the underbelly of a bruised sky. Your gaze dropped, fixated on your shoes, terrified he saw the unspoken hunger mirrored in his own strange eyes. It wasn't cake he craved; you felt it in the oppressive silence, a primal knowing that chilled you despite the rising heat.

After a few moments you finally lifted your gaze, a wry twist to your lips, and rolled your eyes just a touch. "Well, I'll be," you drawled, a hint of amusement lacing your voice, "I thought all you Irish fellas were only sweet on that bitter ol' beer."

Remmick's brow furrowed, a flicker of surprise crossing his intense features. "How the hell you know I'm Irish?" he asked, his voice losing some of its smooth purr, replaced by a touch of genuine bewilderment.

You shrugged, keeping your gaze casual, though your heart hammered a little faster. "Oh, just a hunch," you replied, drawing the words out with a slow, Southern lilt. "Ain't too many white men 'round these parts got that particular shade of... well, not quite sunburnt. And there's a little somethin' in your hair, like the last embers of a fire. Besides," you added, a sly glint returning to your eyes, "you got that faraway look sometimes, like you're missin' a green, rainy place.”

A large, toothy grin, full of something bordering on wicked amusement, took over Remmick’s face. "Well now," he chuckled, a low rumble in his chest, "I do believe I like you."

"I aim to please," you replied, a playful smirk dancing on your lips, your eyes flicking over him, "when I feel like it."

Remmick leaned back into his seat, a satisfied air about him as the old Ford cruised along the dusty track.

"That your place right there?" he asked, nodding towards a small, weathered cottage nestled amongst the trees. You let out a soft hum of agreement.

"'More like my work shed," you corrected, pointing to a smaller, ramshackle building a little further back, "but my place ain't nothin' but a walk away."

He turned to you, that intense gaze returning. "Now really tell me what the hell you doin' with all this," he gestured to the supplies on the seat between you.

You met his gaze, a silent invitation in your eyes. "Why don't you come and find out?" you suggested, a hint of a challenge in your voice.

You led him off the track, towards the porch of the shed, its rough-hewn doors standing wide open, revealing a dimly lit interior. Remmick stepped just outside, his eyes widening as they took in the makeshift setup, the faint, sweet smell of fermenting mash hanging in the air.

"Well, I'll be damned," he breathed, the words laced with a dark amusement that echoed in the shadowed space. A slow smile, hinting at secrets best left undisturbed, stretched across his face. "You traffickin' in spirits, are you?"

"Do I not bear the mark of the resourceful woman?" you countered, your voice a low murmur that seemed to blend with the rustling leaves outside.

He leaned against the decaying doorframe, his gaze a lingering shadow upon you. "You bear the mark of one destined for hushed prayers at dawn. But considerin' the whispers we shared in the darkness..." A knowing glint, ancient and unsettling, flickered in his eyes. "...reckon your communion takes place in a different kind of sanctuary.”

"Then perhaps," you murmured, a sly invitation curling your lips as you produced a small, clear glass from the shed's gloom, the liquid within shimmering like captured moonlight, "you'd care for a taste of my particular brand of salvation?"

You held it out, the scent of forbidden fruit hanging heavy in the air. "The earth has yielded its secrets all summer long. Apple kissed by the first frost, peaches ripe with the sins of the sun, and my latest... a dark blend of berries, sweet as a memory and just as potent."

Remmick took the glass, his gaze never breaking from yours. He inhaled deeply, a faint smile playing on his lips, then took a slow sip. A tremor, not entirely unpleasant, ran through him, his sharp features momentarily contorted by the fiery descent.

"The devil's brew," he rasped, his voice a low growl that seemed to vibrate in the very timbers of the shed. A grudging admiration, tinged with something darker, filled his eyes. "Where'd you learn to conjure a draught that tastes of both heaven and hell?”

You smiled, a nervous flutter in your chest, and gave a futile nudge to the heavy barrel before answering.

Remmick leaned against the rough-hewn porch beam, a creature of shadow in the fading light, his voice low and smooth as river stones worn by the current. "Allow me, darlin'."

He moved with a fluid grace that belied any human clumsiness, effortlessly cradling the barrel and placing it exactly where you gestured. His nearness was a palpable thing in the confined space, a silent hum that vibrated against your skin.

"Thank you," you managed, your voice a little breathless. "It's heavier than it looks."

You turned to face him, and the dim, flickering lantern light sculpted sharp angles onto his features, making him appear both ethereally alluring and edged with a subtle danger, like a creature of the twilight caught in a fragile glow. His gaze, dark and intent, lingered on the curve of your mouth.

"Indeed," he murmured, his eyes never leaving yours. "Some burdens carry a weight unseen. Just as some veils... conceal a deeper truth."

His gaze flickered to the unruly tendrils of your hair, escaping the pins you'd wrestled with in the humid air, each dark curl a rebellious whisper against the constraints.

"I don't know what you mean," your voice was barely a thread of sound, your breath snagging in your throat like a caught bird.

Remmick took a slow, deliberate step closer, the silence between you thickening like swamp mist. "Don't you? I sense a vibrant pulse beneath your carefully constructed... stillness. A wildness that this sleepy town, perhaps, is too blind to truly see."

His gaze drifted lower, settling on the delicate rise and fall of your pulse point, and a shiver, not entirely born of fear, traced a path down your spine.

"You... you see things that aren't there."

Remmick's head tilted infinitesimally, his eyes holding yours with an unnerving intensity. "Oh, but I assure you, I see what is there. The quickening in your gaze when mine meets yours. The subtle tremor that dances in your hands. The way your... natural grace strains against its bindings."

He reached out a hand, his long fingers hovering just above a stray curl that kissed your temple, a breath away from your skin. Your own breath hitched in your chest.

"Please... don't," you whispered, the plea in your eyes a fragile thing, yet laced with a strange, undeniable curiosity.

Remmick's voice dropped even lower, a silken caress that seemed to steal the very air from your lungs, his gaze never wavering. "Don't I? Or don't you want me to? There is a... current that flows between us. A deep, humming rhythm beneath the surface of polite words. Can you deny its pull?"

He took another step, the space between you vanishing. The air crackled with a desire as thick and unspoken as the secrets buried in the Mississippi soil. You could feel the warmth of his breath near your ear, carrying the scent of something old and something... other.

"That night in the rain..." he murmured, his voice a haunting whisper. "It was more than chance. It was a... unveiling. Of a shared vulnerability that clung to us like the damp air. And a... mutual hunger."

His hand finally brushed against your cheek, his touch surprisingly gentle, yet sending a jolt of heat that flared deep within you.

"Tell me, Darlin..." he breathed, his thumb tracing the delicate curve of your jaw. "What else do you keep hidden in the shadows of your heart? What desires do you keep locked away? Perhaps... I am the key to setting them free."

Driven by a reckless impulse, a desire to taste the very essence of the mystery that clung to him like graveyard dust, you leaned in, your breath catching like a trapped bird in your chest. You craved the press of his lips, a communion with the darkness you sensed swirling beneath his charming facade.

Before your innocent intent could fully manifest, his hand, a pale shadow against her cheek, shifted, tilting your face towards the encroaching night. His eyes, twin pools reflecting the dying light, held a hunger that went beyond the mortal realm, a crimson flicker barely contained within their depths. And then, his mouth descended, claiming yours in a kiss that tasted of secrets and the sweet decay of forbidden fruit.

The contact was immediate and profound, a spark igniting a feverish delirium within your soul. His lips were firm, possessive, yet carried a chilling tenderness, like the caress of a ghost.

Any semblance of caution dissolved in the face of this consuming darkness. The pull was irresistible, a siren's call from the depths of a shadowed bayou. Your own lips parted, a silent surrender to the intoxicating danger, and you kissed him back with a desperate fervor, meeting his unsatiated hunger with a reckless abandon that mirrored the wild, untamed beauty of the surrounding night. The dying light, the mournful hoot of an owl in the distance, faded into a haunting symphony as your mouths clung, a morbid union sealed under the watchful eyes of the coming darkness.

"Fuck," he murmurs, his voice thick with a desire that mirrors your own.

He lowers his head again, his lips trailing down your jawline, each kiss a searing brand. He nuzzles against your neck, inhaling deeply, a primal sound that sends a fresh wave of heat pooling low in your belly.

His hands find the curve of your hips, pulling you closer until there is no space left between your bodies. You can feel the hard ridge pressing against your core, a stark testament to the desire that consumes him.

You wanted him closer, wanted to lose yourself in the intoxicating pull of his presence. "Remmick, why don’t you come in—," you breathed, your voice husky with invitation.

"No. Not just yet." His low, possessive rumble cut off your invitation, his body went still, his hand paused its deliberate exploration of your thigh. His gaze flickered upwards, meeting yours with an intensity that held a strange, compelling mix of raw longing and a palpable, almost painful restraint. "Patience, little dove," he drawled, his voice a low, honeyed rasp that sent a shiver down your spine—a different kind this time, edged with something ancient and knowing.

A small whine escaped your lips, a feeling of unexpected rejection alongside the desire. He was quick to soothe, his thumb stroking your cheek once more, his voice softening. His touch was like a brand, leavin' a trail of fire where it lingered.

Then, he knelt before you, his gaze holdin' yours like a predator fixin' on its prey in the murky shadows. His hands, pale against the fading light, settled on your hips as you perched on that weathered barrel, the rough wood a stark contrast to the sudden heat spread in your core.

He leaned in, the scent of honeysuckle and something else… something wilder, untamed… fillin' the air 'round you. "Let me taste the secrets the night keeps hid, darlin'," he murmured, his breath warm and damp against your thigh.

His fingers, movin' slow and deliberate, like a snake charmer coaxin' its viper, found the hem of your garment, then slipped beneath, seekin' the tender flesh beneath.

The world dissolved into a maelstrom of sensation. His tongue, a velvet tormentor, began its relentless assault, each flick and swirl drawing a gasp, a whimper. A delicious heat built, a slow, insistent thrumming deep within, a promising simmer before the frantic climb. His possessive suckling tugged at a primal chord, echoing the hunger in the crimson depth of his eyes.

"That's it, little dove," he rasped between wet, insistent licks, his voice a low growl that vibrated through you. "Let the shadows rise. Let me taste the heart of your darkness." His hands, gripping your thighs with bruising intensity, held you captive as the pressure mounted, each deliberate exploration of his tongue and fingers pushing you closer to the edge.

Moans ripped from your throat, raw and uncontrolled, as your hips arched against his insistent mouth. The pleasure was a sharp, exquisite agony, each flick, each press, sending shattering shockwaves. Involuntary contractions clenched around his invading touch, a desperate plea.

Even his own breath hitched from what he was doing to you, ragged and uneven, betraying his barely leashed desire. The tautness in his body was palpable, a dark promise held just beneath the surface. His free hand, still fisted at his side, trembled almost imperceptibly, revealing the restraint he was exerting.

"Remmick..." your breath shuddered, a desperate gasp clinging to his name, the sound itself a soft, involuntary caress. "Remmick... I'm so close. Please don’t stop."

A low growl rumbled in his chest, a sound of pure satisfaction. He obeyed. It wasn’t often Remmick bent to another's will, a creature of the night accustomed to his own desires as law. But the way your voice, thick with need, wrapped around his name, the raw vulnerability in the way you begged, was an exquisite command he found himself utterly compelled to heed.

And so his ministrations grew more frantic, more desperate, as if he, too, were caught in the relentless tide of sensation. The world was nothing but the feel of his mouth on you, the relentless rhythm driving you towards the edge, the precipice looming closer with each agonizingly sweet caress.

"Remmick..." your breath hitched, a series of ragged gasps escaping your lips. Your hips began to lift involuntarily, a frantic, desperate arch against his insistent mouth. A low whimper, a sound you barely recognized as your own, escaped your throat, followed by a soft, keening moan that spoke of the precipice. Your fingers clenched in his hair, pulling him closer, a silent demand for more.

"That's my girl," he murmured, his voice a dark caress against your slick flesh, a promise of the abyss. "Just let go... let the night take you."

Your breath hitched, the world narrowing to the feel of his skin. A raw sound escaped his lips, echoing the ancient ache you sensed – his longing for connection, for echoes of a past you couldn't grasp, perhaps a connection to those who came before him.

Just as the crest of sensation washed over you, a taste flourished on your tongue, sharp and metallic, undeniably present. It wasn't yours, and it wasn't entirely his familiar tang. As the flavor intensified, a fleeting image slammed behind your eyelids: a dimly lit room, centuries old. A younger Remmick, though still possessing an ageless quality in his eyes, stood beside a figure with a stern, aristocratic face – his father, you instinctively knew.

The air in the vision was thick with the same metallic scent you now tasted, mingled with the dry aroma of old parchment. A single, unspoken tension hung between them, a sense of pre-historic rules and a yearning for something just out of reach. The image fractured as quickly as it appeared, leaving your senses reeling.

The intensity of her climax subsided, the strange taste lingering on your tongue, now imbued with the weight of that fleeting vision. You nestled closer, a nascent unease stirring. This wasn't just about Remmick's loneliness; it felt deeply personal, tied to a moment in his distant past, a past that now, inexplicably, you had briefly witnessed.

A profound silence descended, broken only by your uneven breaths and the distant chirping of crickets. Slowly, shakily, you opened your eyes.

Remmick was looking up at you.

The moonlight, filtering through the leaves overhead, cast an eerie glow on his face. His lips were slick, and a sheen, undeniably yours, glistened on his chin and the sharp angles of his cheekbones. His eyes, those shadowed depths that had held you captive moments before, now held an unreadable intensity, a flicker of something wild that sent a fresh wave of unease washing over you. The crimson you had glimpsed earlier seemed more pronounced now, a stark, unsettling red that pierced the dim light.

Confusion warred with the lingering echoes of pleasure and the unsettling residue of that unexpected vision. The intimacy had been unlike anything you had ever experienced, a primal connection that felt both terrifying and exhilarating, now overlaid with a layer of the bizarre and the inexplicable. But the look in his eyes now… it was different. It held a hunger that felt far beyond the physical, tinged with something unknowable.

Your voice, when it finally came, was a mere whisper, trembling with a mixture of vulnerability, confusion, and a dawning, chilling suspicion. "What… what are you?"

“Question is, what are you?” NEXT CHAPTER>

#remmick #remmick x reader #remmick x you #remmick x y/n #sinners movie #sinners 2025 #smut #cw blood #vampire #shameless smut #smoke and stack #x reader

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bokonowriter · 2 months ago

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Crimson & Curls - Part 1

Remmick x Fem! Reader Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6 Description: That night in the rain with Remmick… it was more than chance; a raw vulnerability laid bare between you and him. A mutual curiosity thrummed, a silent question about the power leashed beneath his elegant coat. And behind that devilish smile, a promise of shadowed pleasures, a darkness that whispered a dangerous invitation to your very soul. Find out, what is that devil hiding? ⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆ "Tell me, honey… what else are you hiding? What desires do you keep locked away? Perhaps… I can help you unleash them."

A/n: The reader in this is mixed ethnicity, and thus light skinned. She is white passing due to her lightly tanned skin tone.

Seeking Shelter in the Shadows

WHEN THE cicadas fell silent before dusk – a hush thicker than the kudzu that strangled the abandoned plantation – the old folks in Delta understood. It wasn't just the coming darkness; it was the whisper of what lay restless in the woods, a hunger older than the moss-draped oaks and twice as unforgiving.

You should’ve known. Mama's words, thick with the swamp-born wisdom of generations, should have echoed louder: "Never trust a sunset that bleeds like a stuck hog."

Yet you found yourself gazing mindlessly towards the streaks of angry crimson that slashed across the darkening horizon.

Tonight it wasn't the peaceful blush of a typical sunset, but a violent, almost desperate flare, as if the very heavens were weeping blood. The light that did breakthrough was sharp and fractured, casting long, distorted shadows that writhed like restless spirits on the moss-draped ground.

But below, the clouds were boiling masses of charcoal and deep indigo, their undersides rimmed with a fierce, almost electric gold – the devil's own furnace, Mama would have hissed.

These weren't soft, pillowy formations; they were jagged and turbulent, like the tormented souls Silas Crowder swore he saw clawing their way out of the earth after the great flood.

You needed to get to town, past the whispering pines that seemed to watch you, and quickly. Smoke & Stack, their eyes already glinting like hungry possums in the twilight, were tethered to your return, knowing a light-skinned girl like you could grease the wheels of a deal they couldn't manage on their own.

Fool's errand, venturing out before the moon bled its sickly light across the marshy flats, but the juke joint's resurrection loomed, and the strain had those boys knotted tighter than a hangman's noose – a familiar dance with the demons of their own making, a twisted echo of your daddy's losing battle with the bottle.

Annie's pronouncements, heavy with the swamp's ancient wisdom, clung to you like grave dust. "It’s the ole serpent’s harvest rotting on good soil…" A shiver traced the length of your spine; that kind of talk burrowed deep, hinting at a darkness that clung to the very land. But Annie... She was rooted here, her soul intertwined with the rustling secrets of the pines and the sorrowful sigh of the willows.

If she saw the serpent's mark on Smoke & Stack's trembling hands, then that was her truth, a truth etched in generations of backwoods lore. And you, a fragile bloom in this thorny landscape, wouldn't dare cross the only kin who even acknowledged you, wouldn't risk severing the tenuous thread that bound you to this harsh, unforgiving world.

Adjusting the straps on your satchel, you rounded a bend in the road, when the low rumble of a car approached. Little whirlwinds of baked clay and grit, like the land itself was sighing with unease, twisted across the asphalt as two trucks, rough and menacing, crawled into view, filled with men in white hoods.

Your heart hammered a frantic rhythm against your ribs, a trapped bird desperate for flight, as you sank low into the sawgrass, praying its brittle blades offered enough sanctuary. The trucks crawled past, iron beasts exhaling fumes and ill-will, as the men within their white shrouds turned their faces, their gazes like chips of ice laced with venom. A guttural cry, foul and demeaning, ripped through the stagnant air, leaving you to wonder if those words of poison were meant for you alone or if it was simply the bile these creatures carried within them.

Then, a shadow detached itself from the deeper shadows of the woods. It was as if he materialized in the center of the road, a stark and unexpected sentinel. The trucks, lumbering behemoths brought to a sudden halt, their white-clad occupants momentarily stunned by his abrupt appearance.

“Move along,” Remmick’s voice, a low drawl that belied the steel beneath, sliced through the suffocating tension. “You’re fouling the quiet of this stretch.”

"This ain't your concern, night rider," one of the shrouded figures spat, the word "night rider" laced with a venom that clung to the humid air.

Before the ugliness could bloom further, the sky, moments before a deceptive expanse of pale evening, tore open. Not a gentle rain, but a furious deluge, as if the heavens themselves had finally wept for the sins below. The dust of the road turned to a thick, sucking mud in the blink of an eye, each drop a violent lash against the parched earth.

The trucks, those iron steeds of hate, choked and sputtered in the sudden downpour, their engines wheezing like dying beasts. A chorus of curses, muffled by the sodden white hoods now plastered to their wearers' faces like grotesque shrouds, rose in the storm's fury.

Remmick turned his gaze to you, who stood drenched, the rain beading on your skin, transforming the careful lines of your straight hair into tight, dark curls that frame your face like a storm-wrought halo.

“Are you alright?” Remmick’s voice was surprisingly gentle amidst the downpour.

A tremor ran through you, not entirely from the damp, and you managed a nod. Your gaze lifted to his, and in the shadowed depths of his eyes, something flickered – a stillness, a regard that lingered on the sudden bloom of your dark curls, a silent acknowledgment of something revealed, something…unfurling.

A slow, knowing smile, filled with warmth in the storm's sudden chill, touched the corners of Remmick's lips. His eyes, usually guarded, held a flicker of something akin to shared amusement.

"This deluge," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that barely carried over the rain, "has taken a rather…unforeseen turn, wouldn't you say? Perhaps fate, in its soggy wisdom, suggests a more…private communion, somewhere dry?"

Before the unexpected lightness of his words could fully settle in your heart, a brutal cough of metal ripped through the downpour's symphony – another backfire, followed instantly by the vicious crack of a gunshot that sent a fresh wave of terror through you.

Instinct flared in Remmick's eyes, a raw protectiveness that tightened his jaw. Without a word, his hand, calloused but surprisingly tender, closed around yours. His grip was firm, a silent promise of safety as he urged you towards the dark sanctuary of the trees. They stumbled blindly through the grasping undergrowth, the rain a cold, relentless assault, your breaths catching in shared gasps of exertion and lingering fear.

Finally, deep within the ancient woods, the torrential downpour eased to a heavy sigh. You leaned against the rough embrace of an oak, your body trembling, your lungs burning with each ragged breath. The rain had plastered your hair to your scalp, a dark, clinging veil that starkly revealed the delicate curve of your trembling lips and the intricate beauty of your now-soaked curls, a vulnerability laid bare by the storm's harsh hand.

Remmick watched you, his gaze no longer guarded but filled with a quiet intensity. His eyes traced the delicate lines of your face, each feature softened and made luminous by the rain. It was more than observation; it was a silent acknowledgment of your resilience, the unexpected beauty revealed in this shared moment of fear and raw exposure, a connection forged in the heart of the storm.

"Remarkable," he breathed, the word a near-silent reverence lost in the rain's steady rhythm. His gaze, still softened from its earlier intensity, lingered on the way the water clung to your dark curls, each coil a testament to a beauty the storm had unveiled. A beat passed, and he almost didn't dare break the quiet intimacy. "The change… it's quite striking," he finally whispered, as if speaking a secret to the rain-soaked air. He cleared his throat, a touch of awkwardness coloring his tone. "The name's Remmick."

"Thank you, Remmick," you replied, his name feeling substantial and unfamiliar yet pleasant on your tongue.

A hesitant curiosity flickered in his eyes. "So… what brings a girl….like you out to this stretch of road?"

"A girl like me?" A wry smile touched your lips, a hint of the defensiveness you'd learned to carry always near the surface.

"Uh–no, not like that," he stammered, a flush creeping up his neck. "I just meant… someone… out here."

A soft giggle escaped you, a nervous lightness in the tense aftermath. "I know what you meant." You offered a small, self-deprecating shrug. "Helping a friend. Getting the new juke joint ready."

Remmick's interest seemed to ignite, his questions tumbling out in quick succession, his earlier reserve melting away. "It opens soon? What sort of music will fill its walls? Will it be a place… a gathering for the community here? And you… what part do you play in all of this? You seem… different." His gaze flickered back to your hair, a genuine, almost tender smile gracing his lips this time, a silent acknowledgment of the beauty he'd witnessed in the storm's unveiling.

Despite the lingering tremor of fear and the clammy discomfort of your soaked clothes, you found yourself drawn into the orbit of Remmick's intense scrutiny. His curiosity wasn't casual; it felt like a probing touch.

"Next week," you replied, your voice a little breathy. "Mostly blues. Somewhere folks can let loose the day's burdens. I…" you hesitated, a flicker of your usual guardedness returning, "I'm just a friend lending a hand."

Remmick's eyes, dark and unwavering, held yours with an unnerving focus, as if trying to decipher a hidden language etched on your skin. "A friend," he repeated, the word lingering in the damp air. "With such… singular features. You possess a… certain… dissonance with the expected fabric of this place, wouldn't you agree?"

A subtle stiffness entered your posture, a familiar prickle of defensiveness rising like hackles. "I belong wherever I damn well choose to belong."

A shadow of apology softened the sharp edges of Remmick's gaze. "Forgive my bluntness. My curiosity often outstrips my social graces. It's merely… you possess an… intriguing dichotomy." His gaze drifted downwards, a slow, almost possessive slide along your neck, a subtle pulse in his own throat betraying a deeper fascination.

"Those… men in the trucks," he continued, his voice dropping to a low murmur, the earlier levity vanished. "They exuded a… particular brand of ugliness. You were fortunate my path intersected with yours."

A genuine shiver traced your spine, a coldness that went beyond the rain's chill, a visceral echo of the hatred you had witnessed. "I… thank you again," you managed, your voice barely a whisper. "You stepped in when you had no reason to."

His gaze met yours once more, the intensity now laced with something heavier, a nascent possessiveness that sent a strange flutter through your chest. "Consider it… a strategic investment. In the future vibrancy of this establishment… and its… unique inhabitants. Perhaps," a slow, deliberate smile touched his lips, a mirror of the one before but now carrying a different weight, "in return for my timely… assistance, you might find yourself indebted to me for a small favor? Something well within your… capabilities, of course."

A peculiar sensation washed over you– a disquieting blend of unease and a surprising, almost illicit spark of something akin to… anticipation. The unwavering intensity of his gaze, the pointed nature of his questions, the subtle claim in his words… it was unsettling, a tremor of danger beneath a veneer of politeness, yet it held an undeniable, magnetic pull that you liked.

“What kind of favor?”

Remmick's smile broadened, revealing a flash of teeth that held both a disarming charm and an undercurrent of something sharp, something predatory. "Patience, little bird. Opportunities, like shadows in the moonlight, have a way of revealing themselves in due time. But until then…" Remmick's gaze lingered on you, a protective instinct softening the sharp edges of his features. "The rain's easing, but the night's still young, and those… individuals might still be lurking. Perhaps… as a temporary measure of repayment for my unsolicited heroism, I could ensure your safe passage home? A small stroll, under a less… hostile sky."

A small, polite smile, a brief flicker of warmth in a cooling world, touched your lips. Even without Annie's watchful gaze, her shop stood as a silent sentinel, imbued with the protective essence of her craft – a whispered promise of sanctuary in this shadowed land.

"I would be grateful for that," you finally murmured. He offered his elbow, a stark white against the deepening gloom, and you accepted, your hand finding a hesitant purchase. He moved with a careful grace, navigating the mud-slicked path like a shadow avoiding consecrated ground, until your feet found the familiar, rutted dirt that had been your lonely guide before.

Remmick steered you with a silent grace, his presence a dark shadow against the fading light. The air hung heavy, thick with the musk of damp earth and something else, something ancient that seemed to emanate from the very soil. He stopped at the edge of Annie's porch, the scent of dried herbs and something vaguely metallic clinging to the air around the shop. A subtle unease tightened the lines around his mouth.

"This dwelling…" His gaze, sharp as a hawk's, scanned the hand-painted sigils above the door, symbols that seemed to writhe in the dim light. "It hums with a… peculiar energy. You wouldn't happen to traffic in the shadowed arts yourself, would you, child?" His eyes, pools of fathomless night, held a hunger for something beyond the mundane.

You shook your head, a wry twist to your lips. "Not I. But a dear friend… she's got her fingers deep in that spiritual muck. Annie's shop is her refuge, same as it is mine."

A long silence stretched between them, broken only by the drip of water from the eaves. "And you? You linger in a place steeped in such… fancies. Yet you remain untouched by belief?"

Your gaze drifted to the lamplit windows, a flicker of something akin to weariness in your eyes. "I reckon there's things out there we ain't meant to understand. Maybe the spooks and spirits are real enough. But maybe they're just as lost and lonesome as the rest of us, searchin' for a patch of ground that feels like home."

A slow smile, like moonlight on a tombstone, touched Remmick's lips. He lifted her hand, his skin cool as river stone, but instead of a simple farewell, he drew you a step closer. His other hand, swift and deliberate, cupped the underside of your chin, tilting your face up towards his. For a heartbeat, his gaze dropped to your lips, a silent question hanging in the damp air. Then, a slow, knowing wink flickered in his dark eyes before he released you. "I find myself… unexpectedly… invested in your safe return to this haven, little wren. Until the shadows beckon us together again."

The feeling of his warmth leaving you there, made you feel naked. Then with a final, lingering gaze that seemed to promise more than his words conveyed, he dissolved into the deepening gloom, leaving you on Annie's porch, the scent of protective charms and the unsettling warmth of a vampire's near-kiss clinging to the damp night air. NEXT CHAPTER >

#remmick #remmick x reader #remmick x you #remmick x y/n #sinners movie #sinners 2025 #smut #cw blood #vampire #shameless smut #cornbread #smoke and stack #x reader

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bokonowriter · 4 years ago

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𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐧 𝐅𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐬

Pairings: Dark!Lee Bodecker x You; Dark!Lee Bodecker x reader

Summary: Meade, Ohio wasn’t the ideal place of living. However, a turn of events force you to live in this lousy little town. In the eyes of the country folk you’re nothing but a no good city slicker, but that’s about to change when Sheriff Bodecker steps into your life.

Warnings: Explicit sexual content--oral (male receiving), crooked cops, corruption, age gap, explicit language, mentions of alcohol, infidelity,

Word Count: 3.6k

A/N: As mentioned in my AO3, this is my first drabble. Depending on my mood and the response I receive from this, I may or may not turn this into a mini series. Also thank you @fluffyhoshix for reading this over.

Anyhow please enjoy and leave a comment or heart if you would like :)

Here he goes again.

You stared at the diner door as the man in a leather jacket walked in, 11 at night right on the dot, just as he had every time they showed up. You had only been working at the White Cow Diner for about two months and already you had managed to pick out the regulars. Especially the ones who came to meet your boss at the diner during strange hours of the night.

The diner typically closed around 11 but that middle aged man never failed to show his face at the diner at the exact same time for the exact same reason.

Money.

Your boss, one unpleasant man who constantly flaunted his “wealth” with his little boho ties and slicked back curly hair, was known for owning other businesses on the block. It’s a booze and whores establishment, stationed a ways down the road.

You weren’t sure exactly where, seeing that you are always busy in this dusty old place. A countryside diner which caters to hags and rednecks of all sorts.

In your opinion neither of them were worth the cut. While the diner is a more respectable position you hate Tator with every fiber of your being. You didn’t like the way he and his errand boy BoBo reeked of booze, or how they flaunted their mounds of cash at the tables like it was nothing.

Your father had always told you that men who flaunted their “wealth” are the kind you stay far away from. And being the business man he was, you knew your father was right. He almost always was right when it came to picking apart men, but he sure as hell didn’t know how to pick his women. That’s how you ended in this piece of shit town in the first place!

And you hated it. The way the little paper-mill town constantly reeked of rotten eggs and how the locals bragged as though it’s the smell of money.

They spoke funny with their little southern accents and drank so much it was hard to make any sense of their sentences. You weren’t sure if you would ever get used to it. In fact, you didn’t want to. You wanted to leave; to go home where you could get back to partying shamelessly, go shopping at the malls with your friends, do what you want—when you want.

You wanted your freedom back, but you would never get it. No thanks to that airheaded man you called a father.

It was only when you began complaining about how much money he was spending on his new girlfriend that he decided you had become “too bratty for your own good”. In which he decided to kick you back to your mother’s, which meant moving to the butt fuck of knowhere Ohio.

No more modeling. No more boys. No more malls or shopping. You were stranded—forced to take a position under Tater and his idiot eren boy BoBo.

Your past in modeling is what caught Taters eye. He knew with a goddess body like yours he’d have more men coming in everyday. If he could, he would have stripped you down to nothing. The diner uniforms were nothing special, but even then your curves managed to entice the eyes of all of those who looked by. You were his key to success.

While it was an opportunity that paid decently well it didn’t liven your day, the constant harassment wearing you done more every day.

“Can I get you anything, Sheriff?” You ask, handing the man a cup of ice cold water.

You tried keeping your voice as sweet as possible when it came to him. It wasn’t that you were one for kissing ass, but the Sheriff was one of the only men who didn’t take you for advantage. You often talked with him when you could, enjoying his presence on your breaks.

“Coffee. Ain’t saying long.” You hum your acknowledgment, wiping the wetness of your fingertips off on your sticky apron. As you turn on your heels to fetch the man what he ordered, Tater snatches up your wrist in his sweaty hands.

“Hey miss city slicker,” he winks. “You think you can get me another cup of beer.” Your eyes roll so hard to the back of your head when he speaks that you swear you’ve seen your brain.

Miss city slicker, god you hate name.

As far as you were concerned, being a city slicker didn’t seem so bad. It was the way they said it that pissed you off. Like you were supposed to be one of Tator’s little whores, and that you weren’t.

Just because you posed before a camera in the past didn’t give any man the permission to treat you like a piece of cake.

“Anything else you want? Tater.” His name falls from your lips as a hiss, venom lacing your tongue, and oh how he loved it. You yank your wrist away from his skin bruising grip, only to be met by that devious smirk.

“You got a foul mouth on you little girl,” Tater warns. “But you know how much I like that.”

“I wonder what else that mouth can do?” BoBo mumbles under his breath, sending the two men into a fit of laughter.

No matter how angry you got with them they always managed to twist it around. They refused to fire you because to them you were a show. You weren’t afraid like the rest of the women in town. In fact you hoped he would fire you. That way you could make an excuse to your mother, but as far as Tater was concerned that wasn’t going to be happening any time soon.

“Alright, leave the girl alone would ya?” Lee felt the air overturn into something sour, the tension so thick it was merely palpable.

To Tater, you were another piece of his property. Any man set on telling him how he should treat his girls would be quick to lose their tongues. Lee knew this, but he couldn’t help it. You didn’t let him get beneath your skin. He admired that, and as the sheriff of this town he promised himself he would protect you.

Before another word can be uttered you make your way back to the kitchen. Your hands shake with fury as you reach for the glass mugs that sit the slightest bit out of your reach in the cabinet just above your head. Sweeping your fingers back and forth you attempt to push the mug towards you, failing miserably with the slightest push that sends the glass shattering over the floor.

“Shit!” You mumble to yourself as the glass comes shattering all over the floor. “Sorry!”

More than likely this would be coming out of your paycheck—as if that wasn’t already low enough. Nonetheless you bend down to the ground to pick up the shards, accidentally pricking yourself in the process. Red is quick to flow from your wound and onto the floors, forcing you to snatch up a towel and hold it to your hand.

“For heaven's sake girl! What are you doing?!” Marge, your coworker who’s been gone on a seemingly long smoke break, questions as she tumbled through the back door.

“I was trynna get that man some coffee but these stupid mugs are way to high for me to reach.”

“And you didn’t think to ask ‘nobody for help?”

“Not really,” you shrug, not wanting to argue with her.

“Go home, you've been here too long today,” she sighs, alluding to the double shift you managed to bargain for. She was right. You were tired and cranky, a mix ready to create a disaster—like it just did.

Stripping off your apron you make your way out the back door to begin your long walk home. Not that you even wanted to go back there in the first place, but the town wasn’t safe enough for walks late at night. Or at least that’s what it seemed like.

“You alright?” A familiar voice asks, causing you to whip your head to the side.

“Yeah I’m fine, Sheriff. It’s only a little cut,” you lie. It was more than just a little cut. Despite all the pressure you had put on it, it still hasn’t stopped bleeding. But that didn’t worry you. It would only be a matter of time before you fixed it with some bandages at home.

You just prayed in your head that your mother wouldn’t notice the missing materials and haggle you about it later. “Also, sorry about the coffee.”

“I ain’t worried ‘bout no coffee. Just lemme see that hand of yours.” There was genuine concern laced into his voice.

You walk a little closer so that you both share the same light beneath the post. Extending your arm out you allow him to take it up in yours. It feels strange. All those little chats had made the two of you good acquaintances. Now you’re standing so close to him you can smell the whiskey on his breath.

His fingers are gentle as they brush against your skin, but the moment they gloss over the spot Tater grabbed you, you can’t help but wince. The skin was already beginning to form a dark mark against your tan colored skin. Now your mother would really begin to suspect you as being one of Tater’s whores.

“Does he do that to you often?” He finally asks. To which you respond with a hum. “I've told you once and I’ll tell you again. Y’know working for him ain’t gonna do you any good?”

“Then why do you?”

“I don’t really.” He turns his head slightly to face the two Brothelmen who’re still scoffing down whatever they have on their plates.

“My daddy was a lawyer. I can smell crooked from a mile away.”

“Can you now?”

“Mhm, but you’re different. You’re in the dirt, but not all the way. I don’t get it.”

“I have a campaign to run, doll. You know that.”

“I know, but…” The words commit suicide in your throat as you try to make sense of the situation. Up until this point you believed crooked people were simply that. Crooked.

They wanted in for the money and would do anything to protect themselves. All from the conversations you drew to the conclusion that Lee wanted the town right. He knew he would have to go through hell to get it there.

His campaign would suffer, and the rumors of a little town traveled faster than the speed of light. His work is eccentric to say the least.

“I want to protect my people. Just like I want to protect you.”

“Lee—”

“Nu-uh, lemme drive you home, doll. I have a first aid kit in my car you can use while I explain something to you.” He mumbles in a low voice, as though he were trying to keep them from hearing the conversation.

Although you were way out of reach you both knew you couldn’t have that conversation anywhere near this place. If someone heard—if Tater saw—you would both be digging your own graves.

And while you knew better than to get in a stranger’s car, you trusted the sheriff more than anyone else. That and the way he called you doll rather than City slicker—like the rest of this town does—really struck something in you.

Which probably had something to do with you being a little touch starved since you arrived. None of the men here looked anything as decent as the one before you. And since your boyfriend back at home never bothered to check on you since you moved you thought yourself to be a free woman. So with all that in mind you let him take you to his car—which just so happens to be the one labeled “Sheriff”.

“Those men are bad men, doll. They’re ruining my town and my campaign. I wanna take them down in due time. Till then I’d advise you to work elsewhere.” He notes, keeping his one hand on the wheel as the other unlocks the glove compartment. As he pulls up to a red light, he takes out some bandages and treats your wound with his gentle thick fingers.

You snort to myself softly at his words. It’s not like you hadn’t tried to find better work around here, but the truth is this place just isn’t fit for your kind of skills.

You were a city girl filled to the brim with knowledge of business. Your father, after all, spent all his hours doing business when he wasn’t consumed by his gold digger of a girlfriend. So you managed to learn a lot by just observing, only to leave them in the dust when you were forced to move here.

“You don’t think I tried to find other places?” You ask sarcastically.

“Well I know for damn sure you didn’t try with the Sheriff's department.”

“All these weeks and you never mentioned an open position, Sheriff.”

“Lee,” he corrected you. “But I've been thinking of something more special for a girl like you. It’s a waste to have them behind that desk. How about you work as my campaigner? I’m sure the city taught you a thing or two about that.” He smirks, twisted thoughts ruining his mind when he thinks of you on your knees calling him boss or better yet sir.

“Are you being serious right now?” You ask with a tingle of excitement.

“As serious as a heart attack. Besides, I can keep a better eye on you.”

“You make it sound like I’m some kind of trouble maker mister,” you frown. After placing the kit back into the glove compartment you place your elbows on the armrest, fixing your gaze on the sheriff.

“Well,” he starts with a smile, his tongue running along the bottom of his teeth. You would be lying to yourself if you didn’t think it was hot the way he stared you down while driving perfectly. “Young pretty girls like you always are.”

“S-So you think I’m pretty,” you muse, pushing away the small strands of your hair that had fallen over your eyes.

“It’s extremely hard not to when you’re looking at me like that.” The tips of your ears flush with heat, and knots tie into your stomach.

You craved raw excitement and lord knows the fastest way to that was a man’s touch. You’d be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t want to take him right here right now in the car.

Forget being crass, three weeks trying to be nice to unfamiliar people and having no friends around had already worn you thin. You couldn’t even get a man in your house if you wanted to—not with your mother there.

“I’m not usually this forward, it's just…you’re the first man that’s been nice to me since I’ve arrived.”

“Well you want it sweet heart you got it,” he mumbles, trying to undo the buckle on his pants.

You swat his fingers away to undo the buckle yourself as you busy his lips with yours. Once you’ve successfully unzipped his pants you brush your fingers over his hard erection, causing him to pull away and gasp sharply. A dark lustful look pooled into his blue eyes, your hands gripping onto the fabric of his work shirt while your other pulled out a throbbing cock.

“Eyes on the road,” You remind him as you lick his enlarged red tip. “So big.” You surveyed the sight, licking your bottom lip as though he had taken you out to a candy shop. “Bigger than the man that I call my boyfriend…”

That observation made Lee feel proud, knowing that he was packing and giving you more than the man that you were supposed to be with. Despite barey knowing you, it irritated him to know that whatever his name was had you swept up in his arms. Every girl he had ever laid eyes on always belonged to another or Tater, but not you—if he could help it.

Nonetheless, he wasn’t going to complain. Not when your little hands were wrapped around the base of his rock hard cock, your head ducking up and down. Instinctively you found yourself trying to cram as much of him as you could into your mouth, making your throat tense up with a gargle. Tears fled your eyes and you pulled away momentarily to catch your breath.

It wasn’t your first time giving head, yet you gagged on him like a virgin, drool pouring from your lips and all. He truly is a lot bigger than Weston. While you felt embarrassed it only furthered Lee’s excitement. Your gag and messy face was music to his ears and eyes.

“It’s okay baby girl.” His fingers found themselves being entangled into your thick curly hair. Meanwhile you retry to assert yourself, suckling on his first half, which is covered in his salty but sweet tasting precum. Wanting to savor the flavor you begin running your tongue over each of his veins, as though you were trying to tickle them. “Deeper,” he moaned, his fingers clenching harder.

Not wanting to disobey the sheriff, you obey his command. Sucking in a deep breath through your nose you went down on him again. This time placing your hands on his thighs to stabilize yourself better. His head sinks back in defeat, letting out a string of curses about needing to pull over because he can’t drive anymore.

If he was being honest, you were much better than any prostitute he had paid for. While they had lots of practice they seemed to lack something that you had.

You looked up at the mess of a man through your lashes, making sure he could see how much you enjoyed his body. Your head moving even faster, savoring the flavor and weight of Lee on your tongue.

“Fuck! That’s it! Take it, baby. Just like that.” Lee cursed at the sudden pleasure, closing his eyes and slipping his hands further through her hair, holding the back of her head tightly by it. Suddenly you begin to feel the twitch of his cock in your mouth, signifying he’s about to cum, but you continued to mouth fuck him through his orgasm.

As he fills your mouth he moans your name, giving one last buck of his hips into your sloppy mouth before filling you up. For a moment he sits there, dazed. It’s like he can see stars flying around his head, and when his gaze falls upon all he sees is a great white halo surrounding that head of yours. With the tips of his fingers on the base of your chin he pulls your eyes up to his.

“You better swallow that babygirl,” he warns, noticing the globs of fluids dripping onto the front of your dress.

“Or what?”

“I’ll have to punish you for dirtying up this car. Do you know what people would do if they found out what we’re doing? We have a reputation to uphold now, remember?” You roll your eyes and follow his orders, fully swallowing all that he gave you.

“So are you gonna take me now or what?” You ask, leaning back into your seat. As much as you wanted him to fuck you raw in the back seat of his car you needed to have some form of control. Besides if you did you in now there’d be no reason for him to come back later, and that's what you wanted more than anything.

“Fine,” he sighs, giving in. Unbeknowingly he wants the same thing as you do, but he'd rather not push himself onto you. He’s wait to fuck you later, and he would make sure to double the fun since he didn’t get his chance to touch you. Just the thought of his hands gracing over your clit and bringing you mounds of pleasure made his hands shake with excitement. So much so that he fails to zip up his pants. Feeling bad for the poor soul you take the liberty of doing it for him, giving him a malicious smirk as you do.

He loves that look on your eyes. Wanting to preserve you he pulls your head into his chubby belly and strokes your hair as he drives you home. Given that your mother has lived here her whole life the whole town knew who I belonged to.

“Thank you again,” you said as the sheriff pulled his way into your mother’s driveway.

“Oh, don’t mention it, hun,” he hums to you as you make your way out of the car, “It’s my job to make sure you get home safe.”

Before you’re able to head for the door he calls you back over to him. Then, with the flick of his thumb over the fabrics of your dress, he wipes off the extra evidence. Like a child you cling onto his finger, placing it in your mouth to lick it clean. When he pulls himself back he stares you up and down.

“I’ll be here at 8 AM sharp to pick you up. So you better not be late for your first day of work you hear me?” You know he means this in all seriousness, but a part of you can help but take it as a threat. Oh, how you would love to see what kind of man Bodecker would be when he’s angry. But you don’t plan on pushing his button so early on.

“Whatever big boss.” And with that you make your way into the house.

#oral #devil all the time #the devil all the time #lee bodecker #lee bodecker x you #lee bodecker x female reader #dark!lee bodecker #corruption #smut #sebastian stan

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