boywivloveficrecs

[boywivloveficrecs]

Ich bin ein Jäger

Pairing(s): Remmick (Sinners) x Fem! Augustine Vampire! WOC! Reader

Crossover: TDV→Sinners (Reader has no prior knowledge of anything in the TDV universe. Just someone who is an Augustine Vampire.)

cw: graphic scenes (violence) Age gap (Idk who would be older), Stockholm syndrome???

Rating: 18+

Add-ons: AFAB reader, no use of Y/N, one-sided pinning?

(Not Proofread)

WC: 10.4K

It’s a small town. To be expected is all the eyes on him as he enters a church. A white man (Not that the ‘real’ white people agree that he is a white man, but that’s neither here nor there.) in church, the pressure felt like he’s not supposed to be here. But all people will be his people. So, for now, Remmick ignores it.. 

This is a church and all are welcomed, that is what is preached. Especially on this night. 

Christmas. 

Only time he gets to enter a church without burning alive. Only time he gets to hear the words that remind him of home. (Even if they’re not in that exact order.) 

Remmick is looking at the pastor. He knows this pastor. A good man, with a good wife and their precious little daughter who doesn’t seem to like this church very much. His eyes shift to you. Your leg is bouncing. It bounces through the entire sermon. Your eyes never left the cross. Not even as the church ended. (Though the longer Remmick looks at the cross, the stranger it looks. Its end is jagged and splintered.) 

A man approaches Remmick. Remmick gives a smile. The smile returned. After all he did save the man, and he was invited to this gathering. Then comes the pastor. Again Remmick smiles. He greets the pastor. A good frim shake, then a softer grip on his wife. Then comes you. Pretty little smile on your face.

Maybe you’re just being polite. It’s expected of you, after all. Expected of your people. Because if you dare to push back when someone steps on your neck—They’ll only press harder and eventually they’ll break it. (What does the death of a woman of color mean to the white man?) And just looking at your neck, well, it don’t look like it’ll take much to break. 

“Hi.” You extend your hand to him and he gladly takes it. You’re warm, like all people are.

“Hello.” He returns your greeting and almost as a reward, you give him your name. In thanks, he gives you his. It isn’t long before he’s ushered away from you and instead taken to others as they offer to share their food with him. Food that they have labored to get. Worked for days in the sun (What he wouldn’t give to feel the sun again and it not burn him as if he ain’t trying to alleviate the burden his people faced—the burden your people now face.) to get this meal on the table. 

He sits at a table between two men. Remmick knows he looks out of place, but what does it matter? 

Before anything Remmick smells the food.

Can’t have no garlic. 

He takes a bite. Don’t taste like anything. Not to him, but when he looks up as he’s chewing he sees you eating with a smile on your face enjoying the food.

Everyone is smiling. Laughing. Sharing stories and food like it’s enough to keep the world from collapsing. (But it’s not. But what he can deliver is enough.)

Remmick knows it’s not enough to simply have this. He knows it’s not. Just like he knows your daddy is struggling to pay the bills. Just like he knows your mother is struggling to keep her store afloat. Just like he knows the man next to him is struggling to meet his quota. Just like he knows the woman across from him is crying herself to sleep every night because her husband is out fucking whores and the man fucking the whores? Well, Remmick knows he does it because he can’t stand his own life.

It’s no way to live.

And you? Well he knows you too. He knows you hate going to church. He knows you hate humid heat. Knows you know about your family’s troubles — and he knows you’re going to try and fix them.

Though how? Remmick has yet to find out. Maybe you’ll pawn that ring of yours on your hand. Pretty little thing. Jewel catches every bit of light in the room. Looks expensive. Too expensive. Where’d you get a ring like that, anyway?

He doesn’t know. Not yet.

You’re talking to a man next to you, but your eyes keep finding him. That little game he likes to play sometimes. See who'll look the longest. Remmick always tends to win that game. And he does with you. Over and over again until the night starts to thin. It’ll be morning soon. He’ll have to head to his house soon. (Not home. Home is across the sea. Home is long gone.) A temporary place. 

A few people pass Remmick on the way out. Some nod. Some just look.

No one says his name.

And then he sees you again.

You’re standing by the window now, arms crossed, eyes still on that damn cross up front — even from here. Your ring taps the side of your elbow, soft and steady. Like a clock.

He stands.

Walks slow.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just stands beside you and looks out the same window.

“Did ya’ like it?” He heard you mumble beside him. He turned to you and you had a small soft smile on your face. 

“I did.” You smiled again looking up to the cross once more. The light caught your ring. 

“I’m glad. Everyone should have the chance to enjoy the lord on this day.” That confused Remmick. “No matter who we are. Don’t you think so?” You were now smiling at him again. The confusion sat with him. You didn’t like church.

“I do.” It was all he could say before you walked off.

“Well then, have a blessed night.” You left with your parents before he could say anything more.

…

The next time Remmick sees you, it’s through a window. You’re there, talking to the man from Christmas eve. The sunlight makes your skin shine. You shine almost as much as the ring on your finger. 

Then you motion to his house. Remmick’s ears perk.

“I heard the white boy is living over there.” You whispered to the man next to you. The man only scoffed.

“Reckon all them white folk gon start comin’ here?” Remmick kept his eyes on you. You simply looked away from his house and faced the sun letting it warm your skin, or so he can imagine. He hasn’t felt the sun in centuries. Not without it blistering him raw anyways.

“God’s plan I sus’pose.” Maybe Remmick didn’t know you. Least, not as well as he thought.

“The devil and the white man.” Remmick could only smile at the man’s words. “You afraid of the white man? The devil?”

You left Remmick’s sight, though he could hear you clear as day. “I don’t fear the devil.”

“You a God-fearin’ woman, then?” The man asked. As you both walked further and further, Remmick strained to hear your answer. Though in the end, he was left to speculate cause Remmick never heard your answer. He wonders what you’d do if you ever saw the devil. Many say they don’t fear the devil. Well…the devil's never come for them. But Remmick knows the devil. It came for him and his people, and now, they’re after yours. The devil that wears a pointy white hat preaching that all men are equal, but some are more equal than others.

Well since he never heard you answer, it'd be best if he went to find out himself. 

And so he does. It’s night when he walks. And you — you live deep on the southside, damn near the bayous. The kind of place where the roads narrow to dirt and gravel, and the streetlights don’t bother shining. The air is thick out here. Heavy with swamp heat and cicada buzz. Spanish moss hangs like old ghosts from the trees, and something unseen slinks through the reeds just off the road.

Strange for a pastor to be so far from his flock.

Remmick steps up the creaking porch steps. Peeling paint, warped boards. A porch swing sways slow, like someone just left it. He raises his fist and knocks. Once. Twice. Three times — a pattern made for stories that never end well.

(But not his story. For what he brings is salvation)

Again, his ears listen. He hears your voice from inside. Tired, but clear. “I got it, Daddy.” How trusting.

The door opens with a soft scrape of wood on wood.

You’re there, framed by the crooked doorway and warm house light spilling out behind you. A yellowed hallway. Faint smell of oil and iron and old Bible paper. And you — in a robe, hair tied, lips bare.

“Hello,” you say.

Remmick’s eyes go straight to your hand. That ring again. Big and bright, even under moonlight.

“What are you doing out here? This late at night?” Your tone is different. None of that sweet Sunday warmth. No church politeness. No false softness. You’re not smiling either.

Yes. Maybe Remmick didn’t know you.

“Thought I’d come by and say hi,” he answers. “Ain’t seen you since Christmas.”

“That so?” Your brow lifts — and there’s something sharp in your voice now. Like a blade kept just under the tongue.

“It is so.” He waits. Wonders when you’ll let him in. Night hums around you both — crickets and frogs singing their ancient hymns.

You open the door a little wider and lean against the frame, arms crossed under your chest. An invitation, maybe. “Couldn’t’ve come to see me during church?” you ask.

Remmick tilts his head, lets that wolf’s smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “You were so nice the first time,” he says. “Figured — why wait?”

You smile back. He can’t figure out if it’s nice or not. “This late? Had my daddy opened the door, you'd have been shot, boy.” 

“Guess I should count myself lucky then,” Remmick says, still smiling, “that it was you who opened the door.”

You tilt your head at that. The porch light flickers once, as if considering going out. A moth bats against the glass like it’s trying to warn someone. You don’t move from the doorway.

“Guess you should,” you say, voice smooth as molasses but with something else underneath. “But I think your luck’ll run out sooner or later.”

You step just an inch closer—not enough to close the gap, not enough to invite, but enough to make him wonder what you’d do if he tried to cross the threshold.

“Now best run along,” you say, your voice quieter. “’Fore my father finds out there’s a white boy on our porch.”

The word white hangs in the air between you, sticky and heavy. Out here, it don’t just mean skin—it means history. It means ghosts with badges and fire, it means burnt crosses and blood-soaked soil. Remmick knows what it means. He remembers.

He could linger. He could lean in and say something slick. But there’s something in your eyes that stops him. Not fear. Not even hate. Just knowing.

He takes a step back, slow. Tips an imaginary hat like he’s leaving a saloon. “Wouldn’t want to overstay my welcome.”

“You already did,” you reply, soft and if he’s not hallucinating, playfully. You shut the door before he can say another word.

Behind it, he hears the faint sound of your footsteps—bare feet on old floorboards. Then the click of a lock sliding into place.

Smart girl.

He stands there for a moment longer, staring at the door, then turns and walks back into the swamp-dark night. The heat wraps around him like a second skin. The moss above sways in the still air like something watching.

Remmick’s smile fades.

No, he didn’t know you. But now, he wants to.

And so he does.

The next time he sees you, he’s sitting under a magnolia tree, its wide, waxy leaves rustling just enough to remind the world that the air still moves. He’s fine-tuning his banjo, the old wood resting against his thigh like an old friend. It’s sunset—the sky bleeding gold and peach, the kind of light that makes everything look softer than it really is.

The sun isn’t touching him—not directly—but still, he feels the phantom burn along his skin. Like a memory that lives in the muscle. Like his body knows better than to trust the light.

He ain’t welcome here. Not really. Not by the living, and certainly not by the dead that linger in these woods, these fields, these old bones of a town.

And yet, here you come.

You’re walking slow, arms tucked behind your back like a schoolgirl with a secret. You don’t look right at him, but he knows better. You’re watching from the corner of your eye, just enough to let him know you see him—but not enough to let him see you.

He plucks at a string. Then another. Then another. A lazy little tune. Just testing the cords.

The sound hums low and warm, curling through the air like smoke from a porch cigar. Notes hang between you like fireflies blinking on for the night.

You still haven’t said a word. But you’re not walking away either. That’s something. He plays a little more.

“Can you sing?” Finally, you turn your head to him, but your body stays angled away—like even your shadow doesn't know what to make of him yet.

Remmick stands. His eyes flicker to the horizon where the sun is hanging by its last thread. The final golden gasp before night swallows it whole. Finally, those cruel rays are low enough he can risk a step. So he does.

Just a little one.

The moment his foot touches the edge of light, his skin hisses. A soft, mean sound like bacon grease popping in a cast iron pan. He flinches, but he walks. Toward you.

Can you hear it? Can you smell the faint scorch of flesh? He’s burning just walking to you.

“Just a little,” he says, and his voice is steady even if his body isn’t. “Can you?”

You turn your head away. “I never cared much for music,” you reply. “So no. I can’t sing.” It’s the kind of thing said to shut a conversation down. But you don’t leave. You don’t walk away.

Remmick catches that.

He nods, slow, and looks at the road behind you. The way the shadows are getting longer. The way the trees whisper louder as the night gets closer. “Let me walk you home,” he offers.

There’s nothing syrupy in his voice. No charm. No flirt. Just the plain weight of the offer.

He watched as your eyes trail his face. From his eyes down. You’re trying to hide it. After all, a girl like you with a man like him? Well, for others, it just wouldn’t do.

(Or maybe you were just looking at his skin. The skin that is currently healing from the burns you caused.)

“You get sunburned?” Your eyes are trained on his collar bones. “I don’t see you out in the sun much. Your kind ain’t meant for it.” 

He grins. The kind of grin that doesn’t show teeth. “You’re right. Sun don’t like my kind much. It’s dark now. I’ll take you home.” 

You shake your head, but the corner of your mouth lifts. “My daddy wouldn’t like it.”

“I reckon he wouldn’t.” You don’t say yes. But you start walking—and you don’t stop him when he falls into step beside you.

The night rises around you both, thick with crickets and the far-off hum of cicadas. And the burn of the sun is gone, Remmick doesn’t feel the burn.

Just the quiet.

And your footsteps, steady in the dark. Then he hears it. Faint screeching off in the distance—too sharp, too wet. The kind that clings to the bones. The vultures. Always nearby. Always waiting. He calls them his shadows, though they ain’t loyal. Just hungry. Well, it’s a bad night for them. He ain’t gonna kill you—least not yet.

(It’s too bad he never thought they were there for him. Though why would he ever think that?)

Not when he still ain’t gotten his answer.

The path ahead twists like a snake through the tall grass. Eerily silent, save for the screeching. No crickets. No wind. Even the trees seem to be holding their breath. He looks to his side—

You're gone.

Remmick stops cold. No one leaves him without him knowing. No one just slips away.

A hiss cracks the stillness from his right. He turns.

There’s a feeling, deep and primal, starting to claw at his insides.

Before thought can catch up, his left leg jolts back on instinct— Snap.

He looks down. A gator. Biggest one he’s ever seen. Thick-scaled, eyes yellow and slick like oil. The air reeks of rot and mud. It hisses again, low and mean.

Remmick backs up, slow, cautious. But the thing lurches forward, jaws snapping inches from his foot. Animals don’t attack him. They bark, they hiss, they flee—but they don’t dare come close.

Not ever.

Another snap. It lunges. Remmick stumbles, his boots losing grip on the moss-slick path. He goes down hard, the earth cold and wet against his back.

The gator charges.

Though just before Remmick could flash his teeth, there you were. Grabbed the gator by its tail. It hissed at you before turning around and running away. 

“You alright?” you ask, voice low. Where you came from, he didn’t know. How you got here without him hearing, he couldn’t say.

But your chest is rising fast, and your eyes are wide, shining in the dark. The moonlight catches on your ring again, that jewel blazing like a second eye. He nods slowly, still on the ground, mud soaking into his shirt. “Yeah. I’m alright.”

But what he doesn’t say is— He’s never seen anything like that before. Not from a person.

“I didn’t see it,” Remmick said quickly, getting to his feet. “Where’d you go?”

“Oh, I saw a flower just a few steps back,” you said casually looking down. “Guess you didn’t hear me stop.”

“I didn’t,” he admitted, scanning the path behind you.

“Look,” you said, lifting the bloom between two fingers. You held it up—a red hibiscus, full and blooming like it had something to prove.

“It is pretty,” Remmick said, glancing from the flower to you.

Your brows furrowed, and your eyes drifted to his hands. “Did you hurt yourself?” you asked, voice tinged with concern.

Remmick looked down. One hand had a gash in it, smeared with blood and dirt. “Guess I…” he started, then looked to his right—You weren’t there anymore.

“Did,” he muttered, blinking. Then he turned left—There you were. Smiling.

You’d just been on his right.

“Let me help you,” you said softly. Your eyes stayed lowered. In the dark, they looked almost black and he swears he hears your veins pumping blood faster than he’s ever heard. It almost sounds like porcelain cracking. 

“Did you always have that purse?” he asked, eyeing the little blue thing at your side.

“Yes,” you replied, almost laughing at him, the corners of your mouth twitching. “Here,” you said, stepping closer. You took his hand. You were warm. Still human-warm. But you smelled like fresh blood. Clean. Bright. Familiar in a way that made his fangs ache.

From your purse, you pulled cotton and gently dabbed at his wound. He’d have been healed by morning— But you’d never been this close before. And he’d never smelled anything like you.

Got him droolin’.

After you cleaned his wound, you moved with careful, deliberate ease—tucking the bloodied cotton back into your purse, the soft crunch of the material the only sound for a moment. Then came the bandages, pulled from some inner pocket like you’d done this before. You wrapped them around his hand, gentle but firm, your fingers warm against his skin.

Remmick licked the side of his mouth, wiping away what drool he could reach. “It’s a nice ring,” he said, voice low.

You pulled back slightly, your eyes flicking down. He watched you turn your hand, examining the jewel like you hadn’t noticed it before. “Yeah,” you said, tone light but layered, “an old friend was kind enough to give it to me.”

Your gaze met his, and for a split second, he could’ve sworn the whites of your eyes weren’t white at all—but tinged red, like veins swelling just beneath the surface.

“That, and she owed me a couple of favors,” you added with a smile, one that was more teeth than kindness.

Then your hand lifted—slow, soft, deliberate—and you wiped the edge of his mouth where he’d missed the drool. It was an intimate gesture. Too intimate.

Maybe if Remmick had been paying attention, he would’ve noticed the strange way your fingers lingered just a second too long. Maybe he would’ve caught the lack of sound you emmit. (Humans make all kinds of sounds.) Maybe he would’ve known that humans are supposed to be cold when they sweat, but you’re always warm, no matter how much your body sweats. (Though, has he ever seen you sweat?)  

But he wasn’t paying attention. He was watching your eyes, trying to remember what they looked like the first time he saw you. Now your pupils were dilated. Then they weren’t. Then they were again.

Over and over, your pupils changed sizes. A flickering pulse. Like they were breathing. Like something was watching him from inside you.

“Well,” you said, breaking the silence, “I’d offer to walk you home, but…” — you turned your gaze toward the glowing windows of your house — “I have a curfew. And technically, you just walked me.”

Remmick chuckled, licking his bottom lip again, eyes still trained on you. “I’d never ask a lady to walk me home.”

You stepped up onto your porch, your weight light against the old wood, but before opening the door, you turned back with that same strange smile. The kind that made his stomach feel like it was turning over slow in his gut.

“Well, goodnight, Remmick,” you said softly.

“Goodnight, m’lady,” he returned, tipping his head just slightly.

You paused, hand on the doorknob, then added, “Watch out for them gators on your way home. Good rule of thumb—watch for the vultures. If they’re around, chances are something aiming for you is too.”

Then the door closed, and Remmick was left alone on the porch. He knows the rules well. He’s the reason why the rule exists.

…

You’ve been walking around with someone new. Someone like you. Remmick doesn’t say anything. He just watches. 

You’re out every night. 

Fancy that. Preacher’s daughter out every night, and with someone you’re not supposed to be with. 

Remmick doesn’t know where this new feller is from, but he doesn’t have a beating heart. It’s only confirmed when the man is smiling at him through your window. Familiar red eyes and long fangs smiling at him. 

Remmick hasn’t gotten his answer from you yet. He don’t want you dead just yet. So up he goes on your porch steps giving three knocks, just like he did the first time. The man answers the door. He opens it halfway and leans on the frame, shaking his head slowly.

“If you know what’s best for you,” Remmick drawled, voice low and steady, “you’ll come outside.”

The man’s smile never touches his eyes. “No,” he murmured. “If I know what’s best for me, I’ll stay inside. Where you’re not allowed.”

Then, right before Remmick’s eyes, the red fades from the man’s irises, shifting—smooth and eerie—into a milky white. 

Like bone. Like rot.

The man’s name leaves your lips—soft, questioning—and soon enough, you’re standing at the door with one brow raised.

“Remmick?” you ask, glancing between him and the man beside you. The pale, unnatural glow of the other’s eyes fades, shifting back into something more human, though they still don’t quite belong to him. He looks at you, head slightly tilted, waiting.

“What are you doing here?” you ask again, voice quieter now, laced with something unreadable. Before Remmick can answer, the man steps beside you, all too eager, and starts to usher you back inside.

Remmick steps forward, his tone harder than usual. “I think you should let me in.” Normally, he’d take his time, work his way around the rules with a little charm—but that man behind you looks ready to take your head clean off your shoulders. Probably will, too.

“Look,” you say with a smile, one that doesn’t reach your eyes, “I know we’ve talked a few times, but that don’t mean we friends. You gon’ get me in trouble. Can’t be in this part of town, Remmick.”

As you speak, your smile fades, slowly, piece by piece. 

“Now you ain’t gotta—” the man beside you begins, voice low and agitated.

“Go inside,” you cut in, voice firm, but you never look at him. Remmick watches as the man lingers. From behind you, he catches the snarl stretching across the man’s face—fangs glinting in the dim porch light, a string of drool slipping from the corner of his mouth. The man holds Remmick’s gaze for a beat longer, flashing one last jagged smile.

Then he turns and slinks deeper into the house.

“Look, I know you don’t much like my kind—me being white and all—but I really do think you should—” Remmick started, his voice low, edged with urgency. He turned back to you, his smile gone. All that was left was a plain, pleading expression. A silent beg for you to let him in.

“What?” you snapped, cutting him off. Your brows drew together, your tone sharper now. “It’s not about you being—” You stopped yourself, jaw tightening. You exhaled through your nose. “Alright then. Fine.”

You glanced toward the tree line, then back at him. Your voice dropped, the edge still there, but now it was weighed with warning.

“You can’t be out here right now, Remmick. The Klan ain’t too far from us. These woods have eyes.” You crossed your arms tightly over your chest. “I was bein’ nice the first two times, but you really have to go.”

Remmick didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe.

Not for a long second.

“I’m not here to cause trouble,” he said, voice low. “But that man in your house? He’s not right—”

“I didn’t ask.” Then, slowly, without slamming it or snapping it shut, you closed the door in his face. The sound was quiet. Final. Remmick stood there a moment longer, staring at the wood grain, then turned and disappeared into the dark.

The vultures started circling again.

Turning on his heel, Remmick bolted toward the man you’d been speaking to that night—the first time he'd seen you together. It didn’t take much to con his way close enough. One slip of the mind, one slack moment in the neck, and Remmick had him.

He drained him fast, too fast. He didn’t have time to savor it or let the man ease into death. He needed him turned, and he needed it now.

He only hoped he wasn’t too late.

(A head was already hanging by a thread of skin.)

The man awoke with a gasp like he’d broken through the surface of a black river. Blood spilled from his mouth. His hands clawed at the air, confused and feral.

Remmick grabbed him, yanking him close, their foreheads pressing together. His voice was strained, shaking from urgency and the weight of too much stolen blood.

“Get in the house,” he ordered, “and kill the man in there.”

He let go, and the newborn vampire stumbled forward, but caught himself, his instincts kicking in quick. Off he went.

Remmick wasn’t far behind, keeping to the trees. His ears sharpened for signs of life, breath, movement—anything.

He heard you.

You were breathing hard. Annoyed. He could hear it in your exhale—like a tired sigh through clenched teeth.

Then came the knock. The turned man stood on your porch, calling your name in a voice full of false pain, begging for help.

Remmick watched from the treeline.

And maybe it was just the way the shadows moved—but your eyes looked darker now. Your cheeks, hollowed out. Something strange clung to the corners of your mouth.

Just before he could focus, really focus, you turned away. You opened the door. And let him in.

Not a second later, there was fighting.

Remmick strained his ears.

He could hear you. Yelling. Screaming. Pleading with someone—“Stop!”

Then a cry of pain.

But it wasn’t yours. And it wasn’t the vampire you’d let into your house.

It was his. The newborn.

Then your scream followed. Sharp. Guttural. Like you were being torn apart from the inside.

The back door of your house slammed open. A head rolled out.

Remmick’s breath caught as he saw his freshly turned vampire stumble after it, a stake driven clean through his heart. Behind him, you stepped outside—blood smeared across your arms, your dress, even your neck. From the treeline, Remmick could see your hands trembling.

You looked... lost.

Your eyes darted over the yard like they were searching for something, someone. Then, behind you, the vampire moved—clawed fingers outstretched, crawling toward you with his last breath.

“Move!” Remmick shouted, bolting from the trees. You didn’t. You stood frozen as the vampire’s claws sank into you. He heard the rip. The unmistakable sound of flesh tearing.

Remmick caught your wrist and yanked you away, pulling you both deep into the bayou. The vampire would die soon enough. That stake would see to it.

Branches cracked beneath your feet. Your breath came fast and ragged. You kept glancing behind you like you couldn’t believe what had just happened.

Finally, when you both stopped, panting under the thick night air, Remmick turned to you. “Your back,” he said, reaching for your shoulder. “Let me see—”

“No, no. I’m okay,” you said quickly, turning to him, your hands gripping your sides.

“Is it deep?” he asked, stepping closer, trying to look at your back.

You resisted. Surprisingly strong. Remmick narrowed his eyes and used just enough of his strength to turn you gently toward him. His brows furrowed.

Your back was clean—save for deep red marks down your spine. No torn skin. No visible cuts.

“See?” You smiled at him. Too easily. “It’s not my blood.” You turned away again, smiling wider. “Thank you, Remmick.”

But he had heard it.

He had heard the claws tear into flesh.

He’d heard it enough times over the centuries to know the sound. And what he’d heard back there…

That had been your skin.

But there was nothing on you. Nothing wrong with you.

Slowly, Remmick inhaled the air.

The blood—it smelled wrong. Stale. Old. Like dried rust left out in the sun. That scent clung to every vampire eventually, no matter how young or ancient. But on you, it didn’t make sense.

Because he couldn’t smell you. Not a hint of fresh blood. Not a whiff of that sweet, distinct heat that always made his teeth ache, that made the hunger curl hot behind his ribs.

You just smelled like something dead.

Old, rotten blood.

Remmick took a step back without realizing it. His eyes flicked over your face, down your arms, your legs. No cuts. No bruises. But his ears still rang with the sound of tearing flesh.

“You’re sure you’re alright?” he asked, voice low.

“Thanks to you, yeah, I’m alright, but…Remmick.” You looked to him. Looked to him with your doe eyes as if you suddenly realized his presence here didn’t make sense. Looked to him as if realizing someone just staked your friends. Looked to him as if you just saw a man be decapitated. “Oh god.” 

Remmick simply stayed silent.

“What am I gonna do? Two men just died inside my house.” That’s where your mind went? Not the fangs? Not the blood? Not Remmick, who shouldn’t’ve been there in the first place?

S’alright. He’d take it.

“The police—oh god, the police.” 

Slowly, Remmick reached out, patting your shoulder, shushing you gently as you stayed still. “Ain’t gotta worry about that. You can stay with me.” 

You turned to him, one brow raised. “Two white policemen start lookin’ f’me. Two dead men in my house, my parents gone—and they find me in your house?”

Again, Remmick gave a soft shush. His hands moved to your shoulders, steady.

“Ya ain’t gotta worry ’bout all that. I’ll take care of it.” He rubbed your shoulder. Flakes of dried blood crumbled off your skin.

“Remmick.” You looked at him again. Firmer, maybe. Or maybe just tired.

“Said I’ll take care of it.” His hands slid from your shoulders to your cheeks. “Now you head on home. Pack some things. We’ll go.”

He stroked your cheek once, then looked toward your house.

You nodded slowly, still held in his hands.

Slowly, the two of you walked back until the soft glow of your porch lights cut through the dark. Just before you reached the yard, Remmick gently pulled you back, using his hand to block your view.

“Don’t look,” he murmured, voice low, shielding your eyes from the porch—where a head still lay and a body slumped, stake in heart.

Then again he was on the porch of your home. You opened the door and entered. Remmick stayed put. Just as you were half way in, he saw you turn around.

“What’s wrong?” You asked him. Under the porch light, Remmick could finally see just how soaked you were. Blood covered the entire front of your dress, dyed deep crimson. The fabric clung to your body, barely hanging on.

“Nothin’ just waiting for you to invite me in.” Instead of the grin he might’ve flashed at you any other time, Remmick checked himself. This wasn’t the place for a smirk. Not tonight. So he gave you the gentlest smile he could manage—something sweet, something safe.

“Ain’t you gentlemen, but my house is a mess. Think it’s best if you don’t see it.” Again you flashed him a smile before once more the door was shut on him. 

Remmick was gettin’ real tired of this door.

…

Your scent returned to you eventually—once all that blood had been washed away. That sweet, unmistakable scent.

You slept through the entire day, and just like he promised, Remmick made the problem disappear.

(Though strangely enough, by the time he got there, all the questions that should’ve been asked… never were.)

Justice don’t run right here.

Remmick looked over at you—there you were, stretched out on his bed. The heat hung heavy in the room. Your nightgown clung to you like a second skin, and the thin sheen of sweat on your body caught what little light filtered into the house, making you glow.

“They come yet?” you asked.

Remmick shook his head.

You stared up at the ceiling, eyes dull. (Bored) Then you fell back on the bed. Remmick watched as your chest rose up and down. Swore he could hear your blood pumping, swore he could hear the slow beat of your heart. 

“You want some water?” You hadn’t eaten anything. Hadn’t drinken anything either. 

He watched as you turned your head slowly to him. “I wanna go home.” 

“I’ll take ya tonight if you want.” Remmick offered, and slowly you nodded again before closing your eyes, sleeping once more and Remmick sat in his chair just looking at you. 

All this for an answer. All this just to see what you’d do if the devil came a knockin’ on your door. See if you would turn to god. Hell, all those crosses in your home. By the time Remmick went to investigate the bodies, the only thing left was a singed cross. 

He could just find out now. Maybe scare ya’ while you’re asleep. Slowly Remmick stands up. Your breathing is slow. He has to stop and listen. Breath so slow he almost thinks you're dead. But you’re not. A deep breath you take tells him you’re not. 

He’s salivating at the mouth. Remmick smells you. A deep and long inhale of you. Fresh, sweet, blood. 

There is a sound from you. Remmick looks down. Shit. You got him droolin’ all over ya. He wipes your cheek with the back of his hand. But your skin—it’s cold. Not just clammy. Cold like him. But you’re sweating, too. Humans sweat. Humans get cold. Remmick’s been dead too long, maybe he’s forgettin’.

Remmick stayed there, on his bed sitting down just inhaling your scent. It was nightfall. You’ve been absent for almost three whole days. Nobody’s come searchin’ for you. Not your mother, father, anyone. Today was Sunday. 

You missed church today. Still not a word.

Guess this wasn’t the town he thought it was.

You move again and a light hits his eye. He looks down and it’s your ring. You still have it on. The band of the ring is silver and the stone is blue with golden specks. It’s on your middle finger. His hand slides under yours. Your fingers twitch, just slightly. Remmick freezes. Waits. You don’t move again.

Was it fake? Slowly the ends of his pointer finger elongated into a sharp claw. He was about to scratch the stone before you arched your back in stretch. Quickly he reverted his finger to a human one. 

“What are you doing?” Your hand was still his and your brows were furrowed but the way you spoke was still laced with sleep.

Remmick looked at you with a smile. “Just lookin’”

“If you’re wonderin’ if it’s real.” You gently pulled your hand from his grasp looking at the ring. “It is. It’s lapis lazuli. Scratches easy. Lapis lazuli stones are considered the precious stones that ruled the sky and the seas or in other stories the stone combines the blue of the heavens and golden glitter of the sun. As such, it absorbs the sunlight.” You took off the ring and gave it to him. 

Remmick held it in his hand observing the fine metal work. “That ones enchanted though. The friend that gave it to me? She was a witch.” Remmick looked at you. So much for a devoted christian. “Lapis lazuli is a rock. Nothin’ real special, but it’s what she requested. So I went and found the stone, which was hard. I was working on a limited time schedule.”

Why do you speak like that? Speak as if you’re older than you are. Remmick doesn’t know how old you are—after a while, that age of humans becomes irrelevant. Anyone under the age of 100 is young to him. You speak as if you’d have more years than what is visible on your face.

“But eventually, I found a rock and brought it back to her. She did her spells. I’d recite it, but it’s Latin and it was such a long time ago, can’t remember any more.” You shrugged. “Anyways, the spell was done and now it protects me.”

Ain’t god-fearin’ because of this ring? Ain’t afraid of the devil because of this ring? It’s laughable, but Remmick won’t laugh. We’ll see how well your ring puts up against him. “Protects you against what?”

“Curses put on me.” You stood up and Remmick remained on the bed. “Well—a curse, really. Bestowed on my kind, after we were given a gift of sorts.”

“Your kind? The words felt sticky in his mouth. The way you said it—so easily. Like the ones who'd step on your neck. Such a pity.

You simply nodded. “I suffered a long time under that curse. I was limited for so many years. That gift took something away from me, and I missed it.” There you go again. Talking as if you’re older. But you’re not. He knows you're not. “So I went out, and found someone who could fix me. I met my friend, though I don’t think she really thought of me as a friend like I did her, but she’s dead now, so don’t it matter much and in the end I s'pose she got even.” 

“How d’you reckon?”

“Well she placed another curse on me.” You laughed sitting down in the chair he once sat at while he looked at you sleepin’. “It was worse than the first. She didn’t take anything away—just... enhanced what was already there.” You looked at him, and suddenly gooseflesh pricked up his spin. He knew that look. “It was hell. Year after year, I tried to break it. It just wouldn’t. Told me it was an eye for an eye. She helped me and I helped her.” You shook your head and Remmick was stuck on the bed listening to you.

“Old hag knew I’d live longer than her. I was young back then.” Still are. Still naive when you never ask him the questions you should be askin’. So why do you sound so old? Why do you sound as if you’ve lived lifetimes? As many as he had. “Gullible, if you will. I mean, why after all these years, I still gotta help a dead woman? Just ain’t fair.” 

Remmick said nothing and you kept looking at him. Where does he know your look from? He knows it. He really does, but god it’s been such a long time, Remmick starts to forget faces. “Eventually though, I accepted it. Learned to live with it. Enjoy it even. In the end, I’m glad she gave me another curse—though I think it’s a gift now—maybe I did break it. Maybe I just like livin’ like this now.”

You gave a deep pause.

 “It’s better.”

…

This damned door.

Remmick swears he could trace every chip in the paint with his eyes closed, just from how often he’s stood in front of it. The creak of its hinges, the uneven flake of old enamel—it’s all burned into him now. Yet here he is again, and here you come, opening it once more.

“Yes?” you ask, voice soft and languid. You’re backlit, the glow of your home curling around you in warm gold. Domestic light—safe, small, human. Remmick remains where the dark clings to him, just past the porch light’s reach.

“Came to say hi,” he says, flashing you that grin—the kind meant to be disarming.

“Hi,” you echo, a little smile curling at your lips as you lean against the doorframe. Casual. Inviting. That’s good.

“Hello,” he murmurs again, quieter this time, letting it linger in the air between you both.

“Is that all?” you ask, arching a brow. There’s a slight tease in your voice now, but your eyes flicker, cautious. Curious.

Remmick doesn’t answer. Instead, he steps closer, slow and sure, letting the threshold between you become the only thing left.

“What are you doing?” you ask, your voice dropping an octave—not quite nervous, but alert.

Then you take a step forward—just one—and it’s enough.

The scent hits him like a wave.

Fresh blood. Sweet, bright, and warm. How you manage to carry that scent with you, always just on the edge of being bitten, he doesn’t know. But it’s there, thick in his nostrils now. Remmick’s jaw tightens. His tongue presses to the back of his teeth.

“You’re salivatin’,” you say, cocking your head. It’s not accusatory. Just observant.

He wipes at the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand and gives you another grin—this one slower, hungrier.

“Just for you.” Slowly he feels his eyes glaze over, but all he’s looking at is your neck. His mouth is ajar just slightly and he can feel his venom drippin’ from the side of his mouth. Slowly but surely he leans in.

He can barely register your hand against his face again wiping away his venom. But just slightly, the move is enough to turn his head and his vision from your neck to your lips. Well, poison gettin’ in you one way or another. 

His hand moved too fast for it to be considered human, but he doesn’t think you noticed seeing as your warm hand is still cupping his face. His hand held a tight grip on the back of your neck as he pulled you to him, kissing you, hard. His teeth clash against yours.

You’ll have to forgive him. It’s been a while since he’s really kissed anyone. He can feel as you nails scratch lightly on his scalp as you grip his hair pulling him closer to you. You feel so warm. So warm even on such hot and humid nights.

He feels his venom accumulating on his tongue, so he forces himself into your mouth. Your sound of surprise sounds wondrous. You gladly welcome him into you. His grip softens on your neck and both of his hands start to explore your back. Lower and lower creep but just before they can reach for what his body aches for you push him away. 

The momentum of pushing him away sends you stumbling backward, feet dragging across the worn wood floor, until you’re safely behind the threshold—behind the invisible line that keeps him from you.

Remmick stands frozen on the other side, one foot still lifted, as if he could follow.

But he can’t.

He looks at you. Really looks. And there it is: his venom, glistening like spilled ink, trailing from the corner of your mouth. A small, damning shimmer.

Your hand flies up, trembling as you point at him. “No,” you whisper at first, then louder, firmer, shaking your head as if to shake him out of your blood.

“No,” you repeat, breath hitching, voice frayed. “I won’t do it. Do you even know what they’d do to you? To me?” You pause, chest heaving as though you’ve run a great distance. “No, Remmick. I won’t subject myself to that.” Remmick doesn’t flinch.

“Goodbye, Remmick,” you say. It lands cold. Then—just like before—you shut the door.

And again, he’s left outside, staring at the same damned wood. The lock clicks like a coffin shutting. Remmick doesn’t move. Just stands there, bathed in the hush of the porchlight and the slow creep of night. Crickets chirp. 

He got his answer, alright.

You aren’t a god-fearin’ woman and you are afraid of the devil

And maybe what stings the most is—he thought you were braver than that.

But that’s alright. He was scared of the devil once too. But now that he’s got his answer, it won’t matter no more. He can save you. Make sure you never fear the devil ever again. Make sure you can do something with your life and it won’t be meaningless. You can be equal, and no man will be more equal than others.

He wonders what happens now. You’ve got his venom in you.

You should be dead—or dying—but you’re not. Not yet. He’s never left someone like this before. Never walked away with his venom inside them without finishing the job. Usually, it’s through a bite. That’s the way it’s supposed to go.

Well… first time for everything.

Remmick wipes the corner of his mouth with the back of his sleeve, smearing spit and venom across his skin. It glistens under the faint glow of your porch light.

He turns, about to step into the night, when something makes him look back. There you are, framed by the window. Watching. The light catches your eyes—wide, cautious, and just a little bit puzzled. Like even you don’t know why you’re still standing.

Remmick frowns. He doesn’t know either.

He raises a hand, then thinks better of it. Instead, he dips his head in a small bow, mock-formal, like he’s stepping away from a stage instead of your life. Turning on his heel, he walks off into the dark, boots crunching soft against the gravel path.

Still, he can hear you. Your breath, small and quick, just behind the glass. You’re watching him walk away. He knows it.

And depending on how this goes…

It won’t be long before you walk away too—with him.

…

You hadn’t been home when he tried to visit. There was disappointment in that. Maybe you did die and you just never woke up. He should’ve just killed you. Didn’t even need to be brutal. Just a snapped neck and you would have woken up 15 minutes later. 

Such a shame. Off he goes then. Ain’t nothing here for him. That something he’s been looking for just isn’t here. 

Another week passes. Then—three knocks. Firm. Familiar. 

Remmick wakes with a start, the sun already high and hot. Midday. The time he hates most. With a crack of his neck, he drags himself to the front door, every step heavy. When he opens it, his widen in shock because there you are.

You’re radiant. 

Standing on his porch in your Sunday best, sunlight kissing your skin. And in your hands—a pie, steaming faintly under its cloth cover. You smell like warm fruit and something sweet beneath it. Something alive.

Remmick squints at you, blinking against the brightness. Best to ignore your absence. “Wasn’t it you who told me this—” he gestures between the two of you with a loose hand, a smirk curling his lip, “—was a bad idea?”

“Well yes!” you cut in quickly, chipper, too chipper. “But you see, my mother sent me over with this pie. Said you haven’t been to church for some time.”

Your mother? He hadn’t seen her in a while. Though she was dead. Your father too. He cocks a brow. “Aren’t you supposed to be in church?”

Your smile doesn’t falter. “I attended in the early mornin’.”

There’s a beat. Then, you shift your weight, pie still in hand. “Now, this hot… may I come in?” The words land like a stone in his gut. You still have that sweet smell of yours. Means you’re not like him. Not yet anyway. You walk in sunlight. Your skin doesn’t smoke. Your eyes still shine. Still, he doesn’t say it. Doesn’t invite you. Just opens the door wider.

And just as he suspected—you step inside without pause, without hesitation. Indeed you’re alive and kickin’. The light clings to you as you cross the threshold, but it fades, like it can’t hold onto you in here.

Remmick watches the sun blaze through the open door behind you, then gently pushes it closed. He turns to look at you as you set the pie down on his table. “How are ya’?”

“I’m good. Left for a week. Had to do some stuff.” You sat down at the table and again. Just like the last time you were in here, he expected to feel a prickle down his spine. But instead you just smile looking up at him with a slight tilt in your head. You look happy. Real happy. 

He steps further in, slow and careful, like he’s approaching something skittish. Dangerous.

You. You, sitting at his table like you’ve always belonged here. Like there hadn’t been venom between your teeth and rejection in your breath the last time he saw you.

“You look different,” he says, voice low. Testing.

“Do I?” you hum, resting your chin in your hand. “Maybe. I feel different, if only a little.”

Remmick studies you—really studies you. Your skin’s got color, warm and soft, kissed by sun and not a hint of pallor. Your eyes shine like they used to, but something hums beneath them now. Something older.

“You were gone for a week,” he says, circling the table, watching how your eyes follow him. “And then you show up on my porch in the daylight. Dressed for church. Smilin’ like you’ve been saved.”

You laugh, soft and musical, but there’s something sharp hidden in it. “Ain’t that what Sunday’s for?”

He doesn’t sit. He leans against the back of the chair across from you, arms crossed, still watching. Still waiting. “You said you feel different?”

“I’ve been thinking. Thinkin’ real hard.” You stand up just as Remmick is behind you. “But I still have doubts.” You smell stronger today and the heat radiates off of you today. Almost too human. Enticing nonetheless. His teeth hurt.

“Thinkin’ bout what?” He murmured as he bent down trying to smell you. Fresh blood. Your blood is young. 

“Well…what happened last time…” You trailed off. Remmick was right again. You’re not old. Can’t be. Not when your voice sounds so young. Sounds so impressionable. Sound so naive. 

Slowly, his hands settled on your shoulders, firm but gentle, like he wasn’t sure if he was holding you or holding himself back. He drew you close. Close enough that the scent of your skin curled into his lungs and stayed there. It made his gums ache—dull at first, then sharper, the way they always ached right before his teeth came out.

(Though he ignored the sound of vein pulsing. The sound as if they hadn’t been used in a while and were stretching to being used once more. The sound of porcelain cracking.) 

You didn’t stop him. Not at first. Maybe you knew what was coming.

Just before his lips could brush the edge of your throat—just before the hunger overtook the man—a knock sounded, sharp and sudden.

You flinched. The spell broke.

You tore yourself from him in one clean motion, never once looking back as your footsteps pounded against the floor and disappeared down the hall. Back to your mother. Back to the light. Back to safety.

Remmick stood there a moment longer, hand outstretched, the ghost of your warmth still clinging to his fingers.

It was fine. Nightfall would come soon. And tonight would be the final night.

The sun sank like a coin into the horizon, the sky stained in shades of fire and ash. Remmick stood by the window, watching shadows grow long and lean. The ache in his jaw had not gone away. If anything, it had deepened—moved lower, down into the bones. A hunger that knew your name.

He’d waited. He’d been kind. Patient, even.

But patience was running thin.

And you’d been marked now—by his venom, by your choice, by something neither of you fully understood.

No more knocks. No more interruptions.

Tonight he wouldn’t wait for you to come to him.

He was coming to you.

And so he did.

Just as before, Remmick stood at your doorstep, cloaked in the hush of twilight. The porch light cast long shadows across the wooden floorboards, and the scent of honeysuckle clung to the air. But this time, when the door creaked open, you stepped out to greet him.

Your figure cut through the soft light—barefoot, loose nightdress, a curl falling out of place near your temple. You looked like you hadn’t slept, but you were calm. Maybe resolved.

“Your parents?” Remmick asked, his voice quiet, cautious.

“Gone,” you replied, arms loosely crossed over your chest, but not in defense—more like you were holding something steady inside you.

He nodded once, stepping a little closer. “What is it that you want?” he asked, voice lower now, earnest. “I’ll make it happen.”

You tilted your head slightly, a skeptical smile ghosting your lips. “What can you do?”

“I can take you North,” he said, the words slow, deliberate, thick with promise. “North where we could be free. You wouldn’t have to worry about a thing.”

The porch light flickered once. The air between you buzzed with something unsaid.

“You’d do that f’me?” you asked, gaze flicking to his, voice smaller than before.

“’Course,” he breathed. “Do anythin’.”

“But what if they—”

“You ain’t gotta worry ’bout a thing,” he interrupted gently. “I’ll handle it.” His hand lifted, rough fingers brushing your cheek. His palm was calloused, but the way he held you was almost reverent.

“Remm—” your voice cracked around his name.

Softly, he shushed you. “Shhh,” he whispered, his thumb stroking just beneath your eye. Your skin wasn’t as warm tonight. That was alright. His hand lingered like he was grounding himself. “Just like I handled the last problem.”

There was a pause—one thick with knowing.

You looked at him. Really looked.

“Alright then…” you murmured, and a small smile touched your lips. You reached up, holding his hand in both of yours, delicate and sure. Then, turning slightly, your gaze flicked to the open door behind you. The threshold. The place where old lives ended and new ones might begin.

“Come on in, Remmick.”

And he did. 

Slowly, Remmick crossed the threshold of your home. Each step he took felt heavier with meaning, soaked in anticipation. A grin stretched across his face—feral and proud—as he watched you move through the soft amber light of the kitchen, your silhouette framed by fluttering gingham curtains and the muted hum of a quiet house.

His eyes wandered along the walls. Old walls, wilted dried herbs. Then his gaze landed on another cross. This one wasn’t ornamental. Its angles were too sharp. Too precise. The bottom point gleamed like it had drawn blood before.

“Remmick?” you called from the kitchen, voice lilting, casual. Like this was any other day.

He hummed low in his throat, not trusting his voice. Not with what was coming.

Let’s see what your little ring was good for.

His eyes darkened and glazed over, vision sharpening until the fibers of the wood under his boots became crystal-clear. His shoulders drew back with a crack, his body shifting. Bones lengthened in his fingers, joints grinding as claws pushed through skin with an eager, slow stretch. His ears twitched, catching the creak of a cooling kettle, the soft rustle of your clothing. But nothing else. No heartbeat. No breath. Still, so still.

Strange.

Then the ache came. That sweet, gnawing pull in his gums as his canines extended, tearing just slightly at his lip. The rest of his teeth followed suit—each one honed to a razor’s edge.

God, it felt good.

“When was the last time you ate?” you asked suddenly. Your back was still to him, your hands fussing with something at the counter—tea leaves maybe, or pie slices.

His eyes flicked to your ring. It didn’t glow. Didn’t burn. Didn’t stop a thing.

But then again… maybe it was never meant to.

“A while ago,” he said, voice a rasp, thick with desire. He took a step forward, almost salivating. “Haven’t eaten proper since… well. Since your friend.”

He didn’t need to say which one. The silence that followed named her for him.

“So you’re hungry?” you asked, still without turning. Your tone was measured, smooth like syrup.

“Starvin’,” he growled, claws flexing.

“That’s good.” You turned. Slowly.

He bared his teeth fully now, ready to savor the shock on your face. But what he saw made something shift in his gut.

Your eyes did widen at first—but only slightly. There was no scream. No flinch. Just the ghost of amusement curling at your lips. And then… you smiled.

Not in fear.

In recognition. And Remmick’s claws twitched again—but this time, not from joy.

He didn’t like that smile.

Not one bit.

Then came the sound.

That sick, wet stretch of muscle tearing and reforming. The kind that always reminded Remmick of leather being pulled too tight—followed by the sharp snap of bone shifting just beneath skin. He knew that sound. Had heard it in the woods. Beneath moonlight. In his house. Only now… he knew exactly where it was coming from.

From you.

He froze, eyes locked on your face as something moved beneath your skin—quick, serpentine. Dark veins crawled up from your jaw like ink bleeding into paper, slithering under your cheekbones and reaching the corners of your bloodshot eyes. The whites of them turned red, slowly—almost deliberately—as if savoring the change.

And then, your smile twisted. Became something other. A grin, cruel and radiant, blooming with two sharp fangs that caught the light.

The grin that had lived on his face just moments ago? It was gone. Slid off like water on polished stone.

Now it belonged to you.

Remmick stepped back instinctively, his claws flexing in the air between you. Confusion struck first—then horror, slow and creeping. His lips parted, but no sound came out.

He watched you. He watched it—the creature you’d become. No… the creature you’d always been.

(That’s where he knew your face from that day. He had worn it so many times, though now it just wasn’t on him)

“Me too,” you whispered.

Note: Eh. Not my best work, but I wanted it out there. Took me forever to write💔

To be added on Tag list: !(•̀ᴗ•́)و ̑̑/Gen Masterlist

[boywivloveficrecs]

1999 pt. 8

Kurt Wagner x Fem Reader

Angst, Sad Topics, Awkwardness, With a tiny touch of fluff

Reader has Empath abilities where she can feel others’ emotions, her mind can’t be read by either, and if she touches someone she can make them feel what she feels.

Marvel Masterlist <<

Kofi

"Kurt I'm fucking exhausted-"

(Y/N) said quickly, Pulling her arm away fast from his hold as if he burned her. Which made Kurt hesitantly place his hands in his lap.

"I Just... w-would there be anything I could do for you to forgive me..."

There is a pause that fills the air the moment those words leave his mouth. (Y/N) slowly closing her eyes as she thinks over her words carefully.

".. Kurt- You think me just 'Forgiving' You will wash away everything?.. That if you do some magical task it will all be better?"

"Nein.. Just.."

Kurt lowered his head, The clear weight of guilt settling on him. (Y/N) sighed heavily as she rubbed her face clearly just done with it all and irritated by this.

"Kurt- Your Guilt is not my responsibility.. Nor are your regrets for being a coward mine either"

He almost seemed offended by the coward comment before the realization seemed to him making his stomach sink once more.

"..The fact it took you 16 years to open a goddamn card- something that would have negated were we even stand today. Your Choice, Your Inaction caused you to not know your sons for well over a decade, for those boys to not know their father and for me to.."

She stopped, closing her eyes again for a moment as if to recollect herself from it all. Taking a steady breath as she looked back to him-

"So No- I don't know what or how I can forgive you at this moment.."

Kurt looked up to her, the reality of all hit him- Like that stab would he felt was deeper then he thought but by his own hand.

He lowered his eyes then, looking to the floor as nothing but shame filled his system.

"...I understand"

The two of them were left in silence after that. (Y/N) Turning as she silently left to her bedroom, not even bothering to say goodnight to Kurt who sat there still.

Staring out to the void a bit numbly-

Kurt did not sleep the rest of that night, feeling like he was drowning in his own mind and emotions not even bothering to count his rosary as it just laid across the coffee table forgotten.

When the sun rose he hadn't even realized it till he heard the shower start. Blinking a bit in surprise as he tried to get his bearings as fast as possible, rubbing his face as he felt his eyes burn from staying up all night.

It wasn't long until (Y/N) walked out dressed in work clothes as she prepared herself some coffee. Kurt looking to her a bit confused.

"Are you leaving?

"I have to go to work-"

She said almost numbly as she packed herself a lunch for the day. Mostly some leftovers. Kurt messed with his hands a bit.

"You... Could you stay?.. with me for the day?"

(Y/N) shot him a mild venom-less glare- pouring more coffee in the thermas to bring with her. Kurt shrinking down as he knew that had been quite a stretch especially with that last part.

"Not everyone gets that luxury of taking time off.. especially for a bullshit reason like that- besides I already informed the school the boys will be staying home for the rest of the week due to.. personal matters...and they will need someone to watch them"

He looked back up at (Y/N) quickly as she stared at him. A less irritated look on her face.

Kurt read her face well-

'I'm throwing you a bone, If you fuck this up it's on you'

He gave a watery smile, feeling warmth behind his eyes.

"Danke.."

She nodded with a soft sigh.

"Just don't destroy my house-"

(Y/N) mumbled, not bother to speak past that as she marched out of the house. Leaving Kurt alone in now the painfully quiet house.

Kurt moved into the kitchen, Starting to peek around to see what he could find- Hoping a chance of maybe a peace offering breakfast would help. Rubbing the back of his neck as he tried to think of what to go about first-

He only snapped from his thoughts when he heard some shuffling- Looking back as he saw his two little clones.

It made his heart swell each time-

"Where is Mom?.."

Leon asked first- his arms folded across his chest hesitantly as he looked over Kurt. Truthfully just taking in how disheveled the man looked- Yesterday he was a weird geek in a sweatervest and now the two teenagers were seeing a man who looked like he had been homeless for at last 3 days... only in his dress shirt that was rolled up, Very messy hair, He looked exhausted and not an image that a father would want to present to their kid as a first impression- Yet here he was.

"She left for work.. Wanted me to watch you for the day since you're off school. If you'll let me?-"

He had no idea why he said that- possibly a desperate olive branch or even some way of begging for forgiveness. However it did seem like it was what they needed as both twins looked to each other and then nodded to him.

'Thank the Lord'

Kurt still felt incredibly awkward so went to grab some stuff from the fridge to make breakfast- Which wasn't a lot as he felt like he didn't really have enough to make.. angrily chopped vegetables from (Y/N) didnt exactly scream breakfast of champions.

Which only added anxiety at feeling the eyes of his children watching his every move. But It couldn't be helped to find it enduring in some way- it made him think of himself at that age. Evem the way they moved into the kitchen keeping an eye on him as if he would just appear infront of him.

Which he absolutely wouldn't, since he still had the knot on his head the last time he pulled something like that.

His mind started running a mile a minute as he grabbed at some sliced cheese and far too spongey bread- wondering what he would want to hear at meeting his biological father-

Which he scratched off immediately as a dumb idea..

He had no idea if he wanted to ever have a conversation with who he learned as his biological father name of Azazel-

Which was the exact opposite of what he wanted.

"What does your Muther make you for breakfast usually?"

Kurt finally asked, Looking back at the boys who were seated at the island counter.

"Poptarts, cereal. Stuff like that"

Leon said softly, Pointing to the top of the fridge with the boxes of what Kurt would describe as pure crunchy sugar set.

"So viel zucker.. (So much sugar)"

He mumbled, before looking back to Leon.

Leon was far more open and expressive- His emotions were also incredibly readable by his tail, it was like a open book-

The way it moved when he was happy, his hesitancy- It made Kurt able to gauge the situations more with one of the boys at least- knowing where to place the conversation in the future.

Milo on the other hand was damn near impossible- the boy had good posture, a unreadable face most of the time unless clearly wanting to express it and he didn't have the same problem as his twin, his own tail perfectly placed next to him-

'Just like (Y/N)-'

He knew they could be more normal teenagers, Seeing how they ran through the front door with their friend.

Silently he had hoped to see something like that again- A true moment of them being children, as he had missed all of those milestone moments..

WHAM!

All three blue men jumping from their spots as Kurt immediate reaction was grabbing a kitchen knife in hand and turned with white yellow eyes as the front door was forced open. Milo however looking to Kurt with a slight narrowed look as he noted the stance and the knife that seemed to be oddly comforble in his hand...

But marching liked he owned the place was Logan holding a greasy bag in hand and two cups of coffee.

"Logan? Was machst d-?"

"Assistance-"

Logan grumbled, Shoving one of the cups of coffee in Kurt's hand who sighed heavily. He assumed that Logan had caught wind of his day with his children-

Or (Y/N) told him because she didn't trust him alone-

And with the greasy bag of breakfast sandwiches being dished out by Logan he had a sneaky feeling that was the case...

Thanks (Y/N)..

Tag List:

@bruher @alexloveskii @hahaspoilhaha @coliflowerplants @trinswhimsys @black-brained @alastorhazbin @slytherinmushu @i-am-iron-man-3000 @justarandomwriterwriting @allgonemad @sadslasher13 @bimboshaggy @koko-kiko @boywivlove @devotedlyshadowytheorist @newtonfinnigan @mad-grace-amber @bufaunfu @babyred7 @veronika272 @scarymosscryptid @songbirdemerald-blog @lunas-nova @author-kweenyluv

[boywivloveficrecs]

ROLL FOR REDEMPTION - E.M. (series)

SUMMARY: in which Eddie cuts you of his life, under his girlfriend’s influence, discarding mementos of your friendship. As you withdraw, becoming a shadow of yourself, Eddie feels trapped, clinging to a small reminder of you. PAIRING: Eddie Munson x Female best friend

previous part - next part

ONE : The Silence That Breaks You

The air in Hawkins feels heavier tonight, like the sky itself is pressing down on your chest. You’re sitting on the worn-out couch in your living room, the one with the frayed armrests and the faint smell of cigarette smoke that lingers from years of Eddie Munson sprawling across it, his boots propped on the coffee table, his laughter filling the space like a song you didn’t know you’d miss until it was gone. The TV hums with some late-night infomercial, but you’re not watching. Your eyes are fixed on the phone, mocking you with its silence.

It’s been two weeks since Eddie last called. Two weeks since you heard his voice, all gravel and warmth, teasing you about the way you always steal his fries at the diner or how you can’t keep up with his D&D campaigns because you’re “too busy daydreaming about dragons instead of slaying them.” Two weeks since he looked at you with those big, brown eyes, the ones that always seemed to see you, really see you, even when you felt invisible to the rest of the world.

You shift, your thighs pressing against the couch, and you’re suddenly hyper-aware of your body—the way your curves spill over the cushions, the way your hips take up space that Tara, with her sharp cheekbones and willowy frame, never would. You’ve always been plus-size, always carried yourself with a quiet confidence you built from scratch, brick by painful brick. Eddie was the one who helped you lay those bricks. He was the one who’d sling an arm around your shoulders at school, glaring at anyone who dared whisper about your weight, his presence a shield against the world’s cruelty. “You’re a goddamn queen,” he’d say, grinning, his rings glinting under the fluorescent lights. “Don’t let these idiots tell you otherwise.”

But now, Tara’s in the picture, and she’s not just a girlfriend—she’s a wedge, driven deep between you and the boy who’s been your anchor since you were twelve. You can still see her face from that night at the Hideout, her blonde hair catching the stage lights as Eddie’s band played. She was all sharp edges and possessive glances, her hand curled around his arm like she was staking a claim. You’d been in the crowd, cheering louder than anyone, your heart swelling with pride as Eddie shredded his guitar, his hair a wild halo under the spotlight. After the set, you’d hugged him, your arms wrapping around his leather jacket, the familiar scent of weed and Old Spice grounding you. “You killed it, Munson,” you’d said, and he’d grinned, ruffling your hair like you were kids again.

Tara had watched it all, her lips a thin line. Later, when you’d gone to grab drinks with the band, she’d pulled Eddie aside. You didn’t hear their conversation, but you saw the way his shoulders tensed, the way his eyes flickered to you before dropping to the floor. When he came back, he was quieter, his usual spark dimmed. “Tara’s not feeling great,” he’d mumbled, avoiding your gaze. “Gotta take her home.”

You’d nodded, swallowing the unease in your throat. “Sure. See you tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” he’d said, but there was something hollow in his voice, something that made your stomach twist.

Tomorrow came and went. Then a week. Then two. No calls, no Eddie showing up at your door with his van blaring Metallica, no late-night drives to the quarry where you’d sit on the hood and talk about everything and nothing—your dreams of leaving Hawkins, his plans to make it big with Corroded Coffin, the way you both felt like misfits in a town that didn’t understand you.

You tried reaching out. A voice message: “Eddie, it’s me. Just checking in. Call me back, okay?” Silence. You even swung by the trailer park, your heart pounding as you knocked on his door, but Wayne answered, his face kind but tired. “He’s out with Tara,” he’d said, and the pity in his eyes cut deeper than you’d expected.

Tonight, you can’t take it anymore. You pick up the phone, your fingers trembling as you dial his number. It rings once, twice, three times, and then—his voice, but not really. It’s his voicemail, the one he recorded in a mock-serious tone, pretending to be a radio DJ: “You’ve reached the one and only Eddie Munson, master of the fretboard, slayer of dragons, and all-around badass. Leave a message, and I might grace you with a call back.” The beep feels like a gunshot.

“Eddie,” you start, your voice cracking. You pause, swallowing hard. “I don’t know what’s going on, but… I miss you. Did I do something wrong? Just… call me, please.” You hang up, and the tears come before you can stop them, hot and heavy, blurring the room around you. You curl into yourself, your arms wrapping around your middle, as if you could hold together the pieces of your breaking heart.

The next day, you’re at the diner, picking at a plate of fries you don’t want, when you see them. Eddie and Tara, walking in hand-in-hand. He’s wearing his battle vest, the one you helped him sew patches onto, each one a memory—Iron Maiden from the concert you snuck into, Dio from the time you saved up to buy him that record for his birthday. Tara’s clinging to his arm, her laugh sharp and bright, cutting through the diner’s hum. You sink lower in your booth, hoping they won’t see you, but Eddie’s eyes find yours, and for a moment, it’s like the world stops.

His face softens, and you see the old Eddie—the one who’d stay up all night with you when your mom was sick, who’d drive you to school when your car broke down, who’d tell you you were beautiful when you felt like nothing. But then Tara tugs at his hand, her eyes narrowing as she follows his gaze to you. She says something, too quiet for you to hear, and Eddie’s expression shifts—guilt, maybe, or something worse. He looks away, and they slide into a booth across the diner, his back to you.

You want to scream, to march over and demand answers, but your body feels heavy, like you’re sinking into the vinyl seat. Your fries grow cold, and the waitress gives you a sympathetic look as she refills your coffee. You don’t cry, not here, not where they can see. But inside, you’re unraveling, the threads of your friendship with Eddie pulling apart one by one.

That night, you’re back on your couch, staring at the ceiling, when the phone finally rings. Your heart leaps, and you scramble to answer, nearly dropping it in your haste. “Eddie?” you say, your voice raw with hope.

“Yeah,” he says, and it’s him, but he sounds different—distant, like he’s speaking through a wall. “Can we talk?”

You nod, even though he can’t see you. “Please.”

He asks you to meet him at the quarry, the place that’s always been yours, where you’ve shared secrets and dreams under a sky full of stars. You drive there, your hands shaking on the wheel, the radio off because every song feels like it’s mocking you. When you pull up, he’s already there, leaning against his van, a cigarette glowing between his fingers. The moonlight catches the silver of his rings, and for a moment, he’s the Eddie you’ve always known, the one who’d fight the world for you.

But when he looks up, his eyes are heavy, and you know something’s wrong. You climb out of your car, your sneakers crunching on the gravel, and you stop a few feet away, your arms crossed over your chest like armor. “What’s going on, Eddie?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. “Why are you avoiding me?”

He takes a drag, exhaling smoke that curls into the night air. “It’s Tara,” he says finally, his voice low. “She… she doesn’t like how close we are.”

Your stomach drops. “What do you mean?”

He shifts, his boots scuffing the ground. “She thinks it’s weird, you know? That my best friend’s a girl. She says it makes her uncomfortable, and… I don’t know, she’s got a point. I don’t want her to feel like she’s competing with you.”

“Competing?” The word tastes bitter. “Eddie, we’ve been friends for years. You know I’d never—”

“I know,” he cuts you off, his voice sharp, but then he softens. “I know, okay? But she’s my girlfriend, and I love her. I don’t want to mess this up.”

The word love hits you like a punch. You’ve never heard him say it about anyone, not like this. You want to argue, to tell him Tara’s wrong, that your friendship isn’t something to be thrown away, but the look in his eyes stops you. He’s already made up his mind.

“So what are you saying?” you ask, your voice trembling. “You’re just… done with me?”

“No,” he says quickly, stepping closer, but he stops short of touching you. “It’s not like that. I just… I need to put her first. She wants me to… to take a step back. From you.”

The words cut deeper than you thought possible. You feel exposed, your body too big, too much, like it’s the reason Tara feels threatened, like your existence is the problem. “Eddie,” you say, tears spilling over now, “I’m your best friend. We’ve been through everything together—your dad, my mom, all the shit Hawkins threw at us. And now you’re just… letting her decide who you can talk to?”

“It’s not her deciding,” he says, but it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself as much as you. “I’m choosing this. For her. For us.”

You laugh, a hollow, broken sound. “You’re choosing her over me.”

He doesn’t deny it. He just looks at you, his eyes glistening, and you realize he’s hurting too. But it’s not enough to change his mind. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice breaking. “I don’t want to lose you, but… I have to do this.”

You want to scream, to shake him, to make him see how wrong this is. But you don’t. You nod, wiping your tears with the back of your hand. “Okay,” you whisper. “If that’s what you want.”

“It’s not what I want,” he says, but it’s too late. The damage is done.

You turn and walk back to your car, your heart a heavy stone in your chest. He calls your name, but you don’t look back. You can’t. You drive away, the quarry shrinking in your rearview mirror, and with it, the boy who was once your everything.

Back home, you collapse onto your bed, the room filled with ghosts of Eddie—his old bandanas tied to your headboard, the mixtape he made you last summer, the Polaroid of you both at the arcade, your arms around each other, grinning like nothing could ever tear you apart. You cry until your throat is raw, until your body feels empty, and you wonder if you’ll ever stop feeling like you’re too much, like your size, your presence, your love for him was always going to be a threat to someone like Tara.

The phone doesn’t ring again. The silence is louder than anything Eddie ever said.

Opening a taglist for this series, let me know if you wanna be added.

[boywivloveficrecs]

jack whimpering pathetically for you, good night ❤️

[boywivloveficrecs]

Centuries Apart MASTERLIST || Aemond Targaryen x Got!reader

Summary: Y/N is from the game of thrones era, the younger sister of Daenerys, but after the fall of her house and the throne being taken away once again, she has no choice but to go back in time to where it all went wrong, trying to change the fate of House Targaryen. But will anyone from that era even believe her? What price will she have to pay?

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

[boywivloveficrecs]

1999 pt. 7

Kurt Wagner x Fem Reader

Some Angst, Sad Topics

Reader has Empath abilities where she can feel others’ emotions, her mind can’t be read by either, and if she touches someone she can make them feel what she feels.

Marvel Masterlist <<

Milo had always been prepared to hate his father, to hate the man who had left his children and their mother- to suffer and figure it out on their own.

However- When he saw that man's face.. the sparkle in his eyes and despite seeing awkward and terrified- happy to see them, joyous almost...

It was too much and Milo felt like his got sucked into the vacuums of space.. He honestly didn't know why he just walked out of the house, it took him about 4 blocks down the street to actually use his mutation to get to where he wanted instead of walking.

Ending up with Milo had his forehead pressed against a tree, his mind oddly blank and clear of any thoughts- his chest felt hollow and body felt like it was barely there. Only just.. existing in this moment.

However it seemed he was taking it better then Leon who had his face smashed into his knees crying with his tail wrapped around him. Sobbing so hard that he was hiccuping and seemingly having a panic attack-

"T-This is so fucked man.." Leon finally hiccuped out, Lifting his head enough to wipe the tears and snot from his face. Milo finally snapping from his almost comatose state.

Milo slowly moving plopped down on the grass next to Leon.

"Yeah it is..."

Leon looked to his sibling seeing that vacant and clearly shell shocked look-

"...You look like someone who got back from war dude" Leon managed to sniffle out as he wiped his face more, Milo pushing Leon with his tail lightly.

"Yeah and you're crying like a chick who lost her husband in a war" Both boys now able to at least crack a smile, starting to at least somewhat calm down.

Milo looking around the patch of seemingly overgrown trees and grass around them and humming.

"How did we end up in the same spot if we left at different time..." He mumbled.

"Cause we go to the exact same place everytime we freak out"

Both boys looked at each other. "Behind the Gas Station" they mumbled in unison- before seeming laughing a bit at this.

The two sat in silence for a while longer hours passing as they watched as the sky darkened.

"We.. are gonna have to face all of this huh-"

Leon nodded at this as he clicked his tongue with a nod.

"Yep-"

Milo sighed heavily and rubbed his face harshly. Clearly not really up for this type of situation in the slightest.

"We need a gameplan.. like- Odviously Mom is gonna do 'I know this is a lot and you have questions- So' blah blah-" Milo started as he seemed to try and logically think this over and-

"Why are we blue.. And the fuck is with the tail?" Leon cut in- Milo blinking at his brother.

"Thats.. a good question actually.."

Both boys spent a better part of an hour thinking over every question they could ever think of. From the Eyes, Teeth, Tail, Why the bad smell when they teleport, and a host of others as why as the obvious one of why he wasn't in their life.

After an hour of this when it was almost pitch black did the two feel satisfied with their list of questions.

Now standing there apprehensive and seemingly stalling- Leon breaking first.

"Alright lets..lets... go home-"

Both teens nodded as they nodded and disapeared, appearing in their backyard. It seemed like a bad idea to just burst in the house so they slowly slid open the window and crawled in- Glancing around the area as both boys could already tell it had been used.

Especially seeing what seemed to be take out on the island- Leon stepping over to it and silently opening up the boxes to see some fairly decent Italian food. Which Leon took the chance to shove some cold garlic bread in his mouth-

Milo however went into the junk drawer to get a pen silently to make sure they had all the questions written down that they had-

However after he had written down the 4th one and Leon had eaten 2 more pieces of bread the kitchen lights flicked on making both boys jump- well 3 as Kurt jumped from his sleeping position on the couch.

(Y/N) standing there, arms crossed in her robe as she stared at her sons and now Kurt who were all wide eyed.

"...We either all go to bed, or have a conversation now"

Her voice felt like law as all three blue men seemed to awkwardly squirm in their place, However the twins couldn't help but have their eyes land on the man on the couch- who seemed to be stealing glances at them like he was afraid of getting caught just as they were with him.

Milo swallowed thickly as he held up the napkin he had managed to write the start of his questions.

"We- have questions.."

That one sentence turned into the 4 of them now in the livingroom, (Y/N) having heated up both boys the leftovers as Her and Kurt sat on one side and Milo and Leon sat on the otherswide.

Leon and Kurt looking at each other awkwardly while Milo and (Y/N) seemed to be having the most intense staring contest in the world. (Y/N) finally sighing as she gave a soft nod.

"You two have the floor-"

"Um- Why are we blue?" Leon weakly asked seemingly breaking the ice, Kurt giving a shy smile at this as he rubbed his hands together.

"My Mutter is blue- It seemed to simply be a popular trait I suppose" He said softly.

"Why didn't you want us?" Milo shot back sharply, making Kurt eyes widen.

"N-Nein.. Milo I never- I didn't know, I would never not want you.. or you Leon.. I.."

He looked to (Y/N) finally who seemingly refused to look at him, however he could see her eyes watering.

"It was my fault- I failed all of you.. Back then I had assumed that your mother was cheating on me.. and with how fragile my ego was, I didn't want to listen to her. I know now she was trying to tell me she was having you two but.. I am foolish" Kurt said softly, his hands tightly clasp as he looked down at them. Guilt eating through his soul.

(Y/N) now finally turned to look at him, a swirl of emotions on her face.

"You thought I was cheating on you? Are you fucking serious Kurt I gave you a God damn card and-" Kurt seemed to sink further in his seat.

"...I didnt... read till a few weeks ago" He mumbled out, feeling (Y/N) glaring at him. He was sure if she hadn't thrown a lamp at him before she would have done it now.

However much to the whole family surprise this game of what felt like 20 questions was oddly- pleasant? With some sprinkling of awkward moments.

From telling of Kurt's early life in a Circus which seemed to peak Leon interest, Their heritage, to explaining how he discovered his parentage which even surprised (Y/N)- However it seemed Kurt kept his career as an Xmen for a different time.

However when (Y/N) finally got questioned- She wasn't exactly thrilled at the line of questioning, especially from Kurt.

"Where were the children born?-" He hade asked softly clearly ment to be innocent however it truthfully was a heavy topic.

"You Gave Birth on Za floor of a resturant?" Kurt said horrified, Leon and Milo also shocked.

"Chicago, In the bathroom floor of a Dinner"

The silence that fell over was almost suffocating-

"I thought we were born in a Hospital in Cook County?" Milo asked equally horrified. (Y/N) shaking her head calmly.

"Well, you two got your birth certificates there- but no, you were born on the floor of the diner I was working at.. and I raised you two in a woman's shelter for the first few months of your life"

Kurt felt the air leave his lungs, his hands so tightly clasp almost white with how hard it was. Regret so strong he could taste it like it was bile in his throat.

The group now sitting in silence as the weight of those words seemed to sink in. (Y/N) swallowing thickly as she looked at the clock on the wall.

"And You didn't tell us?- How many things have you not told us?" Leon said softly, looking to his Mother as for the first time, anger flickered through him.

"...A lot..."

"Let's pick this back up later.. all of us need to sleep.. You boys head off to bed okay?"

There seemed to be a silent agreement to leave the other questions lie as the boys silently got up, tossing out their paper plates of food and walked to their rooms silently, (Y/N) not missing the side glare from Leon and the hollow look on Milo's.

(Y/N) rubbing her head, having felt overwhelmed by the constant waves of emotions- truthfully feeling nauseous by it all. Standing up prepared to probably take some sort of headache medicine and lay down for the evening- or morning in this case.

As she turned to leave Kurt hand shot up and grabbed her own. (Y/N) facing him as she saw the grim and deathly serious look on his face.

"...can we speak for a few moments longer?"

Tag List:

@bruher @alexloveskii @hahaspoilhaha @coliflowerplants @trinswhimsys @black-brained @alastorhazbin @slytherinmushu @i-am-iron-man-3000 @justarandomwriterwriting @allgonemad @sadslasher13 @bimboshaggy @koko-kiko @boywivlove @devotedlyshadowytheorist @newtonfinnigan @mad-grace-amber @bufaunfu @babyred7 @veronika272 @scarymosscryptid @songbirdemerald-blog @lunas-nova @author-kweenyluv

[boywivloveficrecs]

‘Positive’

Remmick x Black!reader

Prompt: Unplanned pregnancy - dhampir

Because of this poll

‘Positive’ Trash, lemonade, try again

‘Positive’ Trash, lemonade, try again

‘Positive’ Trash, lemonade, try again

‘Positive’ Trash, lemonade, try again

‘Positive’ Trash, lemonade, try again

‘Positive’ Trash, lemonade, try again

‘Fuck’

Train, clinic, wait, Hello, Ms your pregnancy test came back positive, Train

You know how you looked to the world another black single mother.

Barely containing your animosity while walking home you think to how you got in this situation. You knew better, you knew you knew better, you swore you knew better but with him you had lost all sense. His head between your legs leaving kisses on your thighs, ‘‘I’m a Vampire, I’m sterile baby’’ you say mocking his voice. But you had trusted him, the way his eyes would look at you with so much adoration, that inhuman shine, it had been hard not to follow his lead.

Your head had spun so much from his attention it felt like it might fall unscrewed bouncing to the floor. That’s why when you brought up protection and he waved it off you let it be. You trusted him but you should have trusted yourself; no matter how good it felt when he filled you over and over to the brim, anointing your cervix with his seed.

Thinking back to how he had flowed out of you with with every nut, never pulling out. “Amen” you weren’t religious but the experience had been spiritual, the way you threw that ass back at him, the way he moaned your name with reverence while gripping your hips tightly, nails pricking your skin making you clench even tighter; the memory drove you up the wall even now it made your body burn.

There he was standing at your door with that stupid smile that had gotten you here; your not sure if it’s your heart or your stomach that flips harder.

“Hey Bab-” walking right past him you slam the door in his face.

“Baby? Baby girl, did I do something wrong.” You sigh trying to tune him out.

“Darlin’ whatever I did, I’m sorry just let me in and we can talk, please-” it’s after an hour of non stop beggin that you finally open the door.

He sounded so fuckin’ pathetic. “Come in” you glare at him while opening the door.

He walks through giving you a toothy grin in return, you should have known something was wrong with him when he made himself way too comfortable in your house, actin’ way too free. At least he took his shoes off before placing his feet on your coffee table.

“Now sweetheart, tell me what I’ve done to deserve such a cold reception.”

Grabbing the trash bin in your bathroom you throw multiple pregnancy tests at him and a box for good measure; arms crossed in front of you, you wait for an explanation.

Looking at the box then at you in confusion, he silently reads the instructions, picking up a stick the realization hits him.

The test cracks in his hand as he looks up at you “I’m not angry at ya, just tell me who he is.”

‘Was he fucking serious’ Your faces grows hot with anger, you pick the sticks up throwing them back in the trash.

“Get the fuck out, I can’t believe I trusted you.”

He looks taken back by your attitude “Sweetheart I’ll take care of you, I’ll take care of you both, just tell me who got you this way an-”

”You baby trapped me! You lied and told me you were sterile and now you’re actin’ like you had nothing to do with this!”

“I couldn’t”

“Why not”

“…”

“Have you had any surgeries?”

“What?”

“Have you been snipped”

“No but-”

He could hear the weariness in your voice “Whose else could it be? Think Remmick, I work from home and even then you’re here almost every night. When would I have had time?” You were on the edge of tears and he was acting like he was just another notch in your belt.

Noticing your distress he reaches for you, you instinctively pull away from him at first, too angry to let him even touch you.

Sighing he slowly raising his hands in defeat “I’m sorry Darlin’.” slowly reaching for you again you let him hug you. “I…I. just let me” he holds you close moving down your body until he’s on his knees sniffing as deeply as he can, he lays his head on your stomach then slowly looks up at you, eyes full of bewilderment “I didn’t think I could do that.”

‘Oh no he was an idiot’ “Remmick if you are intact why would you think that you couldn’t get me pregnant?”

Shifting left and right on his knees “Well after a couple thousand years you’d think something would have stuck.”

“How do you know they didn’t”

A horrified look passes over his face.

Rubbing your temples you want to cry, “Fuck my life I’m sleeping with community dick.”

“Now that’s not fair darlin’ how was I supposed to know, they don’t exactly make pamphlets about this kinda thing.”

You push him away walking towards the kitchen; at first he just follows you watching as you make yourself something to eat.

This continues through out the night he just stares at you as you do the mundane. When you finally decide to lay down for the night he lays next to you placing a hand over stomach kissing your shoulder.

“I’ll take care of you, you know I will, I love you.” He doesn’t try to push you to do anything else just lays with you until you fall asleep, and like always he’s gone before you wake up, and you can’t deny the twinge of sadness you feel. You hadn’t expected him to stay but maybe you hoped.

You spend the day working and then looking over properties you could afford, renting was convenient but maybe it was time to look at something more permanent, especially if the bundle growing in you was anything like their father. A dark thought crosses your mind; ‘What if Remmick left and never came back?’.

The thought of being a single parent didn’t bother you, but what would you tell the child when they were older? ‘Sorry sweetheart your father was an over two thousand year old deadbeat that put fire to the pavement once he realized you had been planted.’ A knock at your door jolts you out of your spiral before it gets to bad.

Looking out the peep hole you see Remmick; he looks solemn as you open the door, and gesture for him to come in.

Instead of lavishing you with kisses like he usually does he walks straight to the living room, hands heavy with bags filled with books. He takes them out laying them on the coffee table.

He walks back over to you holding you close but not tight as he usually does as if he’s scared he’s going to break you.

You eye the covers of some of the books he laid on the table ‘The Expectant Father’, ‘We're Pregnant! The First Time Dad's Handbook’ and ‘You Got This, Dad: The Expectant Father's Guide’, along with many others. You don’t say anything, you just sit beside him on the couch, glancing over at him every time he picks up a book. Your eyes go wide at the one currently in his hand, ‘Guide to Having Great Sex with a Pregnant Woman’; he catches you staring.

“There’s nothing wrong with being prepared,” if you didn’t know any better you’d say he was blushing.

“I didn’t say anything” you say trying not to laugh.

“Do.. do you think you’ll want to?” he sounded shyer than you’ve ever heard him

“Definitely”

Neither one of you say another word but you watch as he smiles into his book.

When dinner time rolls around you get up to make yourself something but he quickly jumps in front of you ushering you to sit back down while he cooks.

“My wife will not be cooking.”

“That’s nice Remmick but I’m not your wife,” you had meant it playfully but he got a far off look in eyes saying nothing for the rest of the night; deep in contemplation he seemed almost sad.

Not wanting a repeat of that night you don’t bring up the fact that you aren’t married again, instead you just enjoy his pampering; cooking every one of your meals to make sure they were baby friendly (whatever that meant), massaging your swollen feet when you sat or stood for too long and bathing you when you could no longer see your feet.

One night you opened your door to find him on the other side buzzing with excitement. He packed you into a mini van perfect for a small family, you hadn’t even known he had a car, let alone that he could drive. He told you it was new, that it would be a necessity in the future. You drove until the city lights faded and the forest around you became too dense to see past. You don’t know how long he had been driving for but he didn’t stop until he drove you up a tree lined path ending at a colonial styled home.

Remmick helped you out of the car; this hadn’t been what you had expected to find at the end of your drive. He helped you up the stairs, opening the door for you, letting you go first.

You were fixing to let him in when he just strolled in behind you, unable to contain his enjoyment at the look on your face. You were sure that you’d get used to it soon but the fact that he could just walk in gave you a little bit of a start.

“What do ya think, I’ve been building it up for the last few months, replacing things here and there making sure it’s safe for our family,” he beamed so brightly when he said family turning on lights as he showed you around.

As you got deeper in the house you could see the thought that went into the renovations; new molding, fresh paint, long curtains that wouldn’t let a stray hairs worth of light through; even the flooring was beautiful, dark hardwood floors. You don’t know what made you say it but you couldn’t help but needle him “Remmick it’s beautiful, but wouldn’t it be improper for an unmarried woman to live with an unmarried man like you?”

He doesn’t laugh but also doesn’t scold you instead he gently grabs your hand leading you to what must be the master bedroom. In it he goes to a safe tucked away in the corner of the walk-in closet. Opening it he hands you a folder filed with documents; fishing the documents out, you notice it’s a newly issued birth certificate belonging to a Remmick O’Connell.

You look up at him wondering what this all could mean.

He hesitates at first, the love he has for you is almost unbearable to watch; it makes your body feel hot and uncomfortable, but you can’t look away. At the same time, right now with him, you crave that look more than anything else in the world.

“I never thought I’d need to, enter the system” he says in air quotes, “Not with the way I’ve lived but now that I’m soon to be a father, I want to be the person you can run to and when you’re out an about away from my sight I want everyone else to know that there’s someone waiting you you to come home.”

He fishes in his waist pocket for a second, pulling out an ornate box, dropping to his knee “Please marry me.” You had never seen him so fragile, as if your single answer would tear him apart.

You cradle his face in your hands and he leans into them closing his eyes tears grace your finger tips.

“Why are you crying for you fool, of course I’ll marry you,” that had only made him cry harder.

He drove you back home that night; falling asleep in his arms. You had both decided on a civil marriage without the bells and whistles. There were many things to worry about at the moment and planning a wedding wasn’t one of them. What mattered was what was in writing, a ceremony could come later.

In the last trimester of your pregnancy you spent most of the time decorating your new home; when Remmick found out about baby proofing he seemed to have lost his mind sticking electrical covers in the walls and corner protectors on every piece of furniture. It was driving you crazy but you had to admit, it was cute to see him so unraveled.

The sun was almost setting when your water broke; Remmick had just dried you off after giving you a nice soak in the tub. He had laid you on the bed and had been getting ready to trim your toe nails when you felt the amniotic fluid gathering beneath you.

Whatever color was left in his cheeks was thrown out the window when he realized what had happened. As if on cue, he picks you up, changing you into something dry, moving you into the birthing room he had set aside, leaving you, to call the doctor who would deliver your child. It would take a while, so Remmick did whatever he needed to keep you comfortable, from pillows to ice and back rubs; it felt like forever before the doctor came with three nurses in tow.

They had quickly assessed the situation, checked your dilation and vitals; you look over at Remmick to see him burning a hole in the carpet walking back and forth. You’d laugh if the spikes of pain didn’t keep you busy.

“Shouldn’t be long now, will Mr. O'Connell be staying…” the doctor looks over to Remmick who looks close to fainting. “Remmick, my love” you call him over; he looks over at you, fear in his eyes scared you’ll kick him out. “What can I do for you?” he grabs your hand letting you squeeze as hard as you want when a wave of pain hits you. “Sit behind me, I’ll need your strength” he quickly moves to sit behind you, letting you lay all your weight on him. The Doctor is true to their word, it doesn’t take long and once the third bundle is laid on your chest you start to lose consciousness. You’re just so tired but the Doctor won’t let you sleep; you have to deliver the placenta but once you do, you let go.

You wake to find the blanket stripped from the bed, new covers replacing them. Remmick is crouched over the bassinets humming a lullaby with stars in his eyes. He sees that you’re awake and goes to lay next to you, “Sweetheart look what you done did, you were truly perfect.” You look at the man that you love and know that everything would be okay; he’d make sure of it.

The sound of tiny feet echo around the halls; the children were so full of energy that even their father had a hard time keeping up with them. Remmick had taken to fatherhood like a duck to water, giving you the time to let your body heal. That in itself had been a full time job, and though rewarding, sometimes it took a part of you; like the time you had been playing hide and go seek with the children and found one of them hidden behind a curtain in the southern side of the house.

If the anxiety of not being able to find them right away hadn’t given you a heart attack, finding them giggling in the sun almost had. You had rushed to them expecting the worst, only to find that not even sun burn had marred their skin. You had been so shaken that you had rushed to Remmick shaking as you had told him what had happened. He had been silent at first but then smiled, “Our children, are a wonder aren’t they?” You don’t know if he was just trying to calm you down but it worked. This was good thing, was it not? You just wish you didn’t have to almost go into shock to find out.

It seem as if your children had taken after their father without any of his weakness at least for now. This was new to the both of you and most of the time it felt like you knew nothing at all, but what you did know is that the triplets had acquired their fathers thirst for music; most nights it was the only way to get them to settle down. As time went on Remmick would tell them about where he came from, what he had lost, and all that he had gained. You at first thought that the subject of a loss like Remmicks would be too hard for them to understand, probably not fully understanding but knowing that the pain that had weighed down their father's soul was made lighter just by their presence.

Everything was a learning curve; when the Triplets had started asking questions Remmick had tried to tell them outright; what he was, what they were. You wanted to coddle them a little longer and you had ended up arguing about it, but settled on popping on Hotel Transylvania. Remmick hated it and accused the movie of using outdated stereotypes that dismissed the struggle of human vampire relations.

The kids liked it so you told him to shut it. When the time came for them to go to school you had first wanted to home school them, but looking at Remmick you realized that may not be for the best; while you loved your husband he was sometimes, putting it gently, lacking in the social skill category. And while Remmick had been the saddest to see them go he soon remembered what their absence meant; from the time that you moved in the house to the birth of the triplets it seemed like you had missed out on the chance to christen your home properly.

So not to long after the children had been dropped off it dawned on Remmick that a new freedom had been acquired; that’s how you found him, naked as the day he was born, on the stairs leading up to the bedrooms waiting for you. It had been a shock at first but you quickly caught up, and in the end you found out something new about your darling Husband; his pull out game was weaker then a Wayans-

‘Positive’ Trash, lemonade, try again

‘Positive’ Trash, lemonade, try again

‘Positive’ Trash, lemonade, try again

‘Positive’ Trash, lemonade, try again

‘Positive’ Trash, lemonade, try again

‘Positive’ Trash, lemonade, try again

‘Fuck’

[boywivloveficrecs]

Reincarnation - Remmick -

Felt like my last fanfic was lackluster so I’ve decided to try to redeem myself with a concept I’ve been thinking about. Idk if this has been done before so I apologize if this is similar to any other fics. P.S

———————————————————————————

1997, New York.

After what happened in 1932 in Mississippi, Remmick had been traveling around America in search of what he’d briefly had that night. Community. Something that reminded him of the people he’d once loved long ago.

He’d kill people and turn them into vampires, sucking them into his ‘hive’. Once he was bored of them, he’d kill them or leave them. Remmick was desperate to find it again, family, connection, and music. He’d lingered around many black spaces in the south in search of someone like Sammie, but he could never find someone.

So, he moved up north. New York had a lot of people, and he hoped he could find someone like Sammie there. He spent a few months there, and turned a few people into vampires to use. Having people with him made him seem more friendly, he thought. And he hoped that it would attract the right person he was looking for.

But what he didn’t realize was that what he’d truly been needing all along was his wife. When Remmick was a human, he lived and breathed for her. He worked hard every day to support her, to buy her gifts and to see the smile on her face. She was a lovely woman, beautiful inside and out. It was a shame he was a cowered and couldn’t protect her when it was most needed.

When Remmick first encountered you, he felt something he hadn’t feel in over a thousand years. You had been walking down the street at night, wearing a simple sparkly black club dress, heels, jewelry and makeup. Even though you looked different, it was unmistakable. Your scent, your eyes, and the smile you flashed at him as you passed by.

It was you, and there was no mistaking that.

Remmick knew it wouldn’t do him any good to hug you and kiss you like he so desperately wanted too. Talking to you in the middle of the street at night wasn’t a good idea either. He didn’t want to scare you.

But he did plan on turning you. He wasn’t gonna let you go again. He wasn’t gonna watch you die, screaming for his help like you once had all those years ago.

So he opted to put his vampiric skills to use and stealthily follow you, making sure to memorize all the places you frequented and where you lived. He could stand outside of your apartment and listen to that voice of yours for hours. It was enough to soothe him into sleep like a baby.

He eventually planned on meeting you one day. But he wanted to make it perfect, make sure you were interested in him. Maybe he’d start dancing with you at a club, buy you a few drinks and go home with you. Or maybe he’d turn someone into a vampire near you and wait for them to attack you, then come and ‘save’ you. There was too many options, and it hurt his head to think about all of them.

He hated watching you flirt with other men and occasionally take them to your apartment. It wasn’t safe, and frankly he hated watching other men with his wife. You were still his wife and would always be, even if you didn’t know it yet.

Remmick was given the perfect opportunity on a similar night. You were drunk, walking down the street with a man who wasn’t. He was sober, and Remmick could tell he didn’t have good intentions. Remmick wanted to kill him right there, but he knew he had to wait, even if he hated it.

He silently followed, pretending to casually walk down the street on the other side of the side walk, waiting for that guy you were with to do something to you.

Then, it finally happened. The man pinned you to a wall and began kissing you against your will. You began fighting against him, and he pulled a knife out of his pocket and threatened you with it.

Remmick quickly walked over, confronting the man. Yelling at him and eventually punching him. The two fought for a few moments before Remmick took him down with his own knife.

It had been hard for him to control himself. He could’ve bitten the man’s throat out and turned him into a vampire just so he could kill him again, but he didn’t. He stood up, pretending to breath heavily and wiping the blood off his cheek.

“Are you okay, miss?” He asked, looking up at you.

———————————————————————————

Sorry for another super short fic. I’ll make a part 2 soon. Also, I was thinking about making a fic about Remmick and his wife when he was a human, inspired by lady chatterly’s lover if anyone’s interested. But I don’t know how well I am with writing smut (if I am gonna write any) so bear with me on that.

Also, this was inspired by this picture of Jack. The leather jacket reminded me of the 90s.

[boywivloveficrecs]

Broken love ( Daryl x reader) #11

finally! The next chaper... hope you like it!

Masterlist

#11 - The CDC

Daryl chews on his thumb in thought as he looks through the window of the truck and watches you. Despite what happened here last night, you fell asleep at some point. That shows him how exhausted you must have been. And it's exactly this fact that keeps him from waking you up. He doesn't want to rob you of your precious sleep. On the other hand, he also wants to make sure you're eating enough. His gaze goes to the plate with the leftovers from the night before that weren't contaminated by the walkers.

Your portion is much larger than the others', actually exactly twice as big. When he had started eating earlier, something stopped him. An oppressive feeling, as if he was making a mistake. Then, as he looked toward the truck, he realized why he felt that way. Without further ado, he had then taken your plate and spread his food on yours when he felt unobserved.

Actually, everyone had agreed to let you sleep until you woke up on your own.

But since the group is in the mood to leave, and the food is getting cold, he had decided to wake you up so that you could at least eat something in a quiet moment and maybe stretch your legs.

And now he stands here like a little schoolboy who doesn't dare to knock on the door of the teacher's room. He has to admit to himself at this point that he feels something that he is not aware of to that extent.

It is fear.

He knows fear, but for other reasons. This kind of fear is new to him. He realized it last night when his heart stopped for a moment when he heard the baby crying and the walker creep into the car. The moment when he was afraid he was too late, and it grabbed one of you. He has never felt such relief in his life when he realized you were okay. And he has never felt such an urge to get someone to safety as he did at that moment.

Even though he is still convinced that this child cannot be his, the need to keep you both safe and healthy drives him to do what is necessary. And that is not only enough sleep, but also enough food for a nursing mother. He has his priorities, and even though he can hear Merle's voice in his head yelling at him about how he can be so stupid and that he shouldn't care about you, he will make sure that you and the baby are okay from now on. That's what he swore to himself last night when he forced you into his truck.

"Your daughter's name is Charlie" your voice echoes in his head as he looks again at the girl lying safely tucked away in the fabric wrapped in your arms so he can't even see her face. He closes his eyes for a moment, shaking his head as if he can just use it to shoo away all the worries that are getting louder and louder.

But it brings him nothing. The only thing he can think of is that this is no world for a baby. That's why he agreed to go to the CDC. Hoping to keep you safe there.

The problem is, and that's why he's still looking into the truck with a checking gaze, he's sort of made the decision for you. At least in a way. He can't make decisions for you, he knows that. But he has assumed that you will agree with him.

And now he is afraid that this was a mistake. But even if you don't want to come to the CDC, he knows one thing: He will go wherever you go.

Another glance at the plate and a deep breath later, he finally opens the door of the truck slowly and climbs onto the first step.

Slowly, he sets the plate down on the console, and looks to you checking. A soft coo and the small fingers pulling at his shirt make him flinch and he shrinks back. He wasn't even aware of how close he'd gotten to you until he pushed away again.

His eyes widen as he looks to the baby, who is cheerfully reaching in his direction with that toothless smile of hers. No matter how much fear he still feels and how much his thoughts torture him, he returns the smile and reaches out his hand to her.

As the small fingers clutch his index finger, he feels himself paralyzed for a brief moment. His pulse begins to race, but when he hears your tired moan, he quickly pulls his hand back.

*

"You're awake already?" you mumble, turning your head to the side. Gently, you stroke your hand over the fabric and squeeze the little girl a little closer to you.

"You're a little sleep-robbing monster, you know that?" you ask, and as you open your eyes, you dodge into the middle seat with a startled cry. Your breathing is frantic, your grip on Charlie trembling as you catch sight of the visibly shocked Daryl with a surprised look on your face.

"Fucking hell, you scared the shit out of me!" you pant, closing your eyes to take a few deep breaths. Only the happy chuckle of Charlie makes you open them again. When you catch sight of your baby, who is visibly satisfied, you calm down all the faster, but in the same breath anger rises at Daryl, who looks at you like a bullock in front of a mountain.

"What do you want?" you hiss at him and slowly slide back into the passenger seat. For a brief moment he looks at you with sadness in his eyes, and immediately a guilty conscience makes its way through you. He certainly didn't scare you on purpose.

"Here... ya have to eat..." he tells you and reaches for the plate that is lying on the console in front of you. Frowning, you look at the food for a moment before finally accepting the plate with thanks. You have a huge appetite, although yesterday's meal was really plenty. Sighing, you look at Charlie, smiling at her as you take a bite, knowing that she is the reason you have to eat so much.

"When ya finished... well... if ya need to go to the bathroom again.... There's a toilet in Dale's trailer... we wanna leave soon..." explains Daryl stuttering as he walks out of the truck. You nod at him, too busy satisfying your hunger. Only slowly do the words rattle into your mind and, as you quickly empty the last of it, you leave the truck with quick steps.

"Where's Daryl?" you ask Rick, whom you spot first. He just looks over his shoulder and points his finger at Daryl, who is busy checking his crossbow in every function. Without further delay, you walk up to him and stop right in front of him. He doesn't even lift his eyes, even though you could bet he already recognized you by your feet. Panting, you cross your arms in front of your chest as best you can with a baby in front of you.

" Ya finished?" he mumbles without looking up from his crossbow. With these words, he doesn't help your mood at all. First he brings you something to eat and then he ignores you again.

"Where the hell are we going?" you ask, slowly crouching down to sit in front of him. You're not going to give him another chance to tune you out. Even if he tries. But he won't give you an answer. Without pause, you stare at him as the anger inside you continues to boil.

"Hey YN. Can we head out? Your stuff's all in the truck already" Rick calls out to you, at which point you take your eyes off Daryl for the first time. Only now do you realize that the camp doesn't really exist anymore. The traces of yesterday's attack are still clearly visible, but all the tents that are still usable have been dismantled and the vehicles, except for Daryl's truck, are lined up and ready to leave.

"Daryl! WHERE THE FUCK ARE WE GOING?" you yell at him now. You don't want to leave here, even after the attack. Because everywhere else is just as unsafe, if not more than that. But here at least you know your way around.

"To the CDC" he explains tersely and now looks at you for the first time. But he doesn't look at your face, avoiding your gaze as he keeps looking only at the bundle in front of your chest.

"Are you fucking kidding me?.... I won't go away from here!" you yell and get back on your feet again. Without another word you rush to Daryls truck and immediately start to search for your things. Stupidly they're not IN the truck, no. They're on the truck which makes it quite difficult with the baby on the arm to get them.

'Wait! Hey, now calm down for fuck's sake!" you hear Daryls voice, but you dont stop trying to find a way to get on the trunk to get your backpack. Only when you feel him grabbing your wrist you stop in your movement and turn around to meet his pleading gaze.

"… ya shouldn't stay here… not alone… and not with the baby" he tries to convince you, but you only answer with a huff.

"I was good on my own… and don't act like you would care! You showed me well enough how much you cared of us in the past asshole!" you hiss at him and frown as he then lets go of your wrist. When you look to the side, you know why.

"Rick, why are we going to the CDC?" you ask frowning, and listen to every single word, that Rick has for you. When he explains it all makes sence. But the fact that nobody informed you, is still bothering you.

"We all thought you would be ok with that. To have the baby and you save. When you don't want to you still can go with Morales. They're heading to their family in Birmingham" he then shrugs and after one gaze to Daryl he turns around to go back to Lori and Carl.

You also look one more time to Rick, them follow him. You can see on how the people are standing around the cars, who is going in which car.

You have to make a decision. Heading to Birmingham or the CDC? Pondering you look around. It's not really a choice you have. It's for sure that Morales can barely keep his own family and kids safe. And the CDC? There would be the two police officers around you… and Daryl…

Slowly you turn around, seeing that he slowly approaches you.

"Decide where ya wanna go?" he asks with his raspy voice.

"I guess I'll go with you to the CDC… in the RV… seems to be most comfortable" you say with a forced smile whereupon Daryl immediately intervenes.

"Na... forget it!" he says in a harsh tone and as he gets closer to you, you instinctively take a step back. You have no other choice. Rick's car is already full. Shane's car is practically a cabriolet and offers no protection at all. T-Dog and Andrea have the car full of all kinds of stuff that didn't fit in the other cars.

"Oh and you bet I will Dixon.... That's not your decision!" you hiss at him and want to turn around to go to the RV.

"Ya ain't gettin' in there! That's suicide! Now get in the fuckin' truck!" he yells at you, to which you stop and look questioningly at him.

"What exactly is so bad about the trailer?" you ask hesitantly, catching sight of Jaquie walking into the trailer with some towels.

"Jim... he was bitten...listen.... I know ya don't want to go with me in the truck!.... But I'm not goin' to let you ride with that ticking time bomb no matter what!" he explains, glancing over and over at the RV and at you over and over again, as if he's just waiting for you to finally move in the direction of the truck.

"Oh man... then I have no other choice....this is going to be a great ride," you scoff and stomp back to the truck.

*

For the most part, you just look out the window on the ride. Meanwhile, Charlie is sleeping again. Although it won't be too long before she gets hungry again.

A smile creeps onto your face as the feeling of deja-vu spreads through you. The last time you sat in that truck, you never would have dreamed that just a year later you'd be holding a baby in your arms. Just for a second, the thought turns aloud, what if you'd never gone to that party. If you had stayed stubborn.

Then it would be easier for you now in any case. In every way.

But as Charlie moves a little in the fabric, and you look to her, you know that she is after all the best thing that ever happened to you, somehow. In fact, you should be grateful to Penny. Because no matter how hard and exhausting it is to manage all of this, and more than anything, to survive it, you don't want to miss it. Even if you'd rather sleep through it, push away the fears and worries about your girl. But you have never loved so unconditionally. Never before have you felt so deeply, without any doubt.

In a way, this baby has saved you, several times actually you suppose. You don't know how deep you would have sunk with Penny. She was somehow always your anchor, and you always went back to her. If it hadn't been for Charlie, you probably would have ended up drugged up on the couch next to Penny, too. And then when Rick and the others found you. You're not sure they would have even stopped, let alone taken you with them, if Charlie hadn't been there. So she saved you without knowing it.

A sigh escapes you as Charlie's movements increase and are followed by a soft whimper. You look to Daryl, who has his gaze fixed on the road. He clutches the steering wheel in a firm grip and seems to be lost in thought.

"Hey....slow down... Mommy's not that fast" you laugh in a low voice and push Charlie into position and your shirt to the side so she can drink. A sigh escapes you as she docks, and you somehow try to find a comfortable position on the seat.

"How much longer are we going to drive?" you ask without looking to Daryl.

" Dunno, can't be much longer" he mumbles in response.

Silence reigns again. As you keep looking out the window, trying to forget everything that has happened for a moment, you don't notice that Daryl is glancing at you from time to time.

Only when he reaches for the glove compartment and opens it, you turn your head to see what he is doing. He keeps looking at the road, rummaging blindly through the whole mess, and it takes him a while to find what he was looking for. Without taking his eyes off the road even a little, he finally holds out a granola bar to you.

"Here, take this... " he mumbles and waits for you to accept the bar. You hesitate for a moment, but when you can hear the grumbling in your stomach, you finally grasp it gratefully. You spend the rest of the ride in silence. Like before, like last time. Only without the shopping bags. You snort as you think about it, and thanks to your stubborn head, you've dragged the damn bags to the apartment by yourself.

As you see the brake lights of the others come on, you look questioningly at Daryl. You're in the middle of the woods, there's no building here, why the hell are they stopping?

"Stay in the truck!" Daryl demands of you, and turns off the engine. You don't even have time to contradict him and watch as you walk towards Dale's trailer.

For a short moment you think about whether you should leave the truck or not. You can't see what's happening from here, the only thing you see is Daryl walking up and down with quick steps.

For now, then, the situation seems under control.

You close your eyes, leaning your head back as you realize how thirsty you actually are. But as you look around the truck, you find nothing. At least not without crawling around inside, which is impossible to do with a baby at your tit.

Frowning, you glance at the glove compartment and finally lean forward cautiously. When you open it, you see the same chaos as before. Empty packages, a lot of paper trash, gloves, and a lot of other crap that you push aside only with caution, afraid you might reach into something that could hurt you.

But again, unfortunately, there's nothing drinkable. When you pull your hand out again, and want to close the glove compartment again, you unfortunately pull the garbage with you. Cursing, you quickly grab it, bend over as best you can with Charlie in your arms, and freeze in your motion as you find a photo lying among the trash.

With trembling fingers you pick it up and look at it from all sides. You have searched for this photo, everywhere in your apartment, in all your pockets. But you never found it.

How the hell did it end up here in the truck?

When you hear footsteps coming closer and closer to the truck, you push the things, stupidly including the photo, frantically back into the compartment, closing it just as Daryl opens the driver's door again.

Your heart races as if a child had been caught helping itself to candy without permission.

Silently, you watch him get in and can't stop thinking about the fact that the photo of you and your daughter is right here in the truck. In Daryl's truck. Okay, actually, it's Merle's truck. But what if he's not the one who found the photo, but Penny? That means at least somebody was in your apartment. Could one of them have been looking for you?

Your heart leaps at the thought, and you hope it wasn't Penny.

"Ya okay?" Daryl finally asks, because you can't stop staring at him.

"Sure... Yeah... um... I just... you got anything to drink.... maybe?" you stutter and clear your throat, making your dry throat even worse.

For a brief moment, your eyes meet and you're surprised to see something you last saw at the party, before Penny got you drunk and Charlie was created: that teeny-tiny shy smile, barely visible and yet so obvious. You can't help but return the smile, even though it's gone faster than you can count to three. As soon as he reaches under the driver's seat and pulls out a large bottle of water, it's gone again, as if it had never been there.

*

You were so happy when you finally arrived. You could go outside, walk around a little. Even though Daryl followed you wherever you went, and only reluctantly gave you your backpack because he really wanted to carry it.

But there was no one opening the door. And then the walkers woke up like they'd just been in a winter sleep. And pretty quickly panic set in. Daryl left your side even less as a result, yelling at Shane and Rick. And when you all finally made your way back to the cars, something happened. When hope had already been given up, the gate finally opened.

And now, after the fear that no one was left, and an almost hopeless discussion with Jenner, you're safe for the first time in weeks. Really safe, not like in the camp.

No, this is different.

The walkers can't get in here. No way.

The only thing Jenner asks of each of you is a blood sample. Nothing more, nothing less. In itself, that's not a problem. But it breaks your heart when he insists on even taking a sample from your little Charlie. You tried to talk to him, to convince him that she'd be okay if you were. But he wasn't willing to be persuaded.

And so now tears well up in your eyes as Charlie, despite a pacifier and a tight hug, cries her heart out as the needle pierces her little arm.

"Is that really necessary to torture a baby?" Daryl finally yells across the room while you try to calm your baby somehow. Jenner ignores him, labels the capsule with the blood, then turns to you.

"Now it's your turn" he explains, already putting the loop around your arm.

"Dr. Jenner?" you ask carefully as he guides the needle to your arm. He doesn't answer, just hums in confirmation.

"Do you think they could do a special test here?" you whisper as you lean toward him, feeling your heart start to beat faster. Hopefully none of the others heard it. They're all a ways away, and really, no one should have heard.

You know what the answer is, you don't need a test. But you want it written down. You want the ultimate proof that you've been treated unfairly all along. You don't even need this test to prove anything to Daryl. Because right now, you're not quite sure you even want it. Even if he has treated you a little more human again since camp.

"What do you mean? What test do you want me to take for you? Do you want me to check the iron level? Or your vitamins? I can test some of them here, but unfortunately not all of them...? Do you have any symptoms? Fatigue? Dizziness? It wouldn't be unusual." he asks quietly, and only when he has pulled the last cannula out of your arm and pressed the swab onto it does he look to you with a searching gaze, as if he could read the answer in your face.

"No... it's... something else" you clear your throat, while he also labels your capsule and puts it next to the others'. You go first on purpose so you can get it over with quickly. You couldn't have known he'd want to draw Charlie's blood, too. That it would be a lot worse than him taking ten pints of your blood.

"I'd need a paternity test..." you mumble so quietly that you can barely understand it yourself, the very fact that you're asking shames you. A thousand thoughts pop right into your head about what this man would think of you, what a bitch you would be. But you actually should not care. Because you know the truth.

Slowly he turns to you, so he has heard you, even if you were so silent. But his look is anything but reproachful. You watch him as he removes the swab from your arm and puts a plaster on the spot. He slowly bends down to your ear, and you're so grateful that he's sensitive about it that not everyone overhears.

"That's not a problem... Who is it? " he asks in a calm voice, rolling back in his chair to the blood samples, and coming back with Charlie's.

"Daryl...the one with the crossbow.... please don't tell him... ok?" you plead with him as tears come to your eyes. You have no clue if anyone overheard or if Jenner would spill the beans. At least it's out now and you feel relieved to have asked him. Because how could Daryl continue to refuse to be there for his daughter when you have it written on paper?

"It's entirely at your own personal discretion whether you want to tell him the result..." he explains with a gentle smile.

"I already know the result..." you whisper as Jener strokes Charlie's head once briefly before putting her sample back into the container with his note.

"Next," Jenner calls to the group as you're already on your way to one of the chairs away from the group. You need to sort out your thoughts, figure out if this was the right decision. Whether there's any point in proving it to him at all.

[boywivloveficrecs]

Broken love ( Daryl x reader) #10

and.. another chapter... didn't really expect, that so many of you would love this :) Thanks for all the comments, likes and reblogs.

And now... let's go for another chapter!

Masterlist

#10 - the lake

He did not say goodbye.

He left as if he had nothing to do with you.

No gaze, no goodbye, not a word. With wet eyes you look at the blue water of the lake, and enjoy the cool freshness that surrounds your feet and try to forget what happened: the walkers, the whole thing with Penny, that Daryl steals away from his responsibility, that you are alone.

For the first time in a very long time you feel something like relaxing, even if your thoughts can't stop. You quickly washed your clothes because, unlike the others, you don't have a lot of clothes to change into.

But when you offered to help the others, Carol waved you off and brought you one of the blankets instead, so you could get comfortable on the beach with Charlie.

"Then she can move around a bit, do some kicking" she had added with a wink. You have to admit that you have Charlie in the sling a lot, but it's just a precautionary measure. After all, how else are you going to be able to run away quickly if you have to wrap her up first?

But here and now, the moment seems to be good. At the edge of the lake, you actually have a chance to look at your daughter from a different perspective.

She is even awake and seems to be very happy about her newfound freedom. You start to playfully count her little fingers with her, do the same with her toes, at which point she starts to giggle.

It feels so good to see her happy that you can forget your worries for a moment. Now all that matters is you and Charlie, the two of you together right here.

Again and again Charlie tries to reach for your face, gurgling, as you kiss her little hands. It seems safe here, surrounded by nothing but boulders, rocks, hidden by the trees.

You don't really listen to what the others are saying, tuning them out completely because you just want to enjoy this quiet and peaceful moment.

As in a daydream, you hear the laughter of the other women, but the only thing that's real is the smile on Charlie's face as she plays with you. At some point, some words enter your consciousness that make you sit up and take notice. Charlie doesn't mind, thankfully, but as you turn your gaze to the women, your heart begins to race.

As Ed tosses the wet shirt back to Andrea and she takes a step back, startled, you wince as a few of the water droplets hit you, so hard did he toss it back. Ed is visibly pissed, and you don't like it. Not after the way he acted the night before. And even less so when Carol tries to stop Andrea.

"Ain't my job, missy." you hear his voice, and at the same moment you start wrapping Charlie hectically in the sling. The mood is tipped within a split second, forcing you to be careful. As if you had sensed it, the voices quickly grow louder, and once you have Charlie safely wrapped, you carefully move away from the scene, inch by inch. Apparently just fast enough.

The smacking bang as Ed's hand hits Carol's face causes a riot you didn't expect. You didn't believe that all of them would really stand behind Carol, and even at the risk of being hurt by Ed, get in front of her and defend her. Rooted to the spot, you watch what's happening, hugging Charlie to you in the belief that she's safe from all this that way.

When Shane then appears and grabs Ed by the collar, you take a deep, shuddering breath. You realize only now that you've been holding your breath since the slap, and especially how scared you are.

Again and again Shane punches him, without mercy. And even though you know Ed deserves it, you wince with each hit. Until he finally stops. He hisses something at Ed that you can't understand because you're standing too far away, but when another punch lands in your face, you let out a startled scream.

Fortunately Charlie doesn't care about all that, she's so busy playing with your shirt that nothing is going to bother her that easily.

"Oh you are not fucking serious...." you curse under your breath as Carol crawls to Ed in response, crying and apologizing. Doesn't this woman have an ounce of self-respect? You decide you'd better get back to camp, and walk past Ed, head shaking, who lies on the ground gasping in his own blood, while Carol crouches over him, somehow trying to fix him up.

The path to the camp is rough and anything but an easy walk. Especially in this weather, and when you're wrapped in a huge piece of cloth to carry your baby. But you don't dare carry her in your arms that way. Even though it would be easier and much more comfortable for both of you.

You feel a little queasy on the way up, alone, now surrounded by trees again. What if another one of those bastards shows up? Except for your gun and your knife, you have nothing to protect yourself. You would be completely lost and Charlie would be even more.

Maybe it really is better in the group. Even if you'd much rather be alone than with people you don't know and can judge even less. Thoughtfully, you kick one of the last stones that have found their way into the forest path in front of you.

Fortunately, the last bit from the beginning of the forest to the camp is not far. But still, this little hike has sucked all the energy you had left.

"Hey, are you hungry? We cooked some of the squirrels that Daryl brought in the stew" Morales calls out to you with a smile and without waiting for a response from you, the next moment you already have a bowl in your hand.

"But I...you should give to the kids first" you try to contradict, but these people don't give you a chance.

" No way, the kids are already full. You have to eat. You're breastfeeding, and you haven't eaten very much since you got here. And I bet your meals haven't been much before, either, have they?" Miranda tells you, pushing the bowl closer to you. Speechless, you look at the bowl of food. You have never experienced this kind of helping attitude before. And somehow it also scares you.

When you still can't convince them that you don't need so much of the food, you finally take a bite, sighing, while you try to forget that you are eating a cute, fluffy squirrel.

At first, you have to fight the sickness that comes up. It just tastes like... Meat. Different from anything you've eaten before, and you think you detect a nutty flavor.

It's not as bad as you expected, and above all, it makes the queasy feeling in your stomach disappear with each bite. You don't know when was the last time you ate so much, and especially when you ate it warm.

The canned food you had with you, you had to ration, because you couldn't know when you'd find something again. And it was rarely warm, because you often ate on the road and on the go.

This is the first time since the refugee camp that you feel like you have had enough to eat.

The downside of the whole thing is that it also makes you tired at the same time. The sun is already low, it won't be long before it's dark again.

Quietly, the question creeps in, wondering what's up with Daryl. Did he find Merle, is he still alive? Is Penny still with him? You're afraid of him showing up at camp with them, and especially of how they'd treat you, especially Penny.

Would these strangers then stand by you, as they had done with Carol?

Shaking your head, you empty the last of the brew from your bowl and set it down in front of you thoughtfully, your gaze falling on the sleeping Charlie. Her hand still clutches tightly into your shirt as she hides her head safely resting against your shoulder. The tiredness makes it hard for you to even sit up again, and you realize how much sleep you're missing, how exhausting the last two weeks outside have been, with a baby robbing additional energy from your body.

"You want some more? There's plenty," Morales offers, and after a glance at the pot, you know that's a bad lie. They mean well, and you can estimate how much he can cook from the leftover squirrels, but it's just enough for everyone here so no one has to go to sleep with a crooked belly.

"No thanks... Gonna go to sleep... I haven't slept much in the last few weeks since the refugee camp was overrun" you smile at him and look again at Charlie.

"And who knows how long she'll let me sleep...." you mumble to yourself, gently stroking the temple of your little girl, who responds with a slight smile on her lips.

You look around searching, because you had actually planned to sleep in the truck again. But Rick and the others had taken it with them to look for Merle.

"Shit..." you curse up, because under no circumstances do you want to spend the night in one of those damn tents. You wouldn't get any sleep anyway, because you'd be too afraid of one of the walkers stumbling into you.

"You can sleep in the car."

Startled, you turn around and catch sight of Morale's daughter, whose name you've forgotten again. She smiles at you in a friendly way and points her finger at the jeep, which is a bit away from the rest.

" You think that's okay?" you ask the girl, frowning, to which she nods.

"Of course it is, now go to sleep" Miranda interferes, pulling you by your arm towards the jeep.

"Here, take this" she explains, holding out a dark piece of cloth to you "You can cover the window with this if the little one gets hungry" she explains, because she overheard what happened last night. And she has kids of her own, so she knows how much this situation sucked for you.

"I... thank you..." you stutter and after a hesitation take the cloth. You can't explain how much it hits you that these people seem to care about you and Charlie. As Miranda opens the back door of the Jeep and begins to fold down the back seats, however, you stop her.

"This... That's not necessary, Miranda.... I sleep very well this way, you don't have to move the whole car" you explain to her, but she doesn't let you stop her, and even calls the kids to help.

You feel so uncomfortable that you want to run away.

"Oh, baby. Will you look at that? Hey, check it out. Ladies... Because of you my children will eat tonight. Thank you."

Just like Miranda and her children, you also turn to Morales, who is holding a whole bunch of fish that Andrea and Amy have caught. That's really enough food for everyone here. A smile creeps onto your face, and as you look back to the jeep, whose back seat and trunk have turned into a large area in a short time, you realize that everyone here is looking out for each other in this place. Not like in the refugee camp, or like in the time before the outbreak.

Even Daryl seems to have done his part, after all he came back with a haul that would have been enough for him and his brother along with Penny for at least two days, if not longer.

"There, now you're comfortable. Honey, can you get me one of those pillows and the blue wool blanket?" Miranda calls to her daughter, who without protest directly complies with her mother's request.

"I don't know how I can ever thank you... or make it up to you..." you explain, swallowing hard as the little girl hands you the bedding.

"You won't need this. Everything balances out in the end, dear. Now go to sleep before the little girl gets hungry" Miranda smiles at you, and after a moment of hesitation, pulls you into a gentle hug. You are so surprised that you can't return it, and gaze after the three of them for a moment as they make their way back to the fire.

As you get into the jeep, as you do every time you sleep in a car, first you check that all the doors are properly closed, that the lock is secure. Normally you also close all the windows, but the warm air is so crushing that even here in the shade it wouldn't take long before it would be too warm. However, you open all the windows just a crack so that just enough air can get in that it doesn't get too uncomfortable.

As you lie down, making yourself as comfortable as you can, you look around again. It's safe here in the car, no question about it, which is why you decide to untie the sheet and carefully lay Charlie down next to you. You put the blanket beside you, ready to reach, because once the sun will have set, it will be cooler and you will definitely need it.

For a very long moment, you look at Charlie's sleeping face, and a tear makes its way down your face. But not because you're sad, not this time. It's the hope that's spreading through you, the pleasure of having found this group, even if you're afraid of what will happen when you come face to face with Penny.

But this positive feeling and the certainty that you are at least safe for this night manages to override all the fears at the moment, so that you drift off into a deep sleep quite quickly.

*

When a scream awakens you, you sit straight and push aside the cloth that Miranda had given you and that you had attached to the window. Was it only a dream? A dream you had, as you often do, about the people you saw die?

A glance at Charlie tells you that at least everything is all right with her. But that quickly changes when the car suddenly shakes because someone or something bumped into it. Since the windows are open a bit, the ominous moaning of the dead booms loudly into the car, whereupon Charlie wakes up and starts crying at the same time.

"Shit... NO... shhhh... calm down my darling... Mommy is here... nothing will happen to you..." you whisper to her and take her safely in your arms to calm her down. In the rush and the fear that one of them could get into the car, you can' t find the pacifier, and what had to happen, happens.

Charlie's loud crying attracts them, and you slip to the other side of the car, startled, as the fingers of an undead squeeze into the gap of the window.

" Calm down... the car is safe.... you just have to be quiet my darling" you whisper to her again and again, even though you are shaking like aspen leaves yourself. Frozen in place, you sit on the other side and hope that the window doesn't give way, while you search for the damn pacifier with only one hand, which should be attached to Charlie's clothes.

But as you scan the baby's shirt, you suddenly spot the pacifier. Detached from the chain, on the other side, where the danger threatens.

"Shit... fucking hell..." you curse up, and suddenly an idea comes to you. What do you need a pacifier for, when you have the most practical soothing item with you on your body.

"Hey... everything's fine my darling.... come here..." you tell Charlie, as you free your breast with trembling hands, in a desperate attempt to turn off the loud crying that thunders in your ears worse than any siren that had howled in the city. Not for a second do you take your eyes off the undead, trying to suppress every sound yourself as you rock Charlie in your arms. Luckily it works, and the crying slowly turns into a soft whimper once she reaches your nipple.

However, that doesn't stop the walker from still wanting to get into the car.

"Why don't you just go away.... please..." you cry in a low voice, wiping the tears from your face as you hug Charlie tighter. But just when you thought that maybe something else would distract the dead man, it comes worse than you expected. The moment you hear the crunching of the glass, you begin to pray for the first time seriously and clench with your free hand the gun that you have put next to you for safety's sake. In your mind, the worst possible scenarios of Charlie being ripped to shreds by the walkers begin to play in your mind.

And when the windows disappear into the door with a loud crash, the adrenaline in your blood dampens everything at once. Screaming, you hold the gun in front of you, pulling your legs towards you as the walker forces itself more and more into the car.

But just as he's about to grab your feet with his fingers, there's sudden silence, except for your frantic breathing, and the soft whimpering of Charlie.

The dead man no longer moves, he no longer moans. But it's not until you can make out the arrow that has pierced through his skull that you're sure he's really dead.

"YN! Ya ‘kay?... FUCK... get yer ugly ass out here ya dammit motherfucker...."

You laugh in disbelief with tears in your eyes as you recognize Daryl's voice, and the walker slowly moves back out of the car as Daryl drags him out.

"YN! Answer me for fuck’s sake!" Hectically he opens the door, and freezes in his movement as he recognizes you, crouched down, half naked, with the gun in your hand. His gaze softens, and he's visibly relieved as his eyes go to Charlie, who's clutching your breast frightened.

"...Is the... Is yer baby ‘kay?" he asks, stuttering, to which you first look at Charlie, checking. With wide eyes she looks at you, and only in this you realize the way you are actually sitting here.

"Yeah she's ok..." you mutter, quickly grabbing the blanket you had laid next to you to cover yourself.

"Stay where ya are," Daryl prompts you to which you protest immediately.

" Not! No, hey wait! Daryl! Don't leave, please! The fucking window is broken..." you call after him with tears as he walks around the car.

You jump in fright as the door opens behind you and Daryl holds out his hand for you to get out.

"Ain’t leavin’...Let's join the others.... We should stay together...it's safer" he explains to you. As you grab his hand, it feels like an electric shock, but as you look to him, you notice that he's avoiding your gaze like he does most of the time. You don't notice that he will keep watching you. While you're on your way to the others, or as you stare stunned at the battlefield the walkers have left behind. Or when Charlie finally falls back asleep, and Lori holds the sheet in front of you so you can put everything back. Again and again he glances at you, checking to see if you're okay.

"We should clean up," Shane's voice sounds as you still can't take your eyes off all the dead. You are startled when Daryl suddenly stands in front of you, with the axe over his shoulder.

"Ya should get in the truck" he explains to you and you follow his gaze to the old truck he used to drive you home that time when your car was broken. You shake your head automatically first, to which he gives an annoyed snort.

"Listen! I don't care if ya want to get eaten. But yer baby should be safe. Ain’t safe for her out here, someone can always wake up and bite her too! So get yer fuckin’ ass in the truck !" he scolds you. But even though his choice of words is anything but polite, you can hear the concern in his voice.

"Your daughter's name is Charlie" you explain sniffling as you realize he referred to her as "your baby".

"Stop it!... Ya going in the fuckin’ truck now or what?.... Or am I goin’ to get that baby for ya and put it in safety?" he hisses at you now as his concerned gaze keeps going to the cloth Charlie is sleeping in. Beads of sweat form on his forehead and his gaze becomes increasingly pleading the longer he waits for a response from you.

"Fine... whatever you say..." you finally give in and follow him to the truck. To your surprise, this time there are no beer bottles rolling towards you. It's still cluttered, but at least with things you need to survive, more or less.

"Ya ain’t touch anything, ‘kay?" his voice is much softer now as he then closes the door. Frowning, you look after him. Sooner or later, he's going to have to face all of this. He would have to see that Charlie is his daughter. As long as Merle and Penny don't brainwash him again, like they did before.

[boywivloveficrecs]

The Dog at the Door

remmick x fem!reader

18+/MDNI

w.c: 7.9k (i am just as surprised as you are)

Summary: Based on this concept that I posted awhile ago that really took off. I don't know when I developed the intense need to destroy this man, but here we are. I needed to exorcise this from my brain, so...enjoy.

Warnings: Smut!! Should also add that I have never written smut before lol so sorry if it sucks. Vampirsm, blood sucking, oral sex (f!receiving), sub!Remmick, pathetic!Remmic, begging kink, control kink, praise kink, p in v sex, intense power dynamics, pet names, mentions of religion, obsessive behavior, hair pulling, dom!Reader (sort of), torture, burning skin, cutting, knife play, spit play, drool, monsterfucking, treating Remmick like a dog, I really just want to inflict as much pain on him as is humanly possible.

Reblogs, comments, and likes always appreciated! Please reblog if you like what you read; it helps keep writers engaged in fandom spaces and creating cool shit for you!

Special thank you to @spikedfearn for not only being one of the best writers in the Freaks for Remmick community, but also for beta reading this and encouraging me to write it! Please check her stuff out, she's a fantastic writer!

Tags: @001-side @slasherflickchick @plutoniumwritten @parasiticatholic

You sat on your porch in the late evening sunlight, sipping your sweet tea and listening to the soft song of the crickets all around you as they settled in for the night. It wouldn’t be long now. He was fairly consistent; true, if he needed to feed, he’d be a little longer. Crawling up to your door, well into the night, covered in drying blood, claws still showing, fangs barely hidden. Other nights, he’d stroll up right after the sun dipped below the horizon, looking like a true gentleman– clean, composed, in control. You couldn’t tell which version of him you would get on any given night. And that was part of what made it so exciting.

It had gone on this way for months. The sun starts to set. He comes to your door. The two of you fool around– sometimes. Other nights, you didn’t fool around so much as…play games. Oh, you knew what he was. No question about that. There was just something so delicious in denying him. Keeping him on your porch like a hungry dog, begging and crawling and clawing to get in. Knowing that, no matter how desperately he whined or how violently he dug his nails into the floorboards, he could not enter without your permission. He hung on your every word, waiting to hear those two little words that beckoned him in, inviting him to worship at your altar. It was deliciously fun, riling him up, tearing through his humanity, before letting him in. But sometimes…sometimes you just let him sit there. All night. Whimpering. Starving. Deranged. Just for fun.

The sun was just starting to kiss the edge of the horizon. You glanced from the setting sun back towards the parting of trees that opened from your long driveway into the clearing around your house. He would be here soon. You could feel it. 

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The soft sound of creaking wood catches your attention.

You glance at the clock above your kitchen cabinets. 9:47pm. He’s later than you anticipated.

You freeze. Listen. You can hear him shifting his weight from one foot to the other, the boards of your porch sighing underneath him. You hear his breath, soft and sweet, before–

“Sweetheart. Ya there?”

You don’t say anything. He knows you’re inside. Hell, he could smell a human being from miles away. It gives you an idea.

You quietly walk over to your old recliner and silently lower yourself into the chair. On the ground just next to the chair is where you keep your sewing kit. While you were no expert, life in the Delta necessitated a few basic sewing skills. Thorns snagging at your dress, threadbare patches blooming in pieces of clothing passed down through the generations. But tonight, you don’t reach for any thread– just a needle. You can still hear Remmick breathing just outside your front door, confusedly listening to you move around inside. You take the sewing needle and quickly, painlessly, jab it into your left index finger. Outside, you hear his breath catch in his throat, a sound like he was being strangled.

Wordlessly, you creep towards the door. You wrap your hand around the doorknob, twist, and pull. He’s standing there, as if he had just had his forehead pressed to the door. Eyes wild, fangs barely peeking out from behind his lips. Those lips twist into a stupid, happy grin.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“Just, uh, come ‘round to see ya.” 

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry, didn’t hear ya. I seem to have made a little bit of a mess.”

You hold your finger up in the tiny space there is between you. It’s beaded with blood, the tiniest bit starting to drip down the side of your finger.

“Oh, uh,” he stutters, eyes now transfixed on your wound. “I could…help ya, y’know…clean that up.”

He’s staring at the blood inching its way down your finger. You’re staring at his eyes, pupils blown huge, black and gaping. You’ve got him.

“Oh, no, that’s okay. I wouldn’t want to make ya clean up after me.”

Slowly, deliberately, you lift your finger to your mouth. You lick up the stripe of blood running down the length of your finger before taking your fingertip in your mouth, sucking lightly. His face twists with pain, like he’s just been kicked in the stomach. You gently release your finger, examining the tiny injury, no longer dripping red.

“All better,” you smile wickedly. Your heart is already thumping hard in your chest. You’re certain he can hear it– it’s the one secret you wish you could keep from him. Telling him how badly you want him, even as you torture him, sweet and slow.

“Let me in, sugar.” And so it begins. Your favorite game. “Let me in, please?”

“I don’t know…townsfolk always whisperin’ about somethin’ out there in the dark. Somethin’ evil.”

“Oh yeah? Why don’t you let me in, I’ll show you how evil I can be.” 

The grin returns to his face, but you can tell it takes effort this time. His hair is damp, sticking to his temples with sweat. He’s clean of blood, so you know he hasn’t fed tonight. But he’s covered in sweat and dirt, the gentle kiss of the Mississippi heat. 

“I don’t know…” you tease. Blood starts to swell from the prick in your finger again. You gently rest your hand on the doorframe, noting the way his cocky grin fades as his eyes follow your hand.

“C’mon, baby, let me in. Let me be good to you,” he murmurs, his composure hanging on by a thread.

Wordlessly, you take a step back into your house and grab hold of the door. You go to shut it before–

“Wait.”

Slowly, he sinks to his knees, your porch groaning underneath his weight.

“Please, I don’t want to play like this tonight, baby. Please.”

His eyes stare up at you, still huge, still black. Not a trace of his usual blue left. But no hint of that reflective red yet, either. Hm.

You slowly lower yourself to your knees, eye level with him, never breaking eye contact. His breathing comes in quick, ragged breaths. You lean back, slowly sitting on the floor, right in front of the threshold. The invisible line keeping him away from you, like an electric fence, sizzles under the weight of his want. You raise your left foot to the doorframe, sending your nightgown down towards your hips. Your right knee is crossed in front of you, the last obstacle between the two of you. His hands fly to the outside of the doorframe, connecting with such force that you feel the shock wave travel through your foot and up the length of your leg. 

“Play? Who’s playin’?” you drawl, with a sweetness that you know only intoxicates him more. You notice a bead of drool at the corner of his mouth. 

“C’mon, sugar, lemme– let me in now, please.” He stumbles over his words. Fucking pathetic.

“You want to come in?”

He’s almost shaking. He nods his head slowly, eyes never leaving your center, as if he could make you move your leg just by focusing hard enough. A wicked idea flashes through your brain. As if sensing it, his inquisitive, almost fearful, eyes dart up to meet yours. You smile slowly, baring your teeth to him as you sink back onto your elbows. You drop your head back, exposing your neck to the incoming cool of the night air. He’s breathing through his mouth, raw and ragged, as if he can’t get enough oxygen into his lungs.

“Pl-please…please…” The word almost sounds like a prayer on his tongue, something uttered over and over, falling on deaf ears.

You let yourself sink so you’re lying completely on the floor. You move your right knee, torturously slow, until you’re entirely exposed to him. You hear a sound, a strangled choking sound, like an animal caught in a trap. Slowly, you bring your hand down between your legs.

“No, no, please, baby, please, let me in, I’ll be so good to you, please, don’t do this, don’t–” his begging is cut off by the gentle sigh that escapes you, and the tortured cry that rises from him in turn. You drag your fingers between your folds while he writhes on the ground, just inches from you. His hands snap from the doorframe to the ground with a loud crack. His forehead kisses the ground as if he’s a sinner begging for forgiveness. You just smile.

You delicately toy with yourself, just out of his grasp. Your eyes roll back in your head as your fingers rub your clit. And the whole time, he’s crying for you.

“PLEASE, baby, I can’t take it no more. Please let me in,” he begs, face still connected to the floor. He sounds wounded, as if you shot him. The raw need in his voice just fuels your fire. You quicken your movements, working towards your release. Your moans, quick and breathy, sting in his ears. 

“You want to come in here?” you coo quietly. Affectionate. As if you’re considering it.

He lifts his head to look at you. There’s a string of drool connecting his lips to a small puddle on the porch. He looks like a wreck. Sweat, dirt, heat, drool, desire. Sickening. Delicious.

His eyes gleam red in the darkness.

“Yes,” he rasps. “Yes, please.” 

He sounds like a man who’s crawled on hands and knees through the desert, only to be met with a mirage. You grin. His fangs are protruding, like they’re too big in his mouth. His claws are out, and you can see the scratches he’s made on the porch, like a dog locked in a room trying to dig its way under the door. Seeing him like this, undone. A monster, a killer, completely at your mercy.

You drop your head back again as you finish. Your ecstasy washes over you in waves. A choked moan escapes him– half desire, half agony. When you finally come back down, you sit up slowly in the doorway. He doesn’t have any more words. He just sits, stares, pants. You bring your fingers, still wet with your slick, to rest gently on the inside of the doorframe. He presses his cheek against the outside, that invisible line keeping him back by barely a centimeter. His tongue gently grazes over his fangs, his eyes locked on your fingers.

“Please, darlin’, let me clean ya up. Please, I’ll, I’ll be gentle. No teeth. I’ll be good. I promise.”

“You’re pathetic, Remmick.”

Finally hearing your name from his lips, he groans, eyes screwed shut, in that limbo between torture and pleasure.

“I know,” he sighs. “Fuck, I know. Just…please, I gotta taste ya. Please. Just this, just your fingers, just one taste. You’re killin’ me sweetheart, please.” 

You almost pity him. You would pity him, you think, if it wasn’t so divine seeing him beg.

You push yourself up to your knees, eye level with him once more, your noses almost touching. The invisible line. The electric fence. 

“Goodnight, Remmick.” Your breath blows gentle and sweet and cruel across his face. His features contort in torment as you bring yourself to your feet.

“No, no, please, sugar, please don’t lea–”

Click. You cut him off as you close the door. You cross the floor towards your bedroom, tired and still a little wound up. You swear you can hear him gently sobbing as you tangle in the cotton sheets.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Beautiful sunset.

The oranges, yellows, reds and pinks, all mixing together as if on a painter’s palette. It’s one of your favorite things about living outside of town: this view. Nothing for miles. Just the woods, the creek, the sun, hell, you didn’t even mind the critters. Raccoons, possums, foxes, deer…but your favorite one walks on two legs and whispers your name like it could save him.

You take another sip of your sweet tea when you hear a twig snap off in the growing darkness between the trees. You grin to yourself. He had a tendency to do that. If he showed up late and you decided to torture him, he would be at your door the next day the second the sun disappeared from the sky. Like he was atoning. Like you’d forgive him for making you wait. Putting on a show now, you lift the cool glass up to your temple. The cold condensation dissolves across your skin, bringing at least a little relief in the Mississippi heat. You move the glass down to your neck, letting the ice cold water drip down your neck to the space between your breasts. The woods fall silent. Unnaturally silent, like every living thing has vanished from the dense forest that surrounds your house. 

You glance back towards the setting sun. You stand and cross back into the house, letting the screen door slam behind you.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

There’s a gentle knock at the door. 8:24pm. That’s more like it.

You don’t move. Don’t even breathe. The knock comes again. You hear him under his breath:

“Shit.” 

You can’t help the grin that creeps across your face.

“Baby. It’s me. Let me in?”

He shifts from one foot to the other, the porch creaking under him. He sighs, antsy and frustrated.

“Please, darlin’. Don’t make me keep doin’ this.”

The pain in his voice makes your insides melt. You slink over to the door and gently pull it open.

“Make you do what?”

He’s neat, composed. Light blue button up tucked neatly into his trousers. Suspenders taught over his shoulders. Gold chain barely visible at his throat. No trace of the inhuman mess he was last night. At least, not in his clothes. Not in his body. But the suffering in his eyes tells you everything. 

His voice is barely above a whisper.

“Please don’t make me beg.”

“Fine,” you sigh playfully. “I won’t make you.” He’s eyeing the grin on your face.

“But you will anyway,” you whisper, your cruelty crackling through the space between you. “You’ll beg and cry and drool like the filthy animal you are.”

Instantly, he falls to his knees, groaning. He looks up at you through those long eyelashes. You can already see the outline of his cock pressing against his trousers. 

“Please, darlin’, I’ll do anything you ask–”

“You will?” you cut him off sharply.

He nods his head with such ferocity you’re almost worried he’ll pull something in his neck. Suddenly, you find a new way to play the game.

“Yes ma’am, anything you ask, just say the word and–”

“Take your suspenders down.”

He reaches up to his right shoulder and gently, slowly, pulls the strap off his shoulder, letting it fall to the floor at his side. He does the same with the left.

“Good. Unbutton your shirt.” Your commanding surprises even you. You’ve never played with him like this before, but something about it lights you aflame. Seeing him do everything you instruct, with the reverence of a dog obeying its master. He fumbles with the top button, despite his claws still being sheathed for now. Just the shape of his hands, his once-human-hands, shaking at the buttons, shaking from need.

His shirt unbuttoned, you stare at him, looking him up and down, while his eyes bore into your skull. When your eyes fall back to his, you can see the question in them. He’s asking you, silently: please?

“Tell me what you want.”

He leans forward, bracing himself on all fours.

“Please, baby, let me in. Just wanna come inside, be with ya, feel ya, anything you want, please.” He presses his forehead to the floorboards, reverent.

“No. Tell me what you want to do.”

“Wanna…” he’s struggling to catch his breath. “Wanna lick that pussy so good you’ll lose your voice. Drink every drop of ya. Wanna feel that pussy, so tight, so warm, on my cock, over and over again, all night, give you so many orgasms you lose count, forget your name…please, sugar. Wanna make you mine. Wanna be yours.”

He slowly raises his head to look up at you. He looks like a fucking mess, eyes almost entirely black, sweat and dirt caking his face. There’s thick ropes of drool dripping down his chin, collecting in a dark puddle on your porch.

“What’s that?” you ask harshly.

“Oh, I–”

“Lick it up.”

He stares up at you for a second, uncertain. Finally, he lowers his head to the porch in front of him. He holds your gaze as he sticks his tongue out and slowly laps up his drool.

“Good boy.”

He presses his eyes closed involuntarily, humming in pleasure at the praise.

You smile.

“Come…”

His eyes snap open, all attention on you. His breath hitches in his throat. The sound almost makes you laugh.

“...here.”

His eyes flutter closed and the breath falls out of him, his hope immediately extinguished. Still, he crawls, on his knees, as close as he can to the threshold. You dart your hand out as quickly as you can, giving him no time to react. You snatch his gold chain under one finger and pull it towards you, as close as the laws of…what? Physics? God? The Devil? Whatever force kept that electric fence up. You pull him as close as he could possibly be without being shocked. Your finger and the chain on one side of the fence, the tight skin of his throat on the other.

He gasps, a divine cocktail of shock and desperation.

“You want to come inside?” you tease. He nods again. “Words,” you spit sharply.

“YES. Yes, ma’am, please.” He's starting to sweat, little beads of moisture dotting his forehead. “Just wanna please you. Please. Let me taste you, darlin’, I promise, I can make it so good for you, just let me–”

You give his chain a sharp tug to shut him up. He cries out.

“I don’t let animals into my house, Remmick.” 

He drops his head. You feel something wet drip onto your finger. A teardrop falls from his eye to your hand.

“Please.” He shivers, voice almost completely inaudible. The volume reserved for sinners talking directly to their god. “I’ll be good.”

“My, my, my…sweat, drool, and now tears? You’d make a mess all over my floors.” You drop his chain and slowly start to wrap your hand around his throat. His head shoots back and his eyes roll into the back of his head with a moan so vile and animalistic you silently thank whatever God there might be that your closest neighbors live miles away. 

You smile. As your fingers close around his throat, he hisses and pulls away. He stares up at you, hurt. The burn on his neck sizzles softly in the damp night air. His gaze darts to your hand. 

“Oh, you are evil, ain’tcha? Sweet little girl like you, thought ya had e’rybody fooled.” 

“What? You don’t like ‘em?” You coyly show him your hand, fingers adorned with silver rings.

“Fuck, sweetie.” He’s rubbing at his neck, now almost entirely healed. The tiny amount of silver in your rings isn’t enough to do much damage, you know– just enough to get his attention. “You tryna kill me?”

“Maybe,” you coo softly, the sweetness evaporating any lingering trace of his shock.

“Please, baby, let me in. Let me fuck ya proper. Like you deserve. Please. Wanna see those thighs around my head, over my shoulders, fuck, wanna see–wanna see you…” His eyes flutter closed again, like even the image he was conjuring in his head would be enough to make him cum right there.

“Tell me.” Your tone is even. Not mean, not kind. Part of you wants to hear him out.

He leans back on his haunches, his face is wet with sweat and tears. 

“I’d take you right here on the floor. Bury my face between your legs. Make you cum more times ‘n you can count and thank you for each one, fuck, whatever you want, I’d do it all night. Then I’d come crawlin’ back tomorrow night, beggin’ you to let me do it all over again. Please, sugar, just say it. Just let me in. Can’t stand these fuckin’ games no more.” 

“You know,” you say, crouching down in front of him, still behind the door frame, “when I first moved in here, e’rybody told me about the big bad monster lurkin’ in the woods.”

His eyes meet yours then, huge, sad, pathetic. You can still see a hint of the iris, just barely, the tiniest ring of blue surrounding the endless black of his pupils. 

“They said it only came out at night, and the only way to protect yourself was to stay inside. Garlic. Silver. Sunlight. A stake–” you press your palm flat against his chest, feeling his heart thunder beneath his ribs “--right to the heart.”

His eyes roll back and he moans, obscene and filthy and desperate. Before he can think to snatch your wrist and yank you out onto the porch with him, you pull your hand back behind the threshold. You rise to your feet, standing over him.

“And now here he is, the Big Bad Wolf, on his knees, slobbering at my door like a dog. Ain’t that somethin’?”

He stares up at you, almost like he knows what comes next.

“Please,” he whispers, pitiful. You smile wide.

“Goodnight, Remmick.”

Click.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The next night, he doesn’t even bother knocking. Doesn’t bother announcing himself. He just sits, cross-legged, on your porch, staring up at your door as if he could will it open with his mind. What he doesn’t know is that you’re sitting just on the other side of the door, a mirror image of his desperation. You don’t know how long you sit like that. Silent, just listening to the soft sound of the cricket song and his gentle, even breathing behind the door. Finally, you give in. You reach up and twist the knob, torturously slow. The door creaks open.

“Hey sugar.”

He looks rough. Not to the untrained eye, of course; his shirt is clean, tucked in, his hair fairly neat, even his boots look pretty clean. But you see deeper than that. The slightly sunken look around his eyes that tells you he hasn’t fed in days. The subtle hollowness that carves out his cheekbones, collarbone, even settles around his knuckles, when he’s gone too long without blood. The hungry glint in his eyes that he can’t help, like an animal looking for its next kill.

“You look like shit.”

“Aw hell, come on now, cut a fella some slack. I tried my best for ya, sweetheart.” His voice sounds the way his clothes look–a façade, a too-perfect, lighthearted sound, disguising something darker underneath.

“When was the last time ya fed?”

His eyes drop to the floorboards below him.

“Remmick. Look at me.”

His eyes shoot up to meet yours, that hungry look winning out above the pretenses. His voice drops, too, into something dark and sickly sweet.

“Five days ago.”

“Then what the hell ya doin’ here?” Your voice, barbed and venomous, cuts straight to his heart. “Go find ya some poor bastard to drain ‘stead of wastin’ my time.”

“I can’t, baby. Can’t do nothin’ else. I walk in circles all night, and I keep endin’ up down this road, endin’ up here. Please, sugar, all I’m askin’ for is–”

You let your head roll to one side, pulling the skin of your neck tight over your veins. His sentence stops in his throat as he watches you, swallowing thickly. His eyes have the dull, hypnotized look of hyperfixation as he stares at your neck.

“All you’re askin’ for is…what?”

“Please. Let me in.” His voice is low, but not quiet.

“Why should I?” You drawl, knowing he’s hanging onto your every word.

“I’ll be anything ya want me to be, please. I’ll be so good to you. I’ll be wicked. I’ll–”

His words catch in his throat again as you, on all fours, crawl closer towards the door.

“Y’know, I went to church this mornin’,” you tease. “Preacher said somethin’ interesting. He said…you dance with the devil…one day, he’ll follow ya home.”

Remmick’s breath, coming in short, ragged gasps, inches from your face, was the only sound flooding your senses.

“That what you are, pretty boy? You the devil?”

His eyes dart down to your mouth and back up to your eyes, his pupils blown huge and black.

“Yes, ma’am.” His voice is half whisper, half confession. “Yes. I am the Devil.”

“That’s what I thought.” You stand slowly, gripping the door frame for support. You leave the door open, but cross the floor into your kitchen, always aware of his eyes on you. 

You reach for the smallest paring knife that lives in the knife block sitting atop your counter. His eyes don’t leave you for a second, but now, from the darkness, you see his shiny red pupils reflected back at you. You smile. The Devil at your door, begging to do unholy things to you. At your mercy.

You cross back to the door and stand over him, knife in hand. His hair, sweaty, sticking to his temples, looks almost black in the darkness. 

The quiet in the air lingers between the two of you. You want him so badly it aches. You want to torment him, to make him cry again, to stand above him while he worships the ground beneath your feet. Your heart hammers in your chest, and you can feel it thundering in your neck. He notices.

Slowly, you begin to undo the buttons at the lacy neckline of your nightgown. Drool begins to drip down his chin as he stares at you. 

“Don’t make a mess all over my porch, now.” 

He mindlessly wipes at his chin with the back of his hand, wetting the cuff of his sleeve. Done with the buttons, you drop your nightgown around your ankles. A choked sound gets stuck in his throat. You take a step out of the nightgown, kicking the garment to the side.

“Please, baby. Please, I’m dyin’ out here. I can be anything you want. I’ll follow you around on a leash, goddamn it, just don’t make me sit out here no longer.” His begging hits your ears like a symphony. You bring the knife up to your chest and gently press the tip of it between your breasts. 

He whines like a dying thing. A strangled, agonized sound,that, again, makes you grateful for the secluded location of your house.

You drag the blade down, slicing one clean line between your cleavage, just deep enough to break the skin and draw blood, just enough to sting. 

“Preacher said the best way to ward off the devil was to wear a cross,” you say innocently.

You bring the blade back up. You carve one shorter, perpendicular line through the first. A cross. A mark. A brand. Beading with drops of blood, collecting and trickling down your chest, across your stomach, towards your heat.

You don’t know when it happened, but his claws are out now. Long, caked in dirt, and scratching at the boards of your porch like a bad dog. The sound of the wood shredding under his claws makes you grin, sweet and sadistic. He pulls his head up, like just the effort of that simple movement is enough to drain all the life out of him. He braces himself with his hands on the doorframe. His eyes glow red, tears pricking at the corners. His fangs poke out of his mouth, sharp and wet with saliva. Drool slicks his chin and foams at the corner of his mouth. This is the monster. This is what you wanted.

Then, quietly, so quietly you almost think your mind might be inventing it, he whispers:

“Please, mo chuisle. Let me in.”

You sink slowly to your knees in front of him. He’s not looking into your eyes anymore. He’s staring at your blood, red, hot, and wet, dripping freely just inches from his mouth.

“Tell me what you want.”

“Want you to let me in, please–”

“No. That’s what you want to happen. What do you want?” 

“You. I want you.” His voice is ragged. Broken. Like he’s been screaming at the top of his lungs for his whole life. “Please, please, I don’t know any other way to ask, to beg, to scream, to cry for you sugar, please–”

You cut him off when you press your hands to the door frame, just on the other side of where his are. You’re palm to palm, almost, in this half-formed way, dancing along the electric fence. You bring your forehead to the invisible line, so you’re face to face with him, taking in the sight of him unravelled before you. 

“You want me?” you whisper cruelly.

“Yes,” he says through shaking breaths.

“Come get me, then.”

It’s all he needs. His hands fly to your waist as he topples you over. He presses his tongue to the blood that’s dripped down to your stomach, working his way up to your chest. When he reaches the incision, he sucks and laps at the cut. At the spot where the two cuts meet, the center of the cross, he presses a kiss, soft and gentle to your sternum. It makes you gasp.

“Gonna treat you so good, darlin’. Gonna make you forget your own fuckin’ name,” he rasps against your chest. You rake your nails across his back, careful not to let yourself touch him too much–not yet.

When he’s done sucking the blood from your chest, he begins to leave a trail of kisses back down your stomach. Sitting back on his knees, he grabs your thighs and traces his claws across the flesh, making you shiver. He hoists your legs just enough to nestle himself in between them, pressing a gentle kiss to the inside of your left knee. 

“Dreamed of this every night, every fuckin’ night, you slammin’ that door in my face. Kept dreaming of this. Of you.” He works his way up the inside of your thigh, kissing and licking your skin. “Taste so fuckin’ good.”

“If you think that’s good, I got somethin’ I think you’re really gonna enjoy,” you drawl, deliberately grinding your hips upwards in a small circle, catching his attention.

He growls. Like a fucking animal standing over its kill. It almost makes you sob. The pure, electric feeling of his desire.

He licks one slow stripe up your center, making you cry out.

“Sweet girl. You think you were the only one playin’? I could smell you every night, every night you shut that door in my face. Could smell this sweet little pussy cryin’ for me.”

His grip on your legs tightens as he picks up the pace. Lapping and kissing at your core, he devours you like you’re water in the desert. What was that saying? Something about well-fed sinners and famished saints?

He presses one thumb to your clit and your head begins to spin. The only sounds in the heavy air are the crickets, your gasps, and the obscene noises coming from where the two of you are connected. He slowly rubs circles on your clit, not even coming up for breath as he does. Your fingers tangle in his dark curls. He hits a particularly sensitive spot and you jerk him back by his hair.

“Ah, ah, easy, sugar. Not gonna hurt ya. Not unless ya ask real nice.” The smile he gives you is enough to nearly send you over the edge. Your drying blood at the corner of his lips. His fangs covered in your slick. His chin wet with– well, it was impossible now to tell where his drool ended and your juices began. You shove his head back down with a huff and he just chuckles, attaching himself to your cunt once more. When he opens his mouth, you can feel the tips of his fangs ghost over your clit, over and over, as he devours you.

Electricity lights up your entire body, starting in your core and sizzling through your limbs. You grip his hair as if it’s the only thing tethering you to Earth. Your legs twitch around his head, and Remmick? He just continues lapping you up, desperate, as if you might kick him back out onto the porch the second your orgasm passes.

When your breathing finally returns to normal, he’s over you, his hands on either side of your head, his chain dangling in your face. 

“How was that? Was it good?”

You stare up into his face, so desperate to please you. His eyes are wild, his chin still wet. 

“So good. Such a good boy for me,” you coo, melting him instantly. He hums in pleasure. You bring your hands back to his hair, and he leans into your touch, letting you play with his sweaty locks. You scratch behind his ear and his head drops in ecstasy. You trace a finger over the top button of his shirt.

“Ain’t you hot? All these clothes on…?”

He growls again, animalistic and raw. He sits up and rips his suspenders from his shoulders, letting them hang down around his sides in that way he knows you like. He goes to unbutton his shirt, but his claws make the dexterous movement impossible. You sit up, still under him. Gently, you place your fingers over his. You trace the length of one of his claws with your fingertip gingerly. He rests his forehead against yours, sweat mixing on your skin, your breath hot and mingling between you two as you delicately undo the buttons on his shirt.

“The Devil ever had anyone be gentle with him?” you whisper, almost afraid to break the silence.

“No,” he whispers.

You tug the shirt from his shoulders. He finishes the job and tosses it aside. He grabs at his tank top, torn and already soaked with sweat, and adds it to the pile of clothes that will, hopefully, go neglected until morning. His chest heaves with every labored breath, the gold chain glinting and reflecting in the moonlight. You rake your nails down his chest, making him drop his head back again. He groans again, loud, lewd, and lustful. 

A grin creeps across your face. When your fingers reach his waistband, you flatten your palms against his stomach and drag them back up towards his chest, pressing firmly against the taut skin, slick with sweat.

“FUCK, baby, shit!” 

He curses and snaps his head forward. When he does, you grab his jaw between your fingertips and hold him still, forcing him to look at you. The skin on his chest sizzles quietly.

“You’re a little fuckin’ sadist, ain’tcha?” he spits, somewhere between furious and turned on. You press the silver ring on your finger to his jaw in response. He hisses and bares his fangs before you shove his face to the side.

“Fuck. Fuck, sugar, I–” he breathes, still recovering. You stare down at the burns that are streaked down his chest, your hunger growing. You want to run your tongue over the burned skin.

“Let me…let me feel you darlin’. Please,” he gasps. It makes you smile. He’s still begging.

“Didn’t realize you needed permission to enter down there, too,” you tease. He doesn’t waste any more time. His hands fly to his trousers, undoing the button and zip as you lie back. You see him then, long and hard and already weeping for you. The feeling of him lining himself up makes your breath catch in your throat. 

He pushes in gently, like he’s still asking permission for every inch of closeness. When he’s finally inside, his eyes, red and gleaming, roll back into his head. “Ah–ahh, feel so fuckin’ good sugar. Feel like you were made for me.”

“Ya gonna gab all night or ya gonna fuck me like you promised?”

He laughs, the vibrations sinking in all the way to your bones, as he begins to move.

“Gonna make you cum so many times you lose count. Gonna fuck you so good you’ll be stumbling for days.”

And fuck, you think he might be right. He’s stretching you, hitting deeper than he ever has before, hitting a spot that’s making your cheeks flush and your head spin. Pleasure buildis in your center as you reach up for him.

“Ah, ah. Keep those hands to yourself, pretty girl,” he scolds. You chuckle.

“Afraid of a little silver?” you coax.

He stills inside of you. You whimper, frustrated.

“That’s what I thought. Keep those hands to yourself and that pretty little mouth in line, and I’ll fuck ya like the good girl you are,” he promises. You groan under him, but whether it’s from pleasure or defeat, even you don’t know.

He resumes his pace, relentlessly ramming into you. You turn your head to the side. You see his right hand, bracing against the floor next to your head. You stick your tongue out and lick one clean stripe from his wrist up his forearm, as far as you can reach. He moans above you.

“Fuck, ‘s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout sugar,” he croons. “So good to me.”

He leans down over you until his forehead is pressed against your collarbone.

“Let me taste you, darlin’, please. Haven’t fed in days, let me be full, let me have you, please…” He pulls back just enough so you can feel his hot breath on your neck, desperate. “I’ll be gentle, I promise, won’t bite too hard. Please.”

Before you can speak, he leans into your neck. 

“Remmick–”

He recoils from you as quickly as if he was bit by a snake.

“FUCK!”

You can see the burn searing on his chin in the shape of a cross. He looks down at your neck to see the only thing you’re wearing– a silver cross on a silver chain. You smile up at him wickedly.

“I guess there’s somethin’ to be said about askin’ permission, huh?” you whisper. His glare looks like he’s contemplating ripping your throat out with his teeth. 

“You really want me dead, huh?” he asks hotly.

“Maybe just a little bit,” you retort through a devilish grin. 

Then, his gaze softens. He looks down at the necklace and back at you.

“Will you take it off?” he asks weakly. “Please. Wanna taste you…please?”

You reach up and grab the cross, playing with it daintily between your fingers. His eyes follow your every move. You could toy with him like this forever. Finally, you firmly grip the cross and tug. The chain snaps behind your head, and you toss the silver aside. You smile up at him.

He sighs, a sound of pure bliss, and falls back down to your chest, resuming his rhythm one more time. His breath is hot in the crook of your neck. You feel his fangs ghosting over your throat, his lips brushing against your pulse point. Then, something wet and dripping. He’s drooling all over you, thin, warm, wet ropes of his spit dribbling onto your neck. You tangle your fingers in his hair and yank him back so you can see his face.

The creature looking back at you barely looks human. His eyes, wide and red, darkness lurking behind them. His fangs, spilling out of his mouth as if they’re too big for his jaw. Drool all over his chin.

“What?” he growls, frustrated from being interrupted.

“Just wanna see you like this,” you whisper.

“Like what?” “Like the goddamn animal you are. Like the desperate, whiny, pathetic creature that keeps comin’ to my door. Like the Devil that’s lovin’ me so good it’s sendin’ me to Hell.”

It sends him over the edge. He snarls and bites down on your neck, hard. He thrusts up into you with similar ferocity. The pain, the pleasure, all building in you, sending heat through your body. He reaches down with one hand and drags the tip of one claw across your clit. You’re seeing stars.

“Oh God–” you moan, your orgasm rocking through you.

“No God here, darlin’, ‘member?” he teases, darkness in his voice. “Just the Devil, fillin’ you up this good.”

You have no idea how much blood he drains from you. Enough to make you lightheaded, even as you come down from your high. He follows you soon after, detaching from your neck and rutting into you, chasing his own release. You feel it a second later, hot spurts of warmth shooting inside of you. You claw at his back, anchoring your nails into his flesh, certain that he’ll have marks there for at least a few days, accelerated healing be damned. You can feel him go soft inside of you, but he doesn’t pull out. He stays there, above you, panting, eyes still wild, chin dripping with your blood. A drop falls from his fangs to your chest. He leans down, still holding eye contact, and slowly, obscenely, presses his tongue to your skin, licking it up, making you shudder.

“Thank you,” he whispers, face buried in your chest. “Taste so good when you’re cummin’, heart fuckin’ beatin’ for me, pussy hangin’ onto me, fuck, baby, thank you, thank you…”

You hum in response. He picks his head up, looking at you desperately.

“Was that good? Was I good?” he asks, still craving your approval. You laugh, your hands flying up to cover your face. He stares down at the silver rings still decorating your fingers. You reach for his face and he instinctively pulls back.

“Oh,” you say gently. As much as you love torturing him, all you want right now is to touch him, sweet and soft. “You want me to take these off?”

He nods wordlessly, eyes huge, looking like a wounded thing.

“Why don’t you take them off?” you coo. “Those teeth oughta be good for more’n just this.” Your fingers graze over the bite on your neck. It’s oddly smaller than you expected. 

You raise one finger. Slowly, he opens his jaw and takes your finger in his mouth, careful not to graze the metal. He bites down, his fangs gripping your ring, and pulls your hand back by the wrist, gently working the ring off your finger. When it’s completely free, he turns and spits, sending the silver clattering across the floor. He does this a second time, and a third, until you can feel him start to get hard inside of you again. You smile up at him.

“Good boy,” you praise as he works on the fourth ring. His eyes gently flutter shut. 

When he’s successfully removed all the silver from your body, you grab his face between your hands. Your foreheads pressed together, breath leaving his mouth and entering yours. You press a kiss to his mouth, wet and sloppy, tasting yourself all over him– the sweet, coppery taste of slick and blood. His hands ghost all over you, as if he’s trying to memorize your body so he can reconstruct it the next time you shut him out.

He starts to move again, gripping your hips and pressing into you. He takes your hand and places it over your lower stomach, pressing gently.

“Feel me? Right here? Fuckin’ tight, fuckin’ sweet, fuck sweetheart, you have no idea what you do to me.” His voice is dripping with lust and something else, something like gratitude.

You feel him hitting you slow and steady and deep, and the sinful sound of him fucking his own cum deeper into your pussy makes you feel faint.

“Please don’t make me go. I’ll stay here, I’ll be your dog, your animal, walk me around on a leash, leave my water in a bowl on the floor, please, I’ll do whatever you want. Just don’t make me leave, sugar. Can’t stand it, please.” He sounds close to tears. Your eyes glance up to his face, contorted somewhere between pleasure and agony.

“Remmick,” you say, forcing his eyes open, making him look at you. “You gonna keep grovelling, or ya gonna fuck me like ya mean it?”

A wicked grin illuminates his face. He picks up his rhythm. You have a feeling your back is going to be giving you hell for a little while.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

You wake in the morning, and there he is. You don’t remember how late it was when you both finally tumbled into the bed. He looks peaceful. You’re struck with something– not sympathy, not pity, something else. A feeling, deep in your chest, seeing him lying there. Looking…human.

You roll over and check the alarm clock on your nightstand. 1:37pm. Damn. Well, you suppose, to be expected after a long night. The curtains are drawn in your bedroom. On instinct, you swing your feet down to the floor, pull your robe around you, and cross to the window to open them. You grab the two pieces of fabric and pause.

The only thing between him and sudden death. You. The only thing keeping him from frying alive. You. The only thing taking enough pity on him to let him keep sleeping. You.

You cross out of the room and shut the door quietly, sealing in the darkness. In the kitchen, you pour yourself a glass of water and gulp it down. You prepare your coffee, filling the old iron pot with water and setting it on the stove. You turn the heat on as you wander across the room, opening the curtains at each window, letting daylight stream into the room. It’s like something from a postcard, you think, the warm afternoon sun, the gentle underscore of birdsong, the familiar and comforting smell of fresh coffee. The pot whistles on the stove and you take it off the heat, pouring yourself a cup. You hear a stirring from the bedroom. A delicious idea takes root in your mind.

You quietly pad across the floor to the bedroom door. Gingerly, you turn the knob, and throw the door open. Sunlight bathes across the first few feet of the floor, but doesn’t reach the bed.

He screams. Screams with true terror in his voice.

“Mornin’ darlin’!” you crow. “I made coffee, if you want any.”

His eyes, terror-stricken but slowly adjusting to the sudden light, peek up at you from the sheets. It’s odd, seeing him during the day. It’s like two separate pieces of yourself colliding at once. You turn from the door, leaving it open, and jaunt back into the sunlight of the kitchen.

“You gonna stay in bed all day?” you call. When you stick your head back into the bedroom, he’s out of the bed, on all fours, on the floor. He’s as close to the patch of light on the floor as he possibly can be without catching any of it. You chuckle darkly and turn to sit on the couch, in full view of the bedroom door. 

You lean back on the couch, coffee steaming from your mug on the coffee table. Your robe falls open just a bit at your chest. You see his eyes, not yet red, but gleaming in the darkness. You let your hand fall between your legs and let your head fall back against the couch, soaking in the afternoon sunlight.

“Please, sugar. No more games.”

[boywivloveficrecs]

1st sunrise together

(not your last)

Remmick x female reader (one shot)

A/N: alr people…I haven’t written in months…finally tryna start writing again and stop trying to make story perfects and put out what I enjoy writing and not what I think evb else needs or wants from me. On that note thanks for 300+ followers wtf. Also uh this is my first sinners fanfic (def won’t be my last) so bear with me pls. Just a lil short thing for you guys. Once again, sorry if this was mid, took a small ass prompt and extended it sorry. Comments and reblogs are appreciated (I love talking to u guys sm)

Summary: you and Remmick have been around each other for a bit. Getting comfortable in ways you live, love and do things. Your guard is always up but his has begun to go down. What happens if one day you aren’t on a hunt with him cause he makes you stay home and does something different. “You’re just paranoid—that won’t happen.” Is what he tells you all the time. 9 times out of 10, you’re right.

WC: 2.6k

Warning: death, angst, lil cringe, fic moves rlly fast, little terrible world building moments, mentions of blood, mentions of religion (holy water, is that a mention?), mentions death, mentions of gunshots and guns.

It'd already been 3 years since his teeth seeped into your neck.

They drained your body of blood and brought you back to life—just with a few changes and tweaks to the way you were able to live out life now.

The man who bit you, your husband, Remmick. He stayed by your side just as he promised before you allowed him to bite you.

He cared for you just as you asked and needed, and you tried to return the favor whenever possible.

He made sure all your needs and wants were met as soon as he could make it happen.

If you were hungry, he’d make sure you’d get full. If you wanted to be held, he’d carry you. If you wanted to hear music or dance, he’d crack out that banjo and get to playing.

He made sure to keep you as happy and protected as he possibly could.

You two typically had a nightly ritual of going to get bodies to feast on to cure your hunger if you weren’t tending to each other's wounds from the night prior or relaxing after a passionate night.

Whenever you two went out hunting, you had a sort of ritual of burning down the houses once you were done with the bodies. You were a no-evidence kind of girl, he didn’t understand why, and thought he wasted time waiting for the sun to come up—you just couldn’t care and continued to burn whatever house you two raided.

You two had different ways about how you dealt with business. Whatever way you dealt with it, you knew it was always better when it was two of you dealing with it instead of one suffering with the issue alone.

Out of the two of you, one of you almost always got roughed up by the end of the night if a human was fighting back from you trying to bite them.

This night, it was you.

Remmick was pissed, livid actually. You don’t think you’d ever seen him take greater pleasure in killing someone, ever, once he finished killing whoever put a few bullets in you.

“You need to relax…” You said “yer getting worked up over nunin'’ you know I’m gon heal so just breathe and relax.”

You tried your best to calm him down—you hated when he was constantly worked up, especially over things you considered small. He didn’t consider you getting hurt a “small thing” to him; it was a big issue.

You grabbed onto his suspenders, pulling him back into the bed with you.

“It ain’t no small thing…sure you’ll be fine in a week but y’know how much I hate seeing you hurt.” He said, voice sounding all pissed but trying to relax it to not worry you.

he was still on the issue and you didn’t mind it as long as he stopped working himself up over it.

Your forehead pressed against his—you two sharing any warmth you possibly could to each other. His arms began wrapping around your back like a snake, holding onto you like he never wanted to let go.

You winced for a second as he got ready to let go, but you wrapped your arm around him so he wouldn’t try and move away.

“Remmick…stop worryin’.” You gave him a reassuring smile as he kissed your face softly.

“You can’t tell me to stop worryin’.” He said

“And why is that?”

“‘Cause ya do the exact same thing.”

“Hm…well, it’s ok when I do it.”

He just rolled his eyes at you—finding what you had to say was unfair but knew he could argue against it because he’d lose anyway.

You two were always worried back and forth, taking turns on who would be the one panicking for the night. It was mostly you so you had gotten used to it but whenever it was him you wanted him to relax and not press the issue.

Your head still pressed against his as you two took in each other and every feature. Your arms still wrapped around his body, and his still wrapped around yours…

A few moments of silence filled the air before Remmick finally spoke again.

“You gon eat tonight…you ain't touched nothin’ since we last went huntin’.”

He squeezed your hand—getting your full attention as this was his way of telling you he had to go out.

“Well, let me get on up.” You said.

Before you could get off the bed—he leaped up and stood in front of you.

“No darlin’.” He said, “you gon stay here and rest.”

“We don’t really need sleep….besides, I’ll be patched up in a day or two at most.” you said

You began to look him up and down—what he said was silly to you, and you didn’t agree to it at all. You tried to stand again, but this time he put his hands on your shoulder, keeping you down for a second.

“Remmick…”

“Please, jus’ stay here…I’ll be back, promise.” He said softly.

Your eyes and his met as he was giving that same little pleading stare that a puppy would give you when it did something wrong.

You just huffed—you were annoyed you couldn’t go with him, but if he wanted you to rest that badly and promised that he’d come back, you’d just stay put for the night.

“Fine, Remmy.” You said

You pulled him in by his suspenders, giving him a kiss. He quickly returned it as you let go of his suspenders and he leaned in closer pushing you down on the matress a bit more.

You broke the kiss to speak.

“Uh, Remmy, don’t you have food to be getting? You're on a time limit with that sun.” You said teasingly.

He just cleared his throat before pulling himself up.

“Right, yes.” He said, “When I get back though, I want more of whatever that was gon’ be.”

You just chuckled as you watched him leave out of the door into the night.

A few minutes had passed before you stood up to do some house chores—thought you might as well pass the boredom with some work.

You walked around the house as it felt a little lifeless without Remmick there—you knew he’d be back soon as promised, but you were just as impatient as he was.

While you were walking around, your eyes were jumping onto every object, seeing if anything needed cleaning or if it was out of order.

Your eyes finally came to the nightstand, and you saw nothing wrong at first glance till you looked back.

A box of matches, your box of matches was still there…

That same box of matches you used to get rid of any evidence whenever you two went out.

“Shit.” You murmured.

Your mind racing with worry as per usual about him. You told him you’d stay put, but you had a certain way of doing things, and you didn’t want to stray away from the usual.

You just swallowed down whatever worry you had in your throat. He could handle himself, he lived this long without you, he’d be fine.

hours had begun passing—you knew the sun was gonna be up sooner than later.

That worry you swallowed down began climbing right back up your throat. Pacing back and forth around the room like a madman, you had not a clue where he was.

You were ready to leave and try and find him yourself until a loud, frantic bang caused you to get up and dash to the door.

As soon as you opened it, you saw him.

Remmick—beaten up and bruised. A few gunshot wounds, blood all over his face and body, rips to his clothes, and nasty gashes and cuts on his face.

You knelt to where he sat, trying to pull him back up to his feet. You had nothing to say in the moment—your top priority was getting him to safety and patched up.

Remmick stood up with your help as you examined his face. He grabbed your hand tight, stopping you as he needed your full attention.

“We gotta go.” He said, “We gotta go right now, darlin’.”

You just nodded—you got ready to turn back into the house to grab a few things before you heard screaming and gunshots. People were out hunting and searching for you.

“Ain’t no time,” Remmick said as he grabbed you by the back of your dress.

You were dragged out by your back until he released it—you two dashed through the woods.

It was pretty rare for you two to be haunted when you were usually the ones doing the hunting. Sadly for you two, it was more of them and not enough time to fight back. You just needed to run and find shelter.

“Remmick, why ain’t you bring them damn matches.” You murmured but he heard every word.

“Thought I wasn’t gon need em, clearly it was a full house. I’m sorry, let’s just get out of this then you can yell at me later.” He said

His hand grabbed onto yours tightly, running through the woods with you, trying to find any safety. If you two weren’t on the brink of getting murdered—you’d consider it romantic.

Gunshots flying into trees as bullets miss you two. Water splashing as whoever was chasing you tried to fling holy water on you. You two just gave each other that soft-eyed look before you kept running.

He wanted to keep you safe—he promised to keep you safe.

Now he was falling short on his promises.

You didn’t care—as long as you were with him,, you considered yourself safe. You just kept running until you bumped into him and realized he came to a stop.

“What’s wrong?” You shouted.

You just looked up and saw the moon was going down. Sun was just coming up quicker and quicker.

“Remmick, we can find some place to go, cmon.” You said, “We just gotta go, cmon.”

He quickly pulled you to the side—you two now under a tree, trying to think of anything to get yourself out of the situation. You could deny it all you wanted, but there was nothing more that could be done in that moment.

“I didn’t take them matches—didn't do things the at we usually do it. Now I messed it up.” Remmick spoke in a wimpy sort of tone.

“Remmick, I’m not about to scold you for this.” You said, “atleast not right now. So relax we gotta get out of this ok?”

He was used to you scolding him for the small things, and any other time you would’ve, but now it was life or death. If it just so happened to be death, you weren’t about to spend your final moments scolding him. You just pressed your head against his hoping that time would freeze for you just for a second and it felt like it did.

You started to cry—he wanted to cry. He had broken his promise, he said he’d always keep you safe, always make sure you were protected.

The sun wasn’t slowing down for anyone, it was gonna come up eventually. The hunters drew closer, and little tears became flowing pools of water.

“I broke my promise—I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” He murmured.

He tried his best to calm you down while he was panicking himself. He began holding you tighter, but the sun began to shine through the leaves on the tree. You two didn’t have much longer. You were either gonna die by the sunlight burning you to ash, or die by the hands of hunters that weren’t finished off.

“Remmick.” You said in a stuffy tone

You swallowed down your tears as best as you could for a second to talk.

“I know you said you keep me safe, and you think you broke the promise.” You said, “If you wanna make it up to me, just keep one promise you made.”

You two began curling into each other tightly as he held onto you as best as he could. His skin took the majority of the burns from the sunlight as he tried his absolute best to protect you from the heat that was coming.

“And which one is that?” He asked

“Staying with me.” You said, “and I want you to stay with me…and watch the sun rise.”

His head lifted up,, and so did yours. His eyes were weak and questioning what you just said. He couldn’t believe this is what you were saying but he knew you two didn’t have anywhere else to go.

“Cmon.” He said

He grabbed your hand, leading you out of the woods into the open sunlight. You two were met by a river—memories filling your mind of all the times you two went there at night. Your life with him was flashing before your eyes.

The hunters were here, and so was the sun. You drowned out their screams to catch you guys—you were so focused on him and the burning pain that flowed through your body that you couldn’t give two shits.

His hand stayed clasped onto yours—you two burning up quicker than you were before. Smoke coming from your body as if you were food being cooked and prepared.

You two finally reached the lake. Feet soaking in there as if the water was gonna save you but you knew it was over—your forehead just pressed his as you began to cry weakly, and he just held onto you tighter and tighter.

Memories flowing through your mind of the life you had with him.

That first time you met, the time he turned you every promise he made, every kiss you shared, every passionate night you two enjoyed, every meal shared, every life taken.

It all rushed through you faster than ever before.

You never expected it to be so short, you wanted it to be longer. Remmick spoiled you rotten—because you’d forgotten you can’t just get everything you wanted.

Tears and screams of agony still left your face as he held onto you tight—he held you tightly in that same warm embrace he always did. He tried to calm you down as best as he could, giving you comfort in whatever way he could in the moment. It only helped so much.

Both of you sizzling and burning alive by the second, smelling like rotting meat and flesh, getting ready to be thrown out. Your flesh melting to his at this point, you two were becoming one, except this time, it was physically.

Remmick kissed you softly on the forehead before speaking.

“I’ll meet you again—next life, we’ll try again. I’ll keep you as safe as I can, and I'll love you jus’ like I did in this life. Promise.”

You just looked at him, and the ash began to surround both of you. You were silent—taking in your final breaths as you knew your time on earth was over.

Hunters could’ve came in that water at any time and put a stake in your backs—they just stayed in the woods, watching what they caused all go down and finish.

You ignored them, eyes just stuck on Remmick and how his body was melting away right before you. Memories of how you would patch him up whenever he was like this flowing through your mind as you were silent.

You just felt weak, you couldn’t save him, and this time he couldn’t save you.

“You gotta respond, give me something,” he said, “Don’t let these last few seconds be silent. Speak to me, say whatever’s on your mind..”

He gave those same pleading eyes that he would always give to you when you were mad or he wanted you to reason with him.

His crumbling hand reaching towards you face to wipe off the tears as best as he could before you spoke again.

“I’m scared.” You said

“Me too.” He replied

For one second it was dead silent before you picked back up the conversation speaking again.

“Promise I’ll be patient, but you keep your word, Remmick.”

“I will,” he said, “I promise I will, darlin’.”

Foreheads pressed together one final time. He gave you a smile and you returned one until your lips met–whatever was left of them, at least. He began humming a soft tune painfully. He tried to hide any sadness he had in the moment from you, and you respected it.

He just hummed soft melodies that he would play or sing for you whenever you were home with him to comfort both of you as you were ready to leave this body.

You got to see a sunrise with him–and what made it even better was the fact you’d get to see more with him in the future.

The ash of both your bodies wisped away in the wind, but not a single spec of dust separated.

You’d be reunited soon.

You'd just have to be patient, like he asked.

Just like you promised.

[boywivloveficrecs]

this world was never meant for a fire like yours (part 4/5)

Daemon Targaryen x modern f!reader

word count: 6k

series masterlist ▪︎ main masterlist

series synopsis: After a fatal injury on the battefield, Daemon wakes up in a foreign land - our world (where GoT / HoTD does not exist). He meets the reader, a nurse who tends to him and helps him navigate everything. They grow close, and slowly, but unequivocally, fall in love.

themes/warnings: language, separation, intense yearning, actual bonding between Daemon and Vizzy, magic use, manipulation

September 2023 / the 9th Moon, 113 AC

The fire in the hearth flickers weakly, casting shadows on the stone walls in Daemon’s chambers. His fingers drum restlessly on the arm on his chair, his mind elsewhere.

Across from him, Viserys is lounging calmly, the faintest smile playing on his lips. He had invited himself in Daemon’s company, under the pretence of discussing the plans of the Realmwalkers. And they did just that, but the King’s eyes remain bright with amusement—a cruel irony, given his brother’s predicament.

Daemon has been back from Korzion for several moons, and he yearns for you to such a degree that it lingers like an ache in his bones.

“So, what was this other realm like?” Viserys breaks the silence, his voice curious. But Daemon mistakes it for taunting. 

“What was it like?” Daemon repeats, his voice a low rumble. He can feel his temper rising, as it almost always does when anything related to you is mentioned. When he has to speak of you, and be reminded that you are an entire world away.

Viserys leans forward, with a boyish eagerness to listen to tales of distant lands. “We never did get to have a proper discussion, brother. I would love to know. The… priestesses… called it the Realm of Steel. Now what does that mean? And its inhabitants are connected to devices? That must have been odd, indeed.”

Daemon stares at the fire, its fading warmth doing little to soothe the melancholy creeping into his thoughts. “You saw it.”

“Why, yes, brother,” Viserys nods thoughtfully, reclining again. “In the brief whisper of a moment that I spent in that realm, I was certainly able to familiarise myself with their ways.” His tone is clearly teasing, but Daemon finds no humour in it.

Daemon clenches his jaw, forcing the words out. “The only thing worth mentioning from the realm, the one thing that would have kept me there—”

“—is her, as you have mentioned before.” Viserys cuts in smoothly.

Daemon glares at his brother icily, his jaw clenching.

Viserys’ smile only widens. “Must you be so cross?” 

“I am not cross,” Daemon responds petulantly. “I am mourning.”

Viserys waves a hand dismissively, as though swatting away a trivial complaint. “You will see her again!”

“And until then, I will remain in mourning.” The finality in Daemon’s tone seems to sober Viserys, if only for a moment. 

“Daemon, you and your penchant for theatrics,” Viserys says, leaning back in his seat, indulging in a private jibe only he understands.

“Are you mocking me?” Daemon’s voice drops to a dangerous whisper. For all his love for his brother, there are moments—far too many moments—when Daemon considers drawing his blade, simply to see if Viserys would still be so smug with Dark Sister at his throat. 

Viserys holds up a hand in a placating gesture, though his eyes still sparkle with mischief. “What if I am? Will you strike at your King?” When his brother merely glowers at him, he continues, “There was something on her table. It possessed a dark hue, with a sheen to it. It looked stiff and peculiar…”

“Aye, she calls it a laptop,” Daemon says, his voice turning softer. He could see it so vividly in his mind—the glowing screen, the smooth surface of the strange object that seemed to hum with a life of its own. You had been understanding when he broke the one you owned originally in a fit of desperation, when the sentient overlord in the object called Google offered no answers.

Viserys’ face twists with confusion. “A lap… top?”

Daemon chuckles darkly at his brother’s obliviousness. “I called it a magic box at first.”

Viserys laughs out loud, the sound filling the chamber. “A magic box?”

“Pray tell,” Daemon drawls, “are you simply going to echo every word I utter?”

“Forgive me, brother,” Viserys says, his laughter dying down. “I am simply… amused.”

Daemon turns to face the hearth, the smirk that tugs at his lips growing impossible to hide. It was absurd, really—the man he had become in that world. A prince, warrior, and dragonlord brought low by strange, glowing boxes and foreign jargon that tumbled awkwardly from his lips. 

But you… you had made him feel like none of it mattered. In your arms, he wasn’t so out of place. 

Daemon sits silent for a moment, the memory of your time together tugging at him as he stares blankly into the flames. His lips twitch into the rarest of smiles—something soft and affectionate, uncharacteristic of the Rogue Prince.

“I nearly set fire to her home once, trying to cook us supper.”

Viserys raised an eyebrow. “You? Cooking?”

“I was so determined. Yet I managed to make a complete mess of something they call pasta. She ended up fixing what I ruined.”

“She must possess the patience of the Mother herself.”

Daemon hums in affirmation. You were a marvel, an anomaly, because you took him in—a complete and total stranger. You saw him, accepted him… and you loved him.

You love him still, Daemon hopes.

“She once took me to this…gods, what did she call it?” Daemon waves a hand vaguely, trying to summon the word from his mind. “A farmer’s market. A market without any actual farmers, mind you. Just a sea of stalls with trinkets and food. She insisted we buy strawberries, and they were strange—too sweet—but she fed me one anyway. Right in front of everyone.” He chuckles at the thought. “We were walking along, her hand in mine, not a care for the smallfolk surrounding us.”

Daemon’s eyes glaze over with a fondness that was rare for him, as he continues sharing more of your world with Viserys. He speaks of how you worked as something called a nurse– a healer—but you were far more skilled than even the Grand Maester himself. He shares how you introduced him to coffee—some bitter, muddy brew he loathed at first but came to crave due to its association with early mornings spent nestled with you on your couch. And how you made him try pizza, which he found oddly addictive.

“She insisted on doing things,” he says, shaking his head as if he still couldn’t quite believe it. “Not just ruling or politicking. Simple things. Like spending hours in a bloody shop trying on clothes that I did not need. But... It made her smile. And I would have done anything to see that smile.”

For a moment, the tension between them lifts, and Viserys watches his brother with an expression somewhere between disbelief and amusement. Daemon, the fearsome warrior, enchanted by something as lowly as venturing into a mundane market, utterly captivated by a woman who lived a life so unlike anything he had ever known.

But as Daemon’s musings grew quieter, his gaze hardened again, the sweetness slipping away. “Enough of this,” he says gruffly. “We must direct our attention on how I will be with her once more.”

October 2023 / the 10th Moon, 113 AC

The hospital’s antiseptic scent wraps around you like a damp cloak as you trudge through the hallways. Every beep of the machines and the chatter of your fellow nurses feels like a reminder of the normalcy you are desperately trying to hold onto. Little do they know, you are living a life that has been effectively tinged by dragonfire. 

You don’t quite feel like a beacon of hope; more like a walking, talking paradox. You try to save lives while secretly plotting how to summon a Targaryen prince from his world.

Your mind flickers to Daemon as you begin your shift. His silver hair, that smug smile, the way he made you feel like you were the only person in the world — any world. If only he was back at your apartment to welcome you after your rounds, maybe things wouldn’t feel so heavy. But alas, you’re stuck in scrubs and not some elegant and puffy gown like those worn by the noble ladies in his kingdom. 

Hours pass, and after a particularly exhausting shift, you finally make your way to Dessa’s apartment, your mind buzzing with excitement. She is an odd mix of energy and seriousness, her presence a grounding force. The moment you enter her living space, you’re assaulted by the scent of herbs and spices, the walls adorned with what looked like genuine dragon scales. Or maybe they’re just really expensive home decor from an antique shop? Who could say?

“Ready for another night of magical chaos?” Dessa asks, grinning as she sorts through her collection of peculiar knick-knacks.

“Chaos is my middle name,” you quipped, waving a hand dramatically. “At least it is now, thanks to you.”

“Just what I want to hear, my child. And I am honoured to be your guide through this madness.” She picks up a sliver of moonstone and winks. “Shall we start with the moonstone or the raven’s feather this time? Or should we just sacrifice a bloody goat and see what happens?”

You snort at her dark humour. “Let’s stick to the gemstones for now. I’m not ready for gruesome sacrifices.”

Dessa grins as she hands you the moonstone. “Good choice.”

The two of you settle in for your practice, the atmosphere thick with magic and your unspoken hopes. You take a deep breath, recalling the steps that would lead you to Daemon. This is your chance to strengthen your connection, to reach through the veils of reality and grasp him once more.

“Envision your destination clearly,” Dessa instructs, her voice encouraging. “You don’t want to end up in the middle of the Dothraki Sea.”

You laugh nervously, though you’re unsure what or where a Dothraki is. “Right.”

“Priorities, my dear.”

You prick your palm with the moonstone, and the sharp pain jolts you into focus. The blood meets the raven’s feather, and you begin to chant in High Valyrian. The words roll off your tongue, you can feel the energy building, swirling around you like a hurricane, almost intoxicating in its intensity.

But as the ash begins to swirl around you, that familiar sensation of panic surges in your chest. You focus harder, envisioning Daemon, and that wicked smile of his that haunts your dreams. The way he smells, the way he tastes. Just when the memory is strengthened in your mind, a wave of fatigue crashes over you, and everything immediately falters.

“Dessa, I—” You gasped, collapsing against the couch. “I can’t… It’s too much.”

“Take a breath, you can do this,” she urges, but the energy flickers out like a dying flame. “We can try again.”

“I’m starting to feel like a joke,” you mumble dejectedly. Are they sure that you are one of them? Maybe this was all a fluke.

But you try once more and you fail. Over and over. Each attempt feels more hopeless than the last. You could practically hear Daemon's mocking laughter in your head, though you knew he wouldn’t be so cruel—not to you. 

“Let’s take a break,” Dessa suggests, concern knitting her brow. “You’re pushing too hard. It’s not a race.”

But all you could think about was the chasm of distance that lay between you and Daemon. “I just want to see him. I want to feel him.”

After the long night of failure, you trudge home, fatigue pulling at your limbs like lead. You slump onto your bed, staring at the ceiling. The room feels empty, devoid of magic and warmth and Daemon. The excitement that had buoyed your spirits is now like a distant memory.

Just as you begin to drift off, the memory of Daemon flickers behind your eyelids. Suddenly, something sparks within you, igniting the embers of your determination. You shoot up, adrenaline surging through your veins. The thought of giving up is unbearable. The very real possibility of losing him for good is enough to pull you out of your rut.

With a newfound sense of purpose, you gather the same tools from earlier, the moonstone and raven’s feather, and focus your thoughts. You envision Daemon, standing with him in the middle realm.

This time, your heart races not with self-doubt and gloom but with renewed hope. “I will find you,” you whisper to yourself. “I will.”

You prick your palm again, reciting the chant with a fervour you didn’t know you possessed. The energy swirls around you, coiling and tightening, feeding off your will. The feather turns to ash, and the world around you begins to shimmer and crackle, and with a rush that sends a thrill through your core, you feel yourself being pulled into the connection. The fog envelops you, and suddenly, you reach it.

But it isn’t just the middle realm. It’s everything you wanted, everything you long for. 

And then, just like that, he appears. His silver hair gleamed in the soft light, his eyes locking onto yours with a mix of surprise and wonder.

“This is real?” 

Your voice comes out soft, hesitant. You’re unsure if you’re speaking to Daemon or to yourself. 

Your senses are overwhelmed, and you feel somewhat floaty, as if you’re nowhere at all. Perhaps you are nowhere, not in your realm and not in Daemon’s, but somewhere in the middle. Everything feels so distant and dreamlike as you glance around, taking in the fog that seems to curl around the furniture, draping your bedroom in a surreal haze. 

“Am I doing this?” You murmur in disbelief. “Is it working?”

Daemon doesn’t answer immediately. He stands frozen, his eyes wide and burning with an intensity that nearly undoes you. Then, something in him breaks, and he charges forward with a purpose, as if nothing else in the world matters but closing the space between you.

He grips you, his hands rough, desperate, holding onto whatever part of you he can—your face, your hips, your hands. His touch is possessive, like a man who fears he’ll lose you again. His lips crash into yours with a raw hunger, and it’s as if the entire world melts away, leaving only him. Your Daemon.

“My darling,” he breathes between kisses, his voice rough with desire. “All of this is fucking astonishing, and we can certainly marvel at what you can do to no end, but quite frankly, right this moment I could hardly bring myself to care.”

His lips devour yours, moving against your mouth with a ferocity that leaves you breathless. He kisses you as if it’s been years, as if this moment might be the last chance he’ll ever get. And for a brief second, the sensation overwhelms you — the smell of him, the feel of his hands gripping you with such raw need. Your fingers tangle in his silver hair, pulling him closer as if you could merge your two bodies together.

Daemon is not one to waste time, that’s for sure. His lips trail down your neck, nipping at the sensitive skin of your collarbone as you arch into him.

“I miss you,” you breathe, as he kisses the hollow of your throat.

“As I you, my love.” Daemon purrs, breathing you in. “You simply have no idea…”

But even in the heat of his touch, the fog surrounding you reminds you of the truth. This moment, as real as it feels, is a trick—a fragile connection. You feel him, but not entirely. His body presses against yours, but there’s something missing. You can’t feel the warmth of his skin, can’t hear the familiar rustle of his breath against your ear.

It’s not enough.

“Daemon… this is…” You try to voice out your concern, despite the moment. Dessa was right, your corporeal forms cannot meet through your projection; the two of you stand in your bedroom, but everything seems to be enveloped in a thick haze. If you press hard enough, you think your fingers will simply pass through Daemon as if he were a spectre. You realise that he knows this, too, but chooses to ignore it. 

He tries to brush it off, tries to ground you in the present. “This is the closest we’ve been in far too fucking long, my love.” His voice cracks slightly, his frustration bleeding through. “It would have been sooner if those cunts made greater effort to—”

You snort, confronted once more with how brash he can be. “Daemon, those cunts? Really? I am one of them, you know. Besides, it’s not their fault.”

“Oh, you know what I mean,” he mutters, his lips tugging into a slight smile as he rests his forehead against yours. His hands roam your back, pulling you impossibly closer. “Let me have this. Have you. I need you.”

He’s right. In physical form or otherwise, he is still your Daemon. And you have craved each other too much to be denied any kind of reunion.

“Okay.” Your hand reaches up to cradle his face, and he leans into it. He then looks around, appraising your chambers, as he used to say.

“Nothing has changed.” He hums, while holding you tightly to him, as if he’s afraid that you might dissolve into the fog. “What is this now? Ever the reader, my heart.” He reaches for the crisp, new paperback novel lying on your dresser. 

You snort softly. “Oh, that’s… yeah, someone lent it to me.”

“It certainly does not seem too suited to your tastes.” His tone is bemused, and he turns the book over in his hand. 

You let out a humourless laugh. “Astute observation. It’s my neighbour’s. He apparently thought I needed something new to read.” When he gave you the book, Tom happily explained how he thought you should, “…expose yourself to other things. Things you possibly haven’t tried out before. New films, books, friends. You know to help you forget all about…”

Daemon’s eyes narrow slightly, the shift in his posture immediate, almost imperceptible, but you’ve always been able to read him. He lowers the book slowly, his gaze hardening with suspicion. “Your neighbour — what was he called? Tim?”

“You remember his name, Daemon.” You roll your eyes at your lover, and his poorly-veiled jealousy. You were one and the same.

Daemon’s lips curl, a wolfish grin spreading across his face. “You have been letting him inside your house?” His voice drops an octave, the dangerous undertone unmistakable. His hand rests on your waist, possessive, reminding you that you are his.

You nod slowly, carefully. “He’s been visiting every now and then. It’s not a big deal.”

Daemon tilts his head, his smirk darkening into something more sinister. He leans in close, his lips brushing your ear as he whispers, “Has that mongrel taken my place, dearest?”

Your breath catches in your throat, his words sending a jolt of heat through your veins. There’s an unspoken challenge in his voice, and your heart races in response. But you don’t back down.

With a calm you don’t entirely feel, you lift your chin and meet his gaze, eyes locked in a battle of wills. “Has any lady taken mine? In that amazing, grand realm of yours, Prince Daemon?” Your fingers slip beneath the collar of his tunic, the soft fabric yielding to your touch as you ghost your fingertips across his skin.

 Only Daemon has ever been able to elicit this out of you.

He enjoys the way you directly meet his eyes, unwavering in your stead. No one ever looked at him in such a way; not one has ever seen him as you do. Daemon has always inspired fear and intimidation in others. Those who find themselves comfortable enough to hold a conversation with the Rogue Prince tend to feel ill at ease or on their guard. As if he might turn on them at any moment. 

People usually mosey up to him because of a favour. Because of his status, his reputation. Because they want something out of him. 

But not you. No. Daemon knows that he has only ever inspired love in you.

Well, that and what might have been absolute surprise followed by wariness, when he was suddenly sprung into your world, injured and in a coat of full armour.

He chuckles, a low, throaty sound, before kissing you again, slower this time, savouring the feel of your lips against his. The kiss is deep, full of promises and unspoken words, and when he pulls away, he whispers, “No one can ever replace you.”

He has never been a devout man, but in that moment, he curses all the gods that you two are apart. Meeting in this middle-realm is insufficient. He feels you, somehow. But he does not feel you truly, not the goosebumps on your skin and the hitches in your breath. You are there, but you are not. 

But it will have to do. For now.

“Is this ailing you? Sustaining a connection like this, in this place?” Daemon asks, his brow furrowed in concern.

You shake your head. “Not really,” you admit, though there’s a heaviness in your limbs that you know will come crashing down later. “Dessa says I’ll feel quite exhausted afterward, but it shouldn’t take too big of a toll on me. At least, it’s not as bad as when I will actually be able to transport myself fully. I’m learning the ropes, and there’s a lot to learn. I mean… this is fucking insane.”

Daemon’s eyes flicker with something unreadable—pride, awe, something deeper. “And here you thought me extraordinary. When it was you all along.”

“Hardly.” You smile in return. “I’m not the only one, it seems. And, my great-grandmother… she was from your world.” 

He brushes a stray strand from your face.

Suddenly, the memory of that first night hits you, and maybe you had already known then. Maybe you had always known.

“The Rogue Prince and his Realmwalker. We were always meant to find each other.”

Tears prick at your eyes, and you blink them away quickly, unwilling to break the fragile spell that’s bound the two of you in this moment. “Always,” you whisper, the word filled with every ounce of longing you’ve carried for him.

But then panic grips you as the fog begins to dissipate. You can feel your magic waning, the connection fraying. 

“Daemon!” you call, but his figure fades quickly.

With a sudden rush, you're pulled back into your realm, losing him once more. 

“Fuck!” Daemon curses aloud, his voice echoing through the empty tower. Treesa, ever watchful, takes a cautious step back, unsure whether to comfort or retreat. She’s seen Daemon angry before, but this—this is different.

“My prince?” she inquires softly. “I felt the shift. She made contact, didn’t she? You saw her?”

He shoots her a dark glare, emotions swirling within him. “Get out,” he growls, the anguish unmistakable in his tone as he wrestles with the loss of you.

“She will find a way,” Treesa says, her voice filled with conviction, just before walking through the doorway. 

He wonders what you’re doing now. Are you just as exhausted, lying back in your bed, trying to regain your strength after the toll of the projection? He imagines you staring at the ceiling, thinking of him, feeling the same ache in your chest that he feels now.

He curses under his breath again, fists clenching at his sides. 

This is unbearable.

December 2023 / the 12th Moon, 113 AC

The clutter of your apartment feels oppressive, and you feel as if you don’t recognise it anymore. Like it’s no longer yours, but not only because of Daemon, but because of everything you've been going through in the past month.

 Shadows cling to the corners, stretching out as the waning light filters through the window. Shards of moonstone and ashes are strewn across the floor, remnants of failed attempts, each one a testament to the desperation that fills the air. In the centre of it all, you stand, your palm decorated with pinpricks of blood.

Dessa, once a nurturing figure whom you thought you can lean on, has become an intense shadow, her eyes blazing with expectation. “Again,” she commands, her voice unwavering.

You take a deep breath and force yourself to focus. You feel the familiar warmth of your magic stir within you, a fountain of energy waiting to burst forth. “I can’t keep doing this,” you admit, your voice strained. “I’m exhausted.”

Dessa’s expression hardens, her lips pressing into a thin line. “You must,” she insists, her tone sharper now, laced with an urgency that makes your stomach churn. “Time is running out. You need to learn to harness your power. It’s the only way to reach Prince Daemon.”

A flicker of anger rises within you, as it had several times before. On one occasion, you had nearly screamed in an outburst, saying, “If it’s that important, why can’t you just transport me to Westeros yourself? You’re the one with the experience.”

The air had grown thick as Dessa’s eyes flashed with something dangerous. “If I could, don’t you think I would have done it already? It takes immense power to transport another Realmwalker, and it might harm me in the process.”

You felt a wave of guilt wash over you. Dessa has sacrificed so much,  and it’s not fair to place your own frustrations on the woman who has dedicated herself to training you. Yet, beneath the guilt lay an undercurrent of anger—a rising tide that threatens to drown you in self-doubt. 

“I’m tired of feeling weak,” you finally admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

Dessa’s expression softens for just a moment, but it quickly hardens again. “Weakness is a luxury we cannot afford,” she replies, her voice firm. “Every moment you hesitate, you risk losing him forever.”

The words strike a chord, igniting a fire within you. You feel the heat of your magic surge, almost instinctively. It catches you both off guard, your energy force spilling out unbidden. 

The air crackles around you as your power begins to swell, something that demands to be unleashed. Your connection to Daemon calls to you, guiding you through the storm. And for a moment, you stand on the precipice of something immense.

“Channel that feeling!” Dessa encourages. “Let it guide you! You’re capable of so much more than you realise.”

With a determined breath, you extend your hands, feeling the now-familiar rush of energy coiling within you. You recall the incantation, the rhythm of the words echoing in your mind, and you begin to chant.

Dessa watches, her expression shifting from pride to mania, and you catch a flicker of something darker behind your mentor’s facade. The obsessiveness in her eyes, the way she leans in closer as if willing the magic to surge faster—it’s unsettling.

“Keep going!” Dessa urges, her voice now tinged with a hint of urgency that hints at deeper stakes. “You’re almost there!”

Your pulse races, the magic thrumming through you like a living entity. But you can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong. It feels like a game of cat and mouse, where you are the latter, running from unseen predators lurking in the shadows.

You feel the world around you dissolve, and in the swirling chaos, you steel yourself for what lies ahead. 

With a final surge of strength, you push yourself into the void. 

You are no longer in your apartment.

The familiar surroundings of your measly apartment have vanished, replaced by a darkness punctuated by the soft glow of stars overhead. A cool breeze brushes against your skin, carrying the earthy scent of pine and damp soil. As your heart races, a thrill courses through your veins—you’ve done it. 

You’ve Realmwalked, so to speak, and the woods you stand in are unfamiliar, but you sense that you’ve landed in Westeros. Hopefully, close to where Daemon is, if your visualisation proved effective. 

But something feels off. As you stand there, trying to catch your breath, an uneasy sensation creeps into your chest. There’s something lurking in the shadows. Something—someone—is watching you. 

With quick, purposeful steps, you begin making your way through the dense trees, senses heightened as you listen to every rustle of leaves, every whisper of wind. The path before you is faint, but you follow it, hoping it will lead you closer to Daemon. The thought of him fuels your determination, but the further you walk, the deeper the sense of unease sinks into your bones. The woods feel alive, as though the very ground beneath your feet is shifting. Something is wrong.

Then, as if answering your fear, a figure steps out from the shadows. She’s tall, with sharp, regal features and eyes that seem to pierce through the darkness.

You freeze, heart pounding in your chest. 

“You are finally here,” the stranger says, her voice smooth yet dripping with sinister intention. “We have been waiting for you.”

Panic rises in your throat. “Where… where is Prince Daemon?” The question flies out of you.

Her lips curl into a predatory smile as she steps closer. “You have come to us, just as we hoped. Dessa was right. I can… feel you… and you are more powerful than my sister made you out to be.”

“What do you want from me?” you demand, though a part of you already knows the answer. If Dessa is her sister, this can only be Treesa or Verness. Realmwalker too, from what little you’ve heard of them. 

There’s something deeply unsettling about the way she looks at you—like you’re not a person but a weapon, an object, something to be used.

“The time has come to fulfil our plans,” Treesa replies, her smile chilling as she closes the distance between you. “You were the last Realmwalker in Korzion. Your power is vital for what is to come.”

“I won’t be part of your plans. I just came here for Daemon,” you spit, taking a step back. But as you do, you feel the weight of Treesa’s magic press down on you, nigh inescapable.

“You do not have a choice,” she says, her voice soft and musical, a wolf in sheep’s clothing. “You are part of something much bigger than you can comprehend. You cannot escape it.”

And then it hits you. This was a trap all along. You were led here—by Dessa, by their lies—and now they have you. All the training, the pushing, it was never about helping you find Daemon. It was about getting you here, into their hands.

Before you can react, Treesa makes her move. With a flick of her wrist, a sudden wave of magic surges toward you. Your limbs feel heavy as the force of it pulls you down. You try to fight it, adrenaline roaring through you as you attempt to run, but it’s too late. She has the upper hand.

Treesa steps closer, her voice laced with satisfaction. “You are ours now.”

Your vision blurs as Treesa’s magic takes hold, and suddenly, everything becomes fuzzy.

“No,” you mumble weakly, your body collapsing against the cold, damp earth. “I won’t let you…”

“Let me?” she laughs mockingly. 

Just as you succumb to nothingness, you mumble weakly, “Daemon will find me...”

Not far from the edge of the woods, a few smallfolk huddle near their huts, tending to their evening fires. The sky above is painted with the deep coating of the midnight hour when they notice something strange—a woman, dressed in unfamiliar garb, struggling against another in the distance. They don’t dare get too close, but they watch, wide-eyed, as the second woman drags the first into the shadows of the trees.

A few whispers are exchanged, and soon, one of the men runs off to report what he’s seen to the Gold Cloaks.

Hours later, word reaches the Red Keep. The rumour travels quickly—Gold Cloaks to the Kingsguard, the Kingsguard to the Hand, and finally, it reaches the ears of King Viserys himself.

He listens with a frown, trying to make sense of the strange report. But it isn’t until Daemon enters the room that everything clicks into place.

Daemon’s expression shifts the moment he hears the tale. The description of the woman—the unfamiliar clothes, her behaviour—it all points to one thing, one person.

You.

“She is here,” Daemon says, voice tight with certainty. “I know it.”

Viserys looks at him, startled by the sudden intensity in his brother’s voice. “Do you truly believe so?”

Daemon nods, his heart pounding. “She has to be.”

Before Viserys can respond, the heavy doors of the throne room swing open. Otto Hightower enters, purposefully striding towards the gathering at the head of the room.

“Your Grace,” Otto begins with a slight bow, his eyes flickering over Daemon. “There has been another incident. The priestess Treesa… She is nowhere to be found within the Red Keep. Her chambers have been emptied, and we also questioned the servants, to no avail. She is no longer here to be subject to questioning.”

Daemon’s jaw tightens, a fury building inside him. His voice is cold, his temper barely contained. “When did anyone last see her?”

“in this previous twilight's hours,” Otto replies. “Since then, there has been no sign of her. I have sent guards to roam the keep, but nothing.”

Daemon lets out a harsh laugh, though there’s no humour in it. “Of course she is gone. Mayhaps they have been planning this the whole time. And we let them.”

The realm feels unsteady beneath his feet, the ground trembling with the potential for chaos. Do they not know who he is? Are they not afraid of what he is capable of? Even devoid of sorcery and magic and whatever fucking trickery those priestesses have devised, he is still Daemon Targaryen.

“Prepare the men,” he orders, voice sharp and decisive. “We will search every inch of the Seven Kingdoms until we find her.”

If they think they can take what is his, they will learn that he is not called the Rogue Prince for nothing. 

And he will find you.

*flashback* February 2023 / the 2nd Moon, 113 AC

One chilly evening, you decided to introduce Daemon to the concept of proper movie night. You had gathered a few classics, a mountain of blankets, and an assortment of snacks that would put any royal feast to shame.

“I still cannot believe that this is how you spend your evenings, ” Daemon mutters sardonically as he examined the spread.

“You know it. It’s all about relaxation and enjoyment,” you replied, tossing him a handful of popcorn.

You settled onto the couch, and as the opening credits rolled, Daemon found himself surprisingly captivated, laughing at moments that you found endearing.

“What sorcery is this?” he exclaimed after a particularly action-packed scene. “How can a mere flickering light command such power?”

“It’s all about storytelling,” you explained, leaning closer. “It takes you away from your world, even if just for a moment.”

He turned to you, his expression softening. “And what story do you wish to escape to, my love?”

As you paused to consider his question, you felt a warmth spreading within you. The film played on, but your mind raced to find the right answer. For the first time in your life, you realised that maybe, just maybe, you didn’t want to escape to anywhere anymore. 

You glanced at Daemon, his eyes reflecting the light from the screen, a small smile dancing on his lips. In this shared space, enveloped by blankets and laughter, you understood that he had become a part of your story. Whether it be in distant lands or magical realms, or simply in the confines of your apartment, if he was with you, then it would be an adventure.

It would be a tale worth telling. 

“I think,” you said softly, as you faced the screen with a faraway look in your eyes, “I’ve found a place where I want to stay.”

Daemon’s brow furrowed slightly, and he studied you with a look that suggested he understood more than you had said.

“As do I,” he replied. 

series taglist: @omgsuperstarg @moonmaiden1996 @iilsenewman @padfootsvixen @teapartydreams @sleephereicome @dixie-elocin @simplymurdock @cecespizza01 @imissyoudarling @rentsturner @itevilhag @kindaslightlyacidic @naelys-the-aster @zoleea-exultant @moongirl27 @schniiipsel @dreaming-for-an-escape @llovinjoonie @outocean @caspianobsessed @grimistangel @ladespedidas @nanabarnes @luckythirtxn97 @mariaelizabeth21-blog1 @stella-cadante @milber32 @canvashearts @nitimurinvetitumsposts @kryzeira @captainweirdo42 @eternallyvenus @fuzzybunny83 @cookielovesbook-akie @queenofshinigamis @avadakadabra93 @rebeccawinters @partypoison00 @misspendragonsworld @praline357 @mysingularitybts @milber32 @rikishima19 @ivvypg @novellaquill @fan-goddess @ayamenimthiriel @uniquecroissant

Some notes in the margins...

This chapter was a bit dry, I must admit. But consider it as a setup for the fiasco that is the finale, which will be 18+. Just a heads up.

Any guesses on what will happen? As always I am keen to hear your thoughts 🖤

[boywivloveficrecs]

To Wed A Dragon. pt 3

summary | Viserys I Targaryen, being geopolitical genius he is, arranges a marriage between his dangerously serpentine second son Aemond and a wildling of pure First Men blood: the elusive Omega daughter Daemon left rotting in Runestone. It’s all bread and circuses and targcest.

pairing | alpha!!aemond targaryen x fem!!omega!!reader with implied social anxiety

parts | 1 2 3

tags | TW!!! OMEGAVERSE!!! VERY OOC AEMOND!!! DUBCON!!! not proofread. slowburn (sort of). very very chopped english. Beginning is his journal, the rest is just pure smut. breeding kink, degradation (if you close your eyes).

wordcount | 3k

any kind of feedback is highly appreciated!

Contains gooning material

______________________________________________________________

3rd Moon, 128 AC.

If some shameless voyeur still reads my journal to gloat at my misfortunes, daring to invade my revelation and scoff at my honesty (though most men barely have the guts for it), it is worth designating that I have succeeded against all odds and your better judgement.

I married her, reader. We were wed in the third month of 128 AC in Baelor's sept under the eyes of gods and men.

The wedding was rushed and everyone knew it. Rushed not in a way where we needed to hide a belly, but rather in a way that nobility rushes when something unseemly has already occurred and the paperwork must catch up before the court has time to sharpen its questions. Scent-bonding was supposed to happen during the consummation night. Still, it happened in a dirty courtyard while we were both ankles-deep in the wet mud, scratching and biting each other not like a man and a woman grown, but like two feral children fighting for a toy.

Now I think that it was for the better.

The High Septon muttered through the rites with eyes carefully averted. The musicians played slow, mournful chords better suited to funerals. The only flowers were bitter hyacinths and pale lilies, and someone (likely a bored Lannister cousin) remarked that the whole affair smelled like a war truce dressed as a union. But it does not matter, because we said our vows, she took off her maiden cloak and I put my own around her shoulders. It is never about passion or tenderness. It was final. And she was mine at that moment. She is mine. She will be.

The feast was quick and unusually polite. Except my brother, who made a joke about the bedding ceremony that made Mother cry in her goblet.

My lady wife (I enjoy writing and saying this word more than I should) sat beside me like a patience on a monument, hands folded in her lap, face uptight – not vacant, but eclipse. Like a candle that hadn’t been lit yet, unsure if it would burn or melt.

The night followed. There was no bedding ceremony – the moment there was some movement in the lower rows, I made it clear.

She was sitting with her back to me on the bed when I entered our wedding chamber. Her hair was undone. Her white shift draped over her body like on the statue of an ancient goddess, leaving just as much room for speculation as to whether she meant to tempt me or existed only for her own pleasure. She turned her head.

And it's a horrible, sappy thing to say, reader, but I had a hard time imagining a more beautiful woman at that moment.

I found her beautiful - in a way where I am sure of it but cannot prove. It was the kind of beauty, in which nature has not erred her in the slightest feature, where every brushstroke fell perfectly in place. It felt for some reason that the most beautiful woman in the world should have the same nose as [name], the same eyes, the same eyelashes, the same way her hair curls on her forehead. She wasn't the Valyrian stone-faced perfection, no, but if the color of her hair suddenly changed to silver and her skin became white as pearls, the Gods-inspired harmony would be shattered, and she would lose all her charm.

I wanted to say something pleasant, something inspiring, something worthy of her beauty. However, she spoke first:

“Well,” she said, voice dry, brittle. “Go on, then. Mount your prize. Get your heir. Put your dragon in the Royce hutch and call it a good day’s work.”

I shouldn’t have expected to hear such obscenities, but for whatever reason I couldn’t find a modicum of surprise in me at her crude words. I spoke:

“You think this is about heirs?—”

“What the fuck else would it be about?” she snapped. “You think I want this? You think I’m sitting here because I’m gagging for your royal cock?”

The phrase caught me off guard. My royal cock. I laughed. She looked startled.

“You could be gagging,” I said. “You don’t know yet.”

“I don’t want to want you.”

“I don’t need you to want me. I need you to feel it. That’s what heat is. You can lie with your mouth. But your body—”

“My body,” she cut in sharply, “is going to do what it’s bred to do, sure. Doesn’t mean I asked for it.”

I came up behind her. Sat on the edge of our bed. I knew she’ll be in heat in no time – her scent was ripe and bleeding, absolutely magnetic, something that made hairs at the end of my neck stand up and made me feel too big for my skin.

I raised my hand on her neck. She flinched when she realized my fingers weren’t going for her hips or her breasts. Instead, I put them just below her jaw, the slight curve of flesh where the scent gland lay half-dormant, hyper-sensitive this close to heat, a place that should’ve been guarded. I knew what heat did to Omegas. I’d read enough maester manuals to know that the glands swell just behind the jaw and down into the chest cavity, flooding the blood with lustful humors. The mind dulls. The tongue dries.

“Don’t—” she started, and that was the wrong thing to say.

Because now I had her permission by objection—the kind of no that told me exactly where the line was.

I stood in the place where scent travels first—the throat, the gland, the memory of the last time I bit her. And I touched it, this sweet thing, that traitorous little switch the gods buried in soft flesh. It pulsed like a vein in heat.

It responded.

Not just the scent—the whole of her. Her back arched faintly. Her mouth parted. I could hear her breath lose its tempo.

I felt so proud at that moment.

“There it is,” I cooed. “There she is.”

“That’s not me,” she said, almost gasping. “That’s… That’s just my body reacting!”

“Then listen to it,” I said. “It’s smarter than you.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“You married me.”

She choked. She swore. She broke.

“You made me think you wanted me. Not just a heat trigger that looks entertaining when it cowers.”

That hit harder than I thought it would.

I stepped back.

“I don’t know how to want you without making it unbearable,” I said. “So maybe—don’t think. Just… let it happen.”

And she did.

Or her humors did.

Or the gods did.

I don’t know.

All I know is when I bit her neck, her scent hit me like boiling wine, and my cock overruled the council of my mind.

______________________________________________________________

3rd person POV because Aemond is not a kind of man to goon at his journaling. I hope so.

The room was drenched in her scent and it was disgusting. Not just scent—heat. Real heat. Estrus, sharp and saccharine, a smell that bypassed thought and went straight to the spine. Maple and blood-warm milk, syrup poured too thick, sticking to everything. The bedding. The wall. His throat.

[name] was sweating through her shift, curled half-up on the floor cushions, eyes blown wide, fingers shaking, not from desire but from involuntary shameful arousal. Aemond sat beside her, already shirtless. His face was red. His hair was sticking to his forehead. And his cock, long and not girthy, but the knot on its base was furiously red and throbbing with blood. He wasn’t showing off but wasn’t hiding it either. It just lay there. Confined. Like a possibility. Like a sheathed sword.

“This is humiliating,” she muttered. “I didn’t even get to pick a day.”

“You didn’t pick me either,” Aemond said. “Yet here we are.”

It was not romantic. It was not sweet. It was two people trying to make sense of something neither of them had ever been taught, because no septa, no maester, no wet nurse ever sat an Omega down and said, “One day you’ll burn alive in your skin and want the person you hate to be inside you while you cry about it.”

So now she was saying it the only way she could.

“Don’t make me say I want it,” she hissed. “I don’t. I just—need it.”

Aemond’s breath hitched. He didn’t pull away. He pressed his mouth to her neck, again and again, working the gland until the skin turned red.

“That’s the point,” he murmured. “This isn’t want. This is the fucking gods taking over.”

“You think that makes it better?”

“I think it makes it honest.”

She tried to glare at him, but her vision was going soft around the edges. Her thighs kept clenching and unclenching without permission. Her whole body felt like it had turned against her like a besieged keep whose own men had opened the gates from the inside.

“You like this,” she whispered, accusing.

“Of course I like this,” he said, biting her collarbone. “You’re fucking glowing. You smell like heat and rot and sugar. You smell like you’re meant to be ruined.”

“Don’t say shit like that,” she gasped. “You sound like a fucking septon on trial.”

“Then stop moaning like you're about to confess.”

She nearly slapped him.

In the back of her mind, some part of her tried to remember the stupid oaths they swore in front of the gods. That she was now his wife. That it was meant to wed her, bed her and breed her. That this was technically allowed. Expected.

This wasn’t rape.

It was just nature, according to every rotting book that called Omegas “weather-bound.”

Maesters wrote about it like it was a harvest—a thing that came, and passed, and took what it wanted.

She was thinking of that when she whispered:

“Don’t make this worse,” she rasped. “You have a face like you want to say something posh.”

“I wasn’t going to,” he muttered. “I was going to say—you smell fucking holy.”

She threw a pillow at him. It missed. She was already shaking again.

“You want me to leave?” he asked. Voice like gravel in honey.

She didn’t answer. She didn’t move.

He reached forward—slowly, like approaching a wild dragon—and placed his hand on the inside of her knee.

Her leg spasmed and she jerked, as if contemplating pulling away. But she didn’t and soon settled.

“You can tell me no,” he said.

“You don’t mean that.”

“No. I mean it. You just won’t want to say it in a minute.”

His fingers slid higher.

He was watching her face, not her cunt. He wanted to see if she frowned, or averted her gaze again, or chewed on her lip in distress. But she didn’t. She just breathed. Harder. Louder. Her hips rising slightly to meet the pressure of his palm.

“You’re soaked.”

“You’re smug.”

“I’ve read enough about heat,” he muttered, sliding two fingers in so slowly it was rude, “to know when a girl’s losing the fight.”

She moaned. Quiet. Like it hurt.

“I hate that you’re good at this.”

“No one’s good,” he said, curling them. “It’s just instinct. I let the body talk.”

“Well, your body’s a fucking gossip.”

He laughed—genuinely—and ducked down, mouth to thigh, nuzzling once, then again, dragging his breath across the heat-swollen gland that had bloomed between her legs like a Highgarden flower.

He didn’t ask permission.

He licked.

She gasped. Not like a maiden. Like someone dumped a bucket of cold water on her head.

“Aemond—”

“Shh.”

“You’re not supposed to—”

“Shut up.”

His tongue moved slowly, deliberately, teasing the edge of her folds like he was mapping territory, not pleasuring her. Every time she twitched, he murmured something—nothing words, warm sounds—until she was crying without tears, panting into her hands, hips rising of their own accord.

Then—he moaned.

Low. Rattling.

Her scent was everywhere. He wanted to bottle it. Drink it. Smear it on his tongue and walk around court with the proof still clinging to his breath.

“I’m going to mark you from the inside,” he whispered against her cunt.

“That’s not how it works,” she whimpered.

“Doesn’t matter.”

He doubled down. Tongue and fingers. One hand gripping her thigh so hard she might bruise, the other still moving slow, steady, curling until she started gasping in time with him.

She came without warning.

Hard. Violent.

Like a trapdoor opening inside her.

She groaned—not because it felt good, but because it was humiliating how badly it did.

Her scent exploded—thick, needy, pulsing with heat—and Aemond just buried his face deeper, growling into her like he could pull more of her out through sheer pressure.

He looked absolutely sinful when he had his fill of her cunt – lips wet and swollen, pupils blown wide like animal’s, hair sticking to his forehead in uneven curls—he didn’t say “are you ready?” or “may I?”

He spread her legs. Hiked them up under her knees. Then, gods, he didn’t even undress properly – but enough for his cock to rise proud and high from his breeches like a dashing flagpole, smearing precum on her thighs. He didn't feel the need to make a show of it. A dragon doesn't ask a farmer's permission to steal his sheep. Nor does he promise to be gentle before he mounts his mate. So. He rubbed the head against her slit, slow and rough, making her arch, hiss, shudder.

“You feel that?” he murmured. “That’s not want. That’s need. Your cunt’s weeping like a lost little child.”

“Shut the fuck up and get it over with,” she gasped.

“Not until you say you’re mine.”

“I’m not—”

He pushed in. Not all at once. Not gently.

But deep enough to knock the wind from her lungs.

Her mouth opened in a wordless noise that wasn’t pain and wasn’t pleasure—it was submission, the kind that lives below language. The part of the Omega brain that still believes in teeth and pack hierarchy, even when the rest of her is busy hating the man fucking her.

“Don’t play coy now, sweet wife.” – he whispered against her lips, and sweet wife sounded almost derogatory. “If you’re not mine as you insist yet your pussy cries like a widow, what does that make you?”

Unfortunately, she was too busy being fucked silly to respond with something witty enough. Aemond pulled out just enough to feel the stretch and spasm of her tight muscles around his shaft. It was exquisite. It was so good that it seemed like a miracle, revealed to him personally as a reward for all whatever the good deeds he had managed to do over the years. Should he be picky about wording at this point?

Anyway, his rhythm was greedy. Hungry. Like drinking from a spring after a gruelling heatwave, when thirst feels like an endless unquenchable pit. The sound of skin meeting skin echoed off the stones. His fingers left bruises. Her legs wouldn’t stop shaking.

At one point, he bit her shoulder—not hard enough to mark, but enough to make her cry out like she’d just lost something.

She slapped him.

Hard.

He came harder.

The scent was unbearable now. Heat-slick. Sweet. Wild.

Aemond groaned, half-wild, panting against her throat.

“You smell like mine. You’ll always smell like mine.”

“You sound like an animal.”

“That’s because I am,” he hissed. “And you’re in heat. And I’m not going to stop until I feel you drip down your legs.”

She bit him back—gland to gland.

Accidental. Instinctual.

It didn’t matter.

The bond sealed.

For real this time.

Permanent.

When they stopped—hours later—they didn’t speak.

Not right away.

Only the scent said anything now.

It said:

Mine.

Taken.

Done. ______________________________________________________________

The air in the chamber was thick with aftermath.

Cold stones of their chambers had done little to cool the room; the hearth was still crackling low, an embered hush against the obscene heat still tangled between their bodies.

His young wife lay on her side, breath steady now, legs twitching with aftershocks. Aemond was behind her, molded flush like a second skin, one arm under her head, the other around her waist, his fingers lazily resting over the soft curve of her stomach like he was already trying to claim whatever future he had just fucked inside her.

His knot was still inside her.

Not throbbing. Just... there. Heavy. Final. Quietly obscene.

She didn’t speak at first. Neither did he.

They just lay there, bound, exhausted, breathing the same air with the resignation of people who had both lost and won something in the same night.

Eventually, she muttered:

“You’re still in me.”

He smirked against her hair.

“Be patient. You’re small. I’m thorough.”

“You’re fucking arrogant.”

“You’re full of royal seed and still twitching. Don’t lie.”

She snorted. Closed her eyes again. Then opened them, squinting toward the small sliver of dawn slicing across the floor.

“They’ll expect us at breakfast.”

“They can wait. You’re not walking right yet.”

“I wasn’t walking right before. That was anxiety. Now it’s worse.”

He chuckled low in his throat. Nuzzled her scent gland with lazy entitlement.

“You’re mine now.”

“I know,” she said, very flatly.

“Say it better.”

“You’re mine now.”

“Mmm.” He nipped at her nape, where the hairline began. “Good girl.”

“I hope your cock falls off.”

“Not before I put three heirs in you and a fourth just to spite Uncle.”

A silence passed.

Not cold. Not bitter.

Then they both bristled, but strangely enough it wasn't nearly as awkward as they both imagined. And one of them, or maybe both of them though-- I'll find it very hard to hate being married.

fin. thank you for reading.

[boywivloveficrecs]

Honestly feel like Aemond is into dry humping. He forces his sister to grind against as he sits in his chair, reading. He's following his mother's orders of not deflowering her, but still is getting some pleasure.

⚠️: SMUT CONTENT. female!reader, dom!Aemond Targaryen, Targcest (older brother/younger sister), dubcon, dry humping, corruption kink, overstimulation, dacryphilia, mentioned Alicent Hightower, mentioned Daeron Targaryen. no use of y/n.

Alicent knew her children very well, even if she did not want to acknowledge certain flaws of them, not even to herself if it was something that went too far against her principles, built according to the dubious morality she had acquired as a woman devoted to the Faith of the Seven and at the same time being raised by such an ambitious father.

She knew what was going on inside Aemond's head long before she had agreed about the betrothal between her second son and her second daughter. Despite understanding that Aemond could be useful for a promising marriage alliance, Alicent did not dare deny her son what he wanted. You.

His desires for his younger sister, born just a year before Daeron, were nothing new to anyone in the family. Just like your submissive and dependent behaviour when it came to him.

Alicent was aware of her son's dark thoughts about his sister — which went far beyond keeping the Targaryen bloodline "pure." It was about how much he wanted to corrupt you and how much power you allowed him to wield in your life. The Queen Consort was aware that you were destined to be his all along, and there was nothing that could change that fate.

The little she could demand was based on her morality and faith. Aemond should not deflower her daughter before the bedding ceremony. He could not corrupt your innocence, at least not completely.

"You are distracting me, sister." Aemond's husky voice briefly pulled you out of the haze of pleasure, your cheeks flushing with the realization that your moans were, in fact, too loud.

He could not blame you, though. He was the one who forced you to sit on his lap, completely naked as the day you came into the world. It was Aemond who ordered you to act like an obedient future wife, dry humping against the upright cock inside the black leather pants he wore.

Just as he ordered you to do frequently.

Alicent's demands prevented him, like the good son he was, from taking your maidenhead before the wedding night. Although it did not stop him from enjoying his little sister's body in other ways.

"You are very wet, I can feel it." Aemond sneered while your cunt continued to grind against him. The fabric of his pants was not soft at all and it made you sore, as you had been forced to do this for over an hour. An hour watching your older brother sitting there in his chair, reading a book about philosophy and ignoring the moans you let out with each rub.

"Please, brother..." You whimpered, hands on your own thighs to keep the pace, feeling your cunt already swollen due to the constant stimulation and two previous orgasms.

A smirk appeared on the prince's face, lowering the book to stare at you with his good eye. The sight of your red, oversensitive core almost made him consider giving you some relief, but appreciating those cute cheeks wet with tears and those pretty, trembling lips seemed much more fun. "Keep going."

That was all he said, returning to focus on the reading. His free hand grabbing your ass to help you keep moving was the only comfort he would allow himself to give.

[boywivloveficrecs]

Whispers of Memories, Chains of Time

Parings: human-turned-vampire!Remmick x human-turned-vampire!Poc fem reader

Genres: Southern Gothic ,Vampire Romance ,Dark Angst,Supernatural Tragedy, Fluff(..)

Wordcount:14.8k+

Content warning: vampire transformation (non-consensual), blood, emotional manipulation, obsession, toxic romance, grief, PTSD, trauma aftermath, sexual tension, implied sex, body horror, hunting/killing, possessiveness, violence (not glorified), slow descent into monsterhood

A/n: this was a request from @0angel-tears0 , and i truly poured my heart into bringing it to life. i tried to weave in every detail that was asked for, and i hope it resonates with you the way it did with me while writing. thank you for the inspiration—i really hope you enjoy it. And thank you for the support^^

He was on his knees.

Not like a man prayin’, but like one beggin’ the grave to let him stay buried.

“Just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it,” Remmick rasped, voice low and cracked, like gravel dragged through honey. His hands hovered near mine, never quite touchin’. “You want me gone, I’ll disappear. You want me dead, well… you know better than most, darlin’. That ain’t never been easy.”

The rain hit the ground like it was tryin’ to drown out the past.

I stood there, silent. Watchin’ the same man who once turned my blood to fire now tremble like he ain’t felt warmth in centuries. His eyes flickered red. Still beautiful. Still dangerous. Still mine—once.

And then the memory came back sharp as bone:

His mouth at my throat.

My scream shatterin’ the quiet.

The taste of betrayal on my tongue before I ever knew what betrayal truly was.

The night he turned me.

The night I stopped bein’ his salvation and became his punishment.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

Remmick's Pov

The smoke from the baker’s chimney curled lazy into the grey mornin’, twistin’ up toward a sky that hadn’t yet made up its mind. Pale, dull, hangin’ low like grief. I shifted the crate on my shoulder, feelin’ the dig of wood through damp wool. My boots were slick with yesterday’s rain, slippin’ now and then on the cobbles that shone like a drunkard’s teeth—wet and crooked.

I passed the butcher, same as always. He gave me a nod stiff as his apron. Behind him, the meat swung on hooks, pink and heavy, lookin’ like saints in some holy place I’d never set foot in. I hated that shop. Too many flies. Too many mouths left open, waitin’ for a prayer that’d never come.

The crate weren’t much—few bottles of oil, sacks of dried lavender, and somethin’ sealed in wax I didn’t bother askin’ after. I just hauled it. Dropped it off with the woman behind the counter who didn’t look me in the eye, and left. No lingerin’. Places that smelled like sickness and sorrow weren’t ones I liked to haunt long.

I’d lived in this village long enough that most folks stopped whisperin’. Didn’t mean they trusted me. Just meant I was another fixture—like a broken fence or an old gate that still held up in a storm. I worked. Didn’t drink myself blind. Didn’t steal. Kept to myself. That was enough for them.

But it weren’t enough for me.

Some days I wondered if I was real at all. Or just a shadow they let move through the fog.

I took the back path out, cuttin’ ‘round the edge of the market square. Didn’t care for crowds. The noise. The eyes.

That’s when I saw her.

Not all at once. Just a flicker first—somethin’ movin’ slow near the trees where the path opened wide. A figure bent low, rearrangin’ a basket. Her movements were deliberate, like the world could wait its turn. Like she had all the time God ever gave.

Her dress was simple, but it carried different. Lighter. Like she came from somewhere the sun hit softer. And her—

Christ.

I don’t know the word for what she was.

Not just beautiful. No.

Marked.

Like the earth itself had touched her, pressed a thumbprint right into her soul, and said: this one.

I should’ve kept walkin’. I didn’t.

She straightened, basket shiftin’ easy on her hip like it belonged there. The light caught her skin, and it weren’t fair, how it looked. Her eyes passed over me once—just a blink—but they didn’t flinch. Didn’t linger.

That’s what did it.

She didn’t look at me like I was strange. Or cursed. Or nothin’. She looked past me. Like she’d seen worse. Lived through more. Like she carried the memory of fire behind her ribs and still breathed easy through the smoke.

And me?

I forgot the path. Forgot the ache in my shoulder and the filth on my hands. Forgot the hinge I was meant to fix, the roof that needed patchin’. Forgot the name I answered to.

She turned.

Walked into the crowd and was gone.

And my chest—quiet near a decade—stirred like somethin’ old had woken up in it.

Somethin’ dangerous.

Somethin’ like hunger.

Or recognition.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

The next time I saw her, it was rainin’.

Not the sort that passed in a hush and vanished clean. No, this was the old kind. The kind that settled in your bones and made the village feel more graveyard than home. Clouds hung low, heavy as guilt. The air smelled like peat, smoke, and wet wool.

I hadn’t planned on cuttin’ through the square. Meant to head straight to the chapel—Father Callahan’d cracked a hinge clean off the sacristy door again, and I’d promised to fix it. Hammer tucked under my coat, hands still black with soot from cleanin’ out the baker’s flue that mornin’. My back ached. My boots were soaked.

And then—

I saw her.

She stood quiet as a shadow in front of the apothecary, tucked beneath the narrow eave that dripped steady at her feet. Her dress was simple, the color of river clay, clingin’ to her like the rain knew better than to touch her skin. A basket sat on the crook of her arm, filled with wild garlic and herbs, and her other hand held a cloth to her lips—like she was keepin’ something back.

A cough. Or a secret.

I oughta have kept walkin’.

But I didn’t.

I stood there like a daft fool in the muck, starin’ at her like the rain could wash the sense back into me.

She looked up.

And this time, she saw me.

Really saw me.

Her eyes—dark as peat, clear as glass—locked with mine. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. Didn’t carry the same weight in her stare that most folks did when they looked my way. There was no pity. No suspicion.

Just stillness.

She wore it like armor.

Like maybe the storm belonged to her.

“You alright there?” I called, my voice louder than I meant over the hiss of rain.

Her gaze dipped for a breath, then came back. She lowered the cloth. “Far as I can be, considerin’,” she said. Her voice was even, lower than I remembered. The words came proper enough, but the sound of her was not local. Something about it curled at the edges. Like she’d learned the language well but carried a different song in her throat.

“You’re not from here,” I said. The words left me before I could think to swallow ‘em.

Her lips twitched, not quite smilin’. “Neither are you.”

She weren’t wrong.

Folk around here called me the outsider. Came in after my brother passed, and I stayed—fixin’ broken fences, sharpenin’ shears, patchin’ roofs after windstorms. I kept to myself. Said little. Answered less. Most folks left me be. Grief has a way of makin’ ghosts of the livin’.

But she—she was no ghost.

She was too solid. Too certain.

“You deal in herbs?” I asked, noddin’ toward her basket.

She glanced down, then back. “Some for trade. Some for me. Depends who’s askin’.”

“Folk here don’t always take kindly to unfamiliar hands mixin’ medicine.”

“They don’t take kindly to much at all,” she said. Her tone didn’t shift. Didn’t get sharp or soft. “But I’m not here to please them.”

My mouth twitched. Could’ve been a smile. Could’ve been a warning.

“They call me Remmick,” I offered, though I don’t know why. She hadn’t asked.

She nodded slow, like she was tuckin’ the name somewhere safe. “I’ve heard of you. Fix things, don’t you?”

I gave a short nod. “Try to.”

She tilted her head, studyin’ me like I was a nail half-driven. “Can you fix what ain’t made of wood or iron?”

I blinked. “Suppose that depends on how broke it is.”

That made her pause. Her eyes lingered, like she was weighin’ my words on a scale only she could read.

“Good answer,” she murmured, and stepped out into the rain.

She moved like dusk—quiet, certain, untouched by the cold. Her shoes sank into the mud, her hair clung to her nape, and still she didn’t flinch. Didn’t falter. Didn’t look back.

Didn’t need to.

I stood there a long while after she’d gone, hammer still clutched in my hand, like I’d forgotten what I was doin’.

Something about her wouldn’t let go.

It wasn’t just her face, though it was a face worth rememberin’.

It was the way she made the world feel like it wasn’t mine anymore.

Like she’d stepped out of some place older than time.

And my soul—fool that it is—reached for her like it already knew the fall was comin’.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

The next time I saw her, I was carryin’ a sack of empty flour tins and cussin’ at the wind. The path out toward the edge of town had turned near to muck from the week’s worth of rain, and the soles of my boots were caked thick with it. I’d been sent by old Mr. Fallon to fetch a bundle of dried thyme and wild caraway for his bread—claimed the flavor wouldn’t be worth spit without it. Gave me a half-torn scrap with the address written in crooked scrawl and waved me off like I didn’t have ten other things to fix today.

I followed the directions, takin’ the narrow road past the blacksmith’s, past the place where the woods leaned too close to the path, until the town itself felt far behind me. When I reached the cottage, it was tucked back in a thicket of elder trees, vines curlin’ up its stone sides like time was tryin’ to reclaim it.

Didn’t seem like the sort of place anybody lived.

But there was smoke risin’ from the chimney, soft and pale.

I knocked on the door. Didn’t expect her to answer.

But she did.

The door creaked open slow, and there she stood. Same earth-toned dress, sleeves rolled up this time, fingers stained green from somethin’ she’d been grinding. Her hair was wrapped back, loose pieces stickin’ to her temple from sweat.

I blinked. She didn’t.

“You here for the baker’s herbs?” she asked, before I could speak.

“Aye,” I said, a little too quick. “Didn’t know it was you who put ‘em together.”

She gave a small shrug, half-turning back into the house. “I make do with what I can. Come on in. It’s dry, at least.”

I hesitated on the threshold.

Then stepped inside.

The cottage smelled like cedar smoke and mint, sharp with somethin’ bitter beneath it—wormwood, maybe, or sorrow. Shelves lined the walls, filled with glass jars and cloth bundles, herbs hangin’ to dry like prayer strings. Light came in soft through the foggy windows, catchin’ on the motes floatin’ in the air.

I watched her move through the space like she belonged to it. Like the walls were built to her shape.

“You live alone out here?” I asked, settin’ the tin sack down by the door.

She nodded without lookin’ back. “Folk don’t visit much. Suits me fine.”

“Bit far from everything, don’t you think?”

Her hands didn’t stop as she tied a bundle of dried leaves with twine. “Distance keeps peace. Or at least quiet.”

I hummed low. “Seems lonely.”

She paused, just a moment. “Lonely’s better than bein’ caged.”

I didn’t have an answer for that.

She turned then, handin’ me the bundle wrapped in cloth. “Here. Tell Fallon I added wild rosemary. He’ll complain, but he’ll use it anyway.”

I took the bundle, our fingers brushin’ again. Brief, but not unremarkable.

“Thank you,” I said. “For this.”

She nodded. Her eyes lingered on mine longer than they should’ve.

“You always this polite, or just when you’re in someone’s home?”

I let a ghost of a smile tug at my mouth. “Only when I’m talkin’ to someone who don’t scare easy.”

She raised an eyebrow, a corner of her lip curlin’. “Good. I don’t trust men who only speak sweet to the meek.”

There was a silence then—an easy one, somehow, but it sat heavy with things unspoken.

“You never gave me your name,” I said, shifting the weight of the herbs in my hands.

She looked down, then back up. “That’s ‘cause I haven’t decided if you’ve earned it.”

And damn me, but I liked the sound of that.

“Well,” I said, stepping back toward the door, “if you ever reckon I have, I’ll be around. Usually fixin’ things folk’ve broken.”

She tilted her head, arms crossed now. “Maybe I’ll break somethin’ just to see if you’ll come.”

The door creaked shut behind me before I could think of somethin’ clever to say.

Outside, the air smelled like wet leaves and woodsmoke. I walked back down the muddy path with her words echoing in my chest—soft as silk, sharp as flint.

And somewhere in the quiet between my heartbeats, I realized I’d be lookin’ for reasons to come back.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

The morning stretched soft and gold over the village, sun filterin’ through a sky still patched with the pale hush of dawn. It’d rained heavy the night before, and now the earth smelled like moss and old stone, like every breath belonged to something older than me.

I took the same path I always did, worn into the hills by habit and need. A leather satchel slung cross my shoulder, tools knockin’ gentle against one another with each step. The hammer I used for roofs, the little brush I used for oilin’ hinges—all packed like I was some saint come to bless broken things.

Only I wasn’t goin’ to the chapel today.

The note had come from the baker, scribbled mess of ink sayin’ one of the herb women needed her ceilin’ patched. Didn’t give a name, just said “the dark-eyed one what don’t smile easy.” I knew then.

Didn’t tell myself that out loud, but my chest said it plain.

Her.

The woman who spoke like secrets. Moved like the rain followed her for warmth. I’d seen her twice now, and still she sat behind my eyes like a prayer I couldn’t finish.

Her cottage sat just beyond the low bend of the road, tucked behind a line of cypress trees with their roots grippin’ the wet soil like they feared bein’ torn up. Ivy climbed the corners of the stone, and a little row of jars lined the windowsill—dried flowers, maybe. Bits of lavender. Or bones.

I knocked soft. Once. Twice. No answer. I knocked again, louder this time, the wood thuddin’ beneath my fist.

“Comin’,” came her voice, muffled but steady.

The door creaked open and there she was, standin’ barefoot on the wood floor with sleeves pushed up to her elbows. Her dress was a muted brown, plain as river mud, but it clung to her like she’d shaped it herself from dusk and silence.

“You’re the one with the leak,” I said, tryin’ to keep my voice level, casual. “I was sent from the bakery to patch it up proper.”

Her eyes flicked down to my satchel, then back to me. “Figured someone would show. Just didn’t think it’d be you.”

I raised a brow. “That a complaint?”

She didn’t smile, but her lips twitched at the corners. “Not yet.”

She stepped aside, lettin’ me in with a tilt of her head. The air inside her cottage was warm—herby, thick with dried thyme and somethin’ sweeter beneath it, like burnt sugar.

“Ceilin’s in the back room,” she said. “It leaks when the rain hits from the east.”

I followed her down the narrow hall, tools shiftin’ with each step. The floor creaked beneath our weight, and the walls held the quiet hum of a lived-in place—one made by hand, not bought with coin.

As I entered the room, I looked up at the corner where the water had left its mark—dark ring bloomin’ like rot in the ceiling. I set my satchel down near the edge of a low table and rolled up my sleeves.

“You don’t strike me as the sort who sends for help,” I said, climbin’ onto the little stool below the leak. “Let alone a village man.”

“I’m not,” she replied, movin’ to the table and startin’ to sort herbs into small bundles. “But I’m also not the sort who lets water make a home where it don’t belong.”

“That so?” I grinned. “Maybe you oughta carve that on a stone outside. Might keep trouble at bay.”

Her hands stilled a moment on the stems before resummin’. “Trouble always finds its way back. Whether you carve warnings or not.”

There was somethin’ in her tone—like she knew the feel of trouble’s hands around her throat and had stopped bein’ afraid of it.

I scraped at the softened wood, lettin’ silence settle between us, comfortable as an old coat.

I was halfway through tightening the last hinge when she spoke again.

“You always this quiet when you work?” she asked, voice soft, but not shy. There was somethin’ in it—like a cat stretchin’ in a sunbeam. Casual. Watchin’.

I glanced down from the stool I’d set beneath her ceiling, my sleeve wet with old rainwater and plaster dust stickin’ to my arms.

“Only when the job’s worth concentratin’ on,” I muttered, brows knit, screwin’ the final nail in. “And when the roof don’t behave.”

She made a small sound—almost a laugh. “Should I apologize on its behalf?”

“If it gives me a bit o’ peace, then aye.”

She leaned her shoulder to the doorframe, arms folded, basket still on the table behind her. The light from the window framed her in pieces—forehead, cheekbone, collarbone. Dust floated between us, and outside, the wind shifted the branches in her little garden.

“You’re better at this than the last fella they sent,” she said after a while. “Didn’t even last long enough to hammer twice before he said the house gave him a bad feelin’.”

“Most things give folk a bad feelin’ when they ain’t lookin’ hard enough,” I answered, setting the hammer down and wiping my hands on my trousers. “Or when they’re daft.”

“And what about you?” she asked, that same not-smile flirtin’ at the corners of her mouth. “You get any feelin’ from this place?”

I turned, finally facing her proper. “Aye,” I said. “That you’re hidin’ somethin’.”

Her expression didn’t change, but her gaze sharpened.

“I mean,” I added, before she could speak, “that you don’t talk much, yet you’ve got books stacked on herbs that don’t grow this side of the sea. Things bundled in your basket most folks wouldn’t know to pick. You knew I’d come back for the ceiling before I even told you I would.”

She tilted her head, lips pressing together. “I listen. I pay attention,” she said simply. “People show who they are even when they don’t mean to.”

“And what have I shown, then?” I asked, stepping down from the stool, slow.

She hesitated only a breath. “That you’re more than you say,” she said. “And you carry your grief like it’s welded to your spine.”

I stopped cold. And for once, I didn’t have somethin’ clever to say. Just stood there, feelin’ the weight of her words settle where they landed—deep.

She walked past me then, to the table, and pulled a small dark glass jar from the corner beside a bound book. Set it in my hands.

“For the cold,” she said. “Rain’ll catch up with you sooner than you think, and you smell like someone who won’t rest long enough to sweat it out.”

I looked down at the jar, then up at her again.

“You trust me not to drop dead drinkin’ this?” I asked, eyebrow cocked.

“If I wanted you dead,” she said plainly, “I’d’ve let the ceiling fall.”

That made me laugh, a dry sound I hadn’t heard in my own throat in some time.

“Fair ‘nough.”

She moved toward the door to open it for me, but I didn’t walk out just yet. Still holdin’ the jar, I looked back at her, searching her face like the name might rise from her skin if I stared long enough.

“You gonna tell me your name, or do I keep callin’ you Moonflower in my head?” I asked, the smirk creepin’ up despite myself.

She blinked at that. “Moonflower?”

“You only bloom at night. Got a scent that lingers. And I reckon you’ll poison a man if he ain’t careful.”

That made her pause. Then, a smile—real this time, curved and quiet.

“Don’t know if I oughta be flattered or offended.”

“Both, maybe.”

She nodded, opening the door wider. “See you next time, then… handyman.”

“Remmick,” I reminded her, steppin’ out into the daylight again.

“I know,” she said, leaning on the frame. “Still deciding if you deserve to be called by it.”

And then she shut the door.

But the air behind me stayed full of her voice. Of rain. And herbs. And somethin’ that hadn’t yet been named.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

The woods had a hush to ’em that day—like even the birds were holdin’ their tongues to listen. Not a drop of rain on the ground, but the air was thick with damp, like the earth’d been cryin’ in secret. I weren’t lookin’ for her. Not exactly. But I took the long path from town anyhow, boots slippin’ over moss and roots, hands deep in my coat like I didn’t care where I was headed.

Truth was, I hadn’t seen her in three days. And it felt like somethin’ gnawin’ at the hollow in my ribs.

I told myself she was off gatherin’ or restin’, that folk like her didn’t owe nothin’ to folk like me. But the stillness where she ought to’ve been—it sat too long in the pit of my chest.

Then I saw her. Perched on a fallen log off the trail, elbow on her knee, chin in her palm. Her basket laid beside her, near empty, just a few stringy greens hangin’ on like stubborn ghosts. The wind played gentle at her scarf, and she looked like she’d been carved outta stillness. A woman built from pause and ache.

“Thought the trees’d gone and swallowed you,” I said, easin’ around the bend with a crooked smile tryin’ to pass as casual.

Her gaze met mine. Slow. Sure. “They tried,” she said. “But I told ’em I still had things to finish.”

A laugh threatened my throat. I let it sit behind my teeth.

“Was beginnin’ to think I imagined you,” I said, shiftin’ my weight through the soft earth. “Like somethin’ dreamt up on a fevered night.”

She looked me over like she could tell I meant it. “You dream often, Remmick?”

“Only when I’ve got somethin’ heavy on the soul.”

She didn’t answer that. Just scooted over and tapped the space beside her.

So I sat.

We let the silence settle between us for a time, let it stretch long and deep. She played with a blade of grass, foldin’ it in half, then again, ’til it split. I watched the way her fingers moved, careful but worn.

“I been thinkin’,” she said after a while, voice quiet but steady. “How a place can be full of people and still feel empty.”

My eyes shifted to her, to the way her jaw set like she’d swallowed too many truths. “This place do that to you?”

She shrugged. Not quite yes, not quite no. Then after a beat, “My home wasn’t kind either. But it was mine. Then it weren’t.”

I didn’t say nothin’. Just let her speak.

“There was a war. Not one with drums and soldiers, but somethin’ quieter. Slower. Took everything soft and left the bones.”

Her fingers stilled. Her face didn’t change, but I saw the weight behind her eyes.

“I ran,” she said. “Kept runnin’. Learned to talk like I belonged. Learned to walk like I wasn’t watchin’ every step.”

“You shouldn’t’ve had to,” I muttered, voice rough. “No one should.”

She looked at me then, like she weren’t expectin’ that.

“Folk back home say runnin’ makes you weak,” she said. “But it’s what saved me.”

I nodded slow. “I ran, too. When my brother died, I packed what little I had and left. Not just the grief, but… the hunger. Crops were failin’. Bellies were empty. We were ghosts by winter.”

She blinked, brows drawin’ together.

“Ireland’s a beautiful place, but she’s cruel when she wants to be. The year before I left, there was rot in the potatoes—black and wet, like somethin’ cursed the fields. Folks buried more kin than crops that year.”

I swallowed.

“I couldn’t stay and starve with the bones of my family.”

She watched me. Didn’t speak. Just watched.

“So I came here,” I went on, voice low. “Thought maybe fixin’ things might fix me, too.”

She tilted her head. “Has it?”

I looked down at my hands. Calloused. Dirty. Then I looked at her.

“I’m still cracked,” I said. “But I don’t feel so hollow when you’re nearby.”

Her lips parted, just a little. Eyes softenin’, like she didn’t know what to do with that.

“You always say things like that?”

“Only when I mean ’em.”

The breeze stirred again. Her scarf lifted and fell.

“You don’t know what I’ve done,” she said, voice low. “What I’ve seen. I’m not made of mercy, Remmick. I’ve got sharp edges.”

“I ain’t afraid of a cut,” I said, leanin’ forward. “Not if it means gettin’ close to somethin’ real.”

She reached into her basket then, pullin’ out a folded cloth with a little vial inside—amber-glass, stoppered with care.

“More, For the rain,” she said. “To keep the cold outta your bones.”

I took it from her gently, thumb brushing hers. “You always takin’ care of me.”

She smiled, barely. “You look like someone who don’t know how to ask for help.”

“And you look like someone who’s tired of watchin’ folk suffer.”

She stood, dustin’ off her skirts.

“Walk me home?” she asked.

I stood too, tucking the vial safe in my coat. “Aye. Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

And I meant it. From the ache behind my ribs to the silence between her words—I meant every damn word.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

Days passed as I began to see her more and more. Every time was like a dream I didn’t want to end—just like today.

The clearing sat just beyond the old stone wall, tucked where the trees thinned and the wild things dared bloom without asking permission. The sun poured itself across the earth like warm cream, catchin’ on petals and blades of grass, paintin’ everything gold.

She was already there when I arrived—kneelin’ low, sleeves rolled up past her elbows, fingers brushin’ through stalks of green like she were coaxin’ secrets from the dirt. Some of the flowers were in full bloom, heads high like they knew they were worth praisin’. Others drooped, wilted from the heat or time. Still, she moved between them with care, never avoidin’ the ones that’d gone soft at the edges.

“You’re late,” she said without lookin’ at me, voice light but pointed.

I knelt beside her, restin’ my tools down with a soft thump. “Was mendin’ a crooked stair, not flirtin’ with the baker’s daughter if that’s what you’re thinkin’.”

She smirked. “Didn’t say you were.”

“Aye, but you thought it.”

She shook her head, then held up a stem with tiny white buds. “Chamomile. You pick it now, when the sun’s at its highest. Any later, and it starts losin’ its strength.”

I took it from her, turnin’ the stem between my fingers. “Looks like nothin’ special.”

She raised a brow. “And yet it calms nerves, soothes bellies, and can ease nightmares.”

My lips curled. “Maybe I oughta be stuffin’ my pillow with it.”

“Wouldn’t hurt.”

The way she said it made me glance sideways at her—how the sun lit up her cheekbones, how the wind caught loose strands of hair and played with ‘em like a lover. She looked too alive to belong to the quiet.

“Which one’s next?” I asked, clearin’ my throat.

She reached out, pluckin’ a stem from the base of a nearby cluster. “Yarrow. Good for wounds.”

“That for folk like me who get in fights with doors and lose?”

She gave me a sidelong look. “It’s for those who carry hurts they don’t speak on.”

I didn’t answer. Not right away.

We moved in silence for a while, fingers grazin’ blooms, knees in the soft earth. I watched her more than I watched the plants, truth be told. There was a rhythm to her. A kind of stillness that weren’t born from silence but from knowledge. Like she knew exactly where she stood and why the world moved around her.

“Why d’you teach me this?” I asked finally.

She shrugged. “Because most folk pluck what’s pretty and leave what’s useful.”

“And you think I’m worth teachin’?”

She looked at me then. Really looked. “I think you listen when I speak,” she said. “That’s rare enough.”

My chest pulled tight at that. Not from surprise. From feelin’ seen.

“I like hearin’ you talk,” I said, softer than I meant. “Even when you don’t say much.”

She didn’t smile, but she didn’t look away either. “What else do you like?”

“Your hands,” I said before thinkin’. “How sure they are. How you never flinch when you touch things other folk avoid.”

Her gaze flicked down to the herbs between us. “And what if I touch somethin’ dangerous?”

“Then I reckon it’d be lucky to be held by you.”

The wind stirred again, rustlin’ the trees, bendin’ the tall grass in waves. A butterfly danced between us and didn’t land.

She exhaled slow, like maybe she’d been holdin’ her breath. “You’re a strange man, Remmick.”

“Aye,” I said, smilin’. “But I’m learnin’ from the best.”

We sat there till the sun dipped just low enough to cast long shadows. The air thickened with the smell of lavender and crushed thyme. She handed me one last sprig—something bitter, sharp to the nose.

“For the headaches you pretend not to have,” she said.

I tucked it behind my ear like a fool.

She laughed, the sound as soft as the breeze through yarrow leaves.

And I thought—if this were all I ever had of her, it’d be enough.

But some part of me already knew I’d want more.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

The sun was dippin’ low, spillin’ orange light across the field like it was tryin’ to make somethin’ holy outta the ordinary. We’d wandered farther than usual — past the woods, down near where the blackberry bushes crept wild along the stone fences. Grass brushed at our ankles, and the air smelled like dust, crushed fruit, and late summer.

She’d been hummin’ under her breath again. I never knew the tune, but it stuck in my head all the same.

“Careful now,” she said, glancin’ back at me with that half-grin. “These brambles’ll catch your trousers and your pride in one go.”

I muttered somethin’ about her bein’ the real menace, not the bushes, which made her laugh — that soft, real kind that made my chest feel too small.

We settled on a slope where the hill dipped shallow. She sat cross-legged without a care, skirt flared, one hand restin’ against a warm rock. I sat beside her, knees bent, boots diggin’ into the earth. Not too close. Not too far.“You always find the best places,” I said, watchin’ the horizon melt.She shrugged like it weren’t nothin’. “Places don’t gotta be grand to be good. Just quiet. Just safe.”

I glanced at her, and for a second, she looked made of the light itself — all gold and shadow, like she belonged to a world I hadn’t earned yet.

“How come you never told me your name?” I asked, leanin’ back on my elbows. “Might start thinkin’ you ain’t got one.”

She chuckled, pickin’ a stem of clover and twistin’ it between her fingers. “Maybe I was waitin’. Maybe I needed to know if you’d ruin it.”

I arched a brow. “Ruin it how?”

“Some folk take your name like it’s a possession,” she said, serious now. “Say it too often. Say it wrong. Say it like they own it.”

I nodded slow. “And you think I’d do that?”

She looked at me then — really looked — and whatever she saw there must’ve settled somethin’.

“No,” she said soft. “I don’t think you would.”

The breeze picked up. She reached into her basket, pulled out a small bundle wrapped in cloth. Bread and somethin’ sharp-smellin’, maybe a bit of goat cheese.

“Payment,” she said, handin’ me the bread. “For carryin’ all my baskets last week like a proper mule.”

I grinned. “Best damn mule you ever met.”

“You might be right.” She took a bite of her own bread, chewin’ slow, like she had all the time in the world.

Silence sat easy between us, stitched together by cicadas and the rustle of the grass.

Then she said it, casual as the weather.

“My name’s Y/N.”

I turned to her, blinkin’. “Y/N,” I repeated, like it was a word I already knew but hadn’t tasted proper yet.

“Don’t wear it out,” she warned, smirkin’ over her bite of cheese.

“I wouldn’t dare,” I said, and meant it.

We watched the last of the sun sink behind the ridge, the sky bruisin’ with twilight.

“Y/N,” I murmured again, like a prayer I hadn’t realized I’d needed.

She didn’t look at me this time. But I saw the way her smile turned soft at the edges.

And that was enough.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

The sun sat high, spillin’ gold all across the yard like it’d been poured straight from God’s own pitcher. Cicadas were hummin’, lazy and loud, and the stump tree in front of her little place offered just enough shade to make sittin’ there feel like somethin’ sacred.

She was bent over a wide wooden bowl in her lap, sleeves rolled to her elbows, grindin’ the herbs we’d gathered just the day before. Her wrists moved smooth, slow—like she was coaxin’ the medicine out with patience instead of pressure. The scent of rosemary and dry lavender clung to the air. I sat nearby on the grass, a small pile of weeds beside me I’d promised to pull up while she worked, though I’d barely made a dent.

Didn’t matter much.

I wasn’t here to work.

I was here to watch her.

To listen to her hum low under her breath, not a tune I knew, but soft enough to settle the ache that’d been coiled in my chest since the last time she’d gone quiet on me.

She reached for another bundle of dried stalks, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear with the back of her wrist.

“You done plannin’ on helpin’ or you just gonna keep starin’?” she asked, not lookin’ up.

“Both, maybe,” I said, leanin’ back on my elbows with a grin. “Can’t blame a man for admirin’ the view.”

She snorted, but her lips twitched. “If you’re tryin’ to be smooth, you’re slippin’, Remmick.”

“Me? Slippin’?” I let my accent thicken, feignin’ offense. “I’ll have you know I was voted most charming back home. ’Course, that was by a goat and my granda.”

That earned me a laugh. Not loud, but enough to stir the birds in the tree overhead.

I watched her as she went back to work, the sun catchin’ on her skin and her voice hummin’ again. My hand found a stray flower near my boot, tugging it from the grass. Yellow, scraggly thing. Not as pretty as the ones she kept hung dry above her stove, but it reminded me of her in some crooked way—sturdy and soft at the same time.

“You ever think about stayin’?” I asked, real quiet. “In one place, I mean. Lettin’ somethin’ root you instead of always runnin’?”

She paused, mortar stillin’ in her hand. “You mean lettin’ people in?”

“I mean lettin’ one in,” I said, twirlin’ the flower between my fingers. “Just one.”

She turned her head toward me, squintin’ a little like the light was in her eyes and not the words. “That what you’ve been gettin’ at this whole time?”

I didn’t answer. Just tucked the flower behind my ear with mock grace.

“What d’you think?”

She looked at me for a long time. Then smiled. Not wide. Not coy. Just somethin’ soft and real, like the kind of smile you give someone you ain’t afraid of no more.

“I think you talk too much,” she said, goin’ back to grindin’. “But I like it.”

I didn’t need more than that.

Didn’t need her to say the thing out loud.

Not yet.

The breeze picked up, stirrin’ the dust, the herbs, the ache in my chest that didn’t feel quite so heavy no more.

I pulled the flower from its place on behind ear and putting it neatly on hers and she smiles shyly.

And beneath that old stump tree, under the watchful hush of midday, I let myself believe—just a little—that maybe I weren’t the only one feelin’ it.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

The smell of sugar and sun-warmed fruit clung to the cottage like a promise. Late afternoon spilled through the kitchen window in golden sheets, catching in the little dust motes that danced above the wooden counter. The bowl between us was nearly full—fat blueberries she’d hand-picked that morning, now tossed in flour and cinnamon, waiting for their crusted cradle.

I stood elbow-deep in dough, arms dusted white, sweat at my brow and not just from the heat.

“Careful,” she said, reaching across me. Her hand brushed mine. “You’re foldin’ it too hard. Gotta coax it, not fight it.”

I glanced up.

Sunlight hit the side of her face, turned her lashes gold. She was smiling soft—barely there—but it pulled somethin’ straight outta my ribs.

“Aye,” I muttered. “Didn’t know you trained with the Queen’s pastry cooks.”

She snorted. “Didn’t need to. Just had a gran who’d bite your fingers if you got heavy-handed with her dough.”

“Sounds like a wise woman.”

“She was mean as vinegar and twice as sharp.”

I tried again, slower now, and she nodded her approval. The next few minutes passed with quiet hums and giggles. I couldn’t help but sneak glances—at the curve of her neck, the smudge of flour on her cheek, the way her fingers moved like she were tellin’ a story only she knew.

Then I caught her lookin’ at me.

We both froze.

Neither of us said nothin’, but somethin’ heavy and warm unfurled between us, soft as steam off a pie fresh from the oven.

She turned first, busyin’ herself with the tin. I took the chance to toss a pinch of flour at her back.

It hit her scarf.

She whirled. “Oh, you didn’t—!”

I grinned. “Didn’t what?”

She grabbed a handful and threw it square at my chest. The puff exploded, dustin’ my shirt and the air between us. I lunged with a laugh, and she shrieked, giggling as she dodged around the table.

We wrestled, gently. My hands found her waist, hers pressed against my chest, and when she stumbled, I caught her.

Held her.

Our breath caught in the same place.

“You’ve got… flour,” I murmured, brushing her cheek.

“So do you,” she whispered, staring up at me.

I don’t remember leanin’ in. Just that my lips found hers like they’d been waitin’ their whole life.

She kissed me back slow—like she weren’t sure she should, but couldn’t help herself.

Then it changed.

Got deeper. Hungrier.

She tugged my shirt, I backed her into the counter. My hands ran over her hips, then up, tanglin’ in her hair as she moaned into my mouth.

“Y/N…” I whispered against her jaw.

She didn’t answer. Just pulled me toward the bedroom like it was a decision already made.

The room was dim and warm, the last of the sun stretchin’ long through the window. She peeled her top away first, the thin cotton fallin’ to the floor. I watched her chest rise, eyes dark with want but soft, too.

I pulled my shirt over my head, dropped it, then stepped close.

“Sure ‘bout this?” I asked, voice low.

She nodded. “Been sure.”

That’s all I needed.

I kissed her again, slower this time, carryin’ her back until her knees hit the bed. We sank down together.

Our clothes came off like pages turned, deliberate and slow. My hands traced every inch of her, commitin’ it to memory like scripture. She gasped when I kissed her collarbone, whimpered when I moved down, when my mouth found the place that made her hips jerk and thighs tremble.

“Remmick,” she breathed, fingers in my hair, head tipped back.

I could’ve died in that moment and called it heaven.

When I slid inside her, she clung to me like she’d fall apart otherwise.

We moved together like we’d been doin’ it forever. Like we were born for it. Her nails scraped down my back, my mouth found her throat. I whispered her name like a hymn, like a confession.

She cried out when she came—legs locked around me, eyes wet, lips parted.

I followed close behind, buryin’ my face in her neck with a groan, her name spillin’ from my mouth like a prayer I’d never learned to say right.

After, we didn’t speak.

Just laid tangled in each other, the sound of our breath and the warm hush of evening wrappin’ around us.

I pressed a kiss to her shoulder.

She didn’t flinch.

Didn’t pull away.

And I swear—right then—I could’ve stayed there forever.

But forever’s a long time.

And fate, as I’ve learned, don’t ever keep still.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

The first whisper came from the well.

A woman claimin’ her husband’d died after takin’ a tincture from Y/N. Said it were meant to calm his fever, but he didn’t see the next mornin’. She left out the weeks of coughin’ blood, the yellow tint in his eyes, the black along his gums. She left out the death already settin’ up house in his chest. No, she only spoke of the bottle. And the woman who brewed it. The quiet one, with dark hands and darker eyes, and a garden full o’ herbs no one dared name.

By midday, more tales grew teeth.

A child gone pale after tastin’ sweetroot she’d sold. A cow miscarryin’ out near the woods. An old man mutterin’ in his sleep that he’d seen a shadow slip past his window—and his joints ain’t been right since.

That evenin’, someone carved a jagged symbol into the bark of the tree outside her home.

The kind meant to ward off evil.

Or invite it.

I heard the talk at the forge. At the tavern. At the bloody baker’s shop, while I were settin’ a hinge right on their back door.

“She don’t age,” one man whispered.

“She don’t bleed,” said another.

“Heard her kiss tastes like rusted iron,” a third muttered, voice thick with ale and foolishness.

“She’s a witch.”

“She’s the reason the sickness won’t lift.”

I laid the hammer down slow. Let the nails clatter onto the bench one by one. Didn’t say a word. Just slipped out the back, fists clenched so tight I damn near split my own skin.

By the time I made it to her cottage, dusk had painted the sky grey and mean. I found her in the back garden, tendin’ her herbs like nothin’ was crumblin’ ‘round her.

“Evenin’,” she said when I stepped through the gate. Her voice soft, same as always, but her shoulders were stiff.

“You been into town lately?” I asked.

“Two mornings past,” she said, still kneelin’. “Why?”

I moved closer, my jaw grindin’. “Folk are talkin’. Sayin’ you’re the reason that man’s dead.”

She stood slow, wiped her hands on her apron. “He was already dyin’. The brew was to ease his passin’. I ain’t the one who filled his lungs with rot.”

“I know that. But they don’t. And they’re lookin’ for someone to blame.”

“They always are.”

I swallowed hard, shakin’ my head. “They carved a mark outside your gate.”

She turned to me fully then. “Let ‘em.”

“They’re callin’ you a witch.”

“And what do you call me?”

My throat tightened. “I call you brave. Foolish, maybe. But brave.”

She held my gaze. “I’ve run before, Remmick. I’ll do it again if I must.”

“Don’t,” I said, louder than I meant to. “Don’t run.”

She looked back to the herbs. “I won’t beg to keep a life I built with my own hands.”

“You won’t have to.” My voice dipped low. “But promise me—no more goin’ into town alone.”

She hesitated. “Alright.”

But I knew, right then, she were already thinkin’ of leavin’.

Three days passed.

She didn’t listen.

Said she needed sugar. Cinnamon bark. Said she’d be quick.

A boy came runnin’ to my door before midday, breathless. “She’s been hurt,” he gasped. “They said she cursed their land. Threw stones. She bled.”

I didn’t ask. Just ran.

When I reached her home, she was packin’. A bandage round her brow, blood stainin’ the edge of it. Her hands moved fast, throwin’ jars and vials into her satchel.

“You went alone?” I barked, stormin’ into the room.

“I didn’t think—”

“No,” I snapped, “you didn’t.”

She didn’t stop movin’.

“You plannin’ on runnin’, then?”

“What choice do I have?” she hissed. “You said it yourself—they’ll burn the source.”

My chest hurt. “Don’t go.”

She paused. Just for a moment.

Then kept packin’. “You can’t save me from all this.”

“I can try.”

That night, I left.

Didn’t tell her where I was goin’. Only knew one place left to turn.

Deep in the hills, past the boglands and the stone-faced ruins. A place folk didn’t speak of unless drink loosened their tongues. Said there was a woman there, old as death, who could grant power—if you paid the price.

And I paid it.

Gave up my last ounce o’ peace for it.

“Give me what I need to protect her,” I said, kneelin’ in the dirt.

The voice that answered sounded like it had no mouth, no shape.

You’ll have it. But you’ll never be what you were.

I woke with fire behind my eyes.

With hunger in my chest.

And power under my skin.

I ran back.

Too late.

Blood painted the porch. A poisoned arrow stickin’ out her side. Her breath shallow. Barely holdin’ on.

“Y/N,” I choked, fallin’ beside her. “No, no, no—stay with me, darlin’, please.”

“They came,” she rasped. “Said I brought plague…”

“We’ll leave. I’ll carry you. I’ll get you out—”

She smiled. Weak. “You’ve got to live, Remmick.”

“I ain’t livin’ without you.”

She tried to lift her hand. Failed.

And I broke.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, tears runnin’. “Forgive me.”

I sank my teeth into her throat.

She gasped.

Horrified.

“You didn’t…” she whimpered as blood began spraying a bit from the wound. “You didn’t ask…”

“I couldn’t lose you, Moonflower.”

The torches were comin’. Voices behind the trees.

But I held her tighter than I’d ever held anythin’ as she stopped breathing.

And I cursed myself with every breath.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

Y/N’s Pov

I woke with my mouth dry and the taste of iron sittin’ heavy on my tongue.

The ceiling above me weren’t my own. It sloped too sharp, boards too clean, the scent of smoke and earth clingin’ to the beams like old ghosts. The air was still—too still—like the house itself was holdin’ its breath.

I sat up slow. My limbs moved strange—lighter, too light, like my body forgot how much it used to weigh. My skin felt tight over my bones, raw at the seams, like somethin’ inside me had been stretched too far and stitched back wrong.

The blanket slid off my shoulders.

I was wearin’ someone else’s dress.

Not mine. Not torn. Not bloodstained.

But that’s what I remembered last.

Blood. The color of it flashin’ under the moonlight. The ache of it tearin’ through my ribs. The sound of Remmick’s voice, tremblin’ as he cradled me like I was already gone. And then—

My throat closed.

I remembered his mouth on my neck.

His whisper. His kiss.

The bite.

And suddenly it hit—like a storm comin’ in sideways.

The pain. The fire. The way my body twisted from the inside out, like my soul didn’t wanna be here no more but the rest of me refused to let go. My hands clutched the mattress. Breath comin’ fast, sharp.

He turned me.

He turned me without askin’.

I swung my legs off the side of the bed, bare feet hittin’ cool wood. The room around me was dim but familiar in a way that made my stomach knot. It was his. It had to be. One of the places he used—clean, hidden, a house that didn’t remember its own name.

A chair was pulled close to the bed. A half-burnt candle melted into the table beside it.

He’d been watchin’ me.

Waitin’ for me to wake.

And yet he was gone now.

Good.

I didn’t want him to see me like this—split open from the inside, grief sittin’ heavy in my chest like a second heart.

I rose, legs unsteady beneath me, and caught sight of my reflection in the small mirror above the wash basin.

I froze.

My eyes—black at the center, rimmed in red like coals just startin’ to burn. My skin a bit discolored as early frost, no warmth left to hold. My lips, faintly stained.

I touched them.

They still felt like mine.

But they weren’t.

A sound left me. Not a sob. Not quite.

Somethin’ between a growl and a cry—like grief wearin’ new teeth.

I should’ve been dead.

That’s what I chose. That’s what I meant.

I told him to run.

I told him to live.

And instead, he tethered me to this life—this curse—with his own teeth.

My hand found the edge of the basin and gripped it tight.

The wood cracked under my fingers.

I let go, heart poundin’ louder than thought.

This wasn’t love.

This was control.

A man holdin’ too tight to what he couldn’t bear to lose.

He’d rather unmake me than grieve me.

And yet—beneath the rage, beneath the betrayal—somethin’ else stirred.

Somethin’ I hated more than him in that moment.

I didn’t feel dead.

I felt strong.

Feral.

Awake.

Every sound in the woods outside was clearer. The creak of the beams. The wind slippin’ under the door. I could smell the ash in the hearth and the echo of blood that once lived in these floorboards.

And that scared me more than anything.

Because I knew what came next.

The hunger.

The ache.

The war I’d have to fight inside myself, every minute, every hour.

All because he couldn’t let me go.

I stepped away from the mirror.

The next time I saw Remmick, I wasn’t sure if I was gonna kiss him…

or kill him.

So I ran.

Not for the first time.

But this time, I crossed oceans.

The Atlantic didn’t welcome me. It didn’t whisper comfort. It roared—salt-raw and cruel, like it knew what I was carryin’. Not just the hunger. Not just the curse. But the truth: I wasn’t runnin’ from a man.

I was runnin’ from the memory of one.

I didn’t look back when Europe disappeared behind fog. Too many ghosts in the soil. Too many names I couldn’t say anymore. Too many faces I’d borrowed and buried.

I took the long way to nowhere.

Lived beneath borrowed roofs and behind shuttered windows. Spain. France. Portugal. I spoke like them, walked like them, bent like them. But my voice never quite fit right. My skin whispered stories the villagers didn’t know how to read. And when they couldn’t read you, they made you into somethin’ to fear.

So I disappeared again.

City to countryside. From the coast to quiet farms. I slept in cellars. Fed in alleyways. Hid my teeth like a shame. Covered my eyes when they burned too bright. But no matter where I went, I couldn’t bury what he’d done to me. What I’d become.

Vampire. Woman. Stranger.

Sin.

Then came America.

I heard tales of it in the mouths of men too poor to own boots but rich enough to dream. A place where no one knew your name unless you gave it. Where you could vanish on purpose. So I boarded a ship under another name and crossed a second ocean.

They didn’t see me.

Didn’t ask what land I came from.

Only that I kept quiet. Paid in coin. Kept to my corner.

And I did.

I stepped off that boat like a shadow lookin’ for a body.

Years blurred. The states changed names and faces. I moved where the fear was low and the sun easier to dodge. Pennsylvania. Georgia. Louisiana. Tennessee.

But nothin’ felt like mine.

Not until Mississippi.

The Delta didn’t ask questions. It didn’t blink twice at a woman whose hands knew how to soothe fever, or whose voice carried like river water over stone. It didn’t care where I came from—just that I came with honesty and stayed with my head down.

And Lord, the pain here… it sang.

You could hear it in the soil. In the fields. In the bones of folk who worked the land like they were tryin’ to forgive it for all it had taken. The joy didn’t come easy here—but it came. It bled through laughter, through music, through bodies swayin’ in defiance of grief.

Here, sorrow didn’t hide from joy.

They danced together.

And for someone like me, that meant maybe I could belong.

I found a room behind a narrow house with warped floorboards and a window I never opened. Miss Adele, who owned it, looked me over long and low before passin’ me the key.

“You ain’t from here,” she said.

“No, ma’am.”

She nodded. “But you wear the heat like it’s home. Just don’t bring no trouble through my door.”

I didn’t make promises. But I paid in full.

I stayed quiet. Covered my skin when the sun rose. Fed when I had to—clean, discreet, never twice in the same place. I helped when I could. Tinctures, poultices, teas. I kept to myself. Most folk didn’t know my story.

Didn’t know I once had a man.

Didn’t know he turned me with a kiss and a curse and then begged me to thank him for it.

Didn’t know I used to love him.

I didn’t even know if he was still alive.

I hadn’t seen Remmick in over a century. Hadn’t heard whispers of him. Sometimes, when the wind shifted just right, I swore I could smell the cold of his coat, the copper of his breath. But that was just memory. Just the mind playin’ cruel.

He could’ve turned to dust for all I knew.

I prayed he had.

Still, I never let myself settle too deep.

The room I rented had no roots.

The name I gave was borrowed.

But the juke joint?

That felt like a church.

When Annie smiled at me and Stack nodded toward the dance floor, when the music rolled through me like a hymn with no preacher—I felt human again. I let my body move. I let myself forget. Just for a night. Just for a song.

And when it was over, I stepped back into shadow like I never left it.

They didn’t know what I was.

Not yet.

But I knew what they were.

Wounded. Brave. Alive.

Mississippi didn’t need my past. It didn’t ask for blood oaths or confession. It let me be.

And for the first time in over a hundred years, that was enough.

But peace?

Peace don’t last for things like me.

Because the past got claws.

And I knew, deep down—

if he was still out there, he’d find me.

What I didn’t know… was that he already had.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

The air smelled of fried grease, wet moss, and wood smoke—the kind of southern night that clung to your skin like sweat and memory. I’d just left Miss Lila’s porch, her boy burnin’ up with fever again, and her nerves worn thin as dishwater. I’d left her with a small jar of bark-root and clove oil, told her to steep it slow and keep a cool cloth on his head. She didn’t ask what was in it. Folks rarely did when they was desperate.

The street stretched quiet before me, the dirt packed down by bare feet and Sunday wagons. My boots scuffed low as I walked, the hem of my skirt brushing the edge of dust and dew. The stars hung low tonight, strung like pinholes across a sky too tired to hold itself up.

I passed shuttered windows and sleeping dogs. Passed rusted signs and flickering lamps, the ones that leaned crooked like they were listenin’. I clutched my shawl tighter, the chill sneakier in the spring—evenin’s cool breath slidin’ down the back of my neck.

And then I saw it—the juke joint. It sat tucked behind a bend in the road like a secret meant to be found. Light spilled out through the cracks in the wood like it couldn’t bear to be kept in. Music pulsed low from inside—bluesy and slow, like sorrow had found its rhythm.

Cornbread stood out front like always, arms crossed, leanin’ on the doorframe with that half-grin like he owned the night.

He spotted me before I hit the steps. “Well now,” he said, voice smooth like creek water. “Evenin’, Miss Y/N. Came to bless us with your presence?”

I gave a quiet chuckle, noddin’. “Only if I’m welcome.”

He laughed soft, pushin’ the door open. “Girl, you family by now. Don’t need to be askin’ no more.”

“Still,” I said, steppin’ closer. “Mama always said it’s good manners to ask ‘fore walkin’ into a space that ain’t yours.”

“Ain’t nobody gonna question your manners,” he muttered, wavin’ me through. “Now get in ‘fore the music runs out.”

Inside was a rush of warmth—smoke, sweat, the sweet bite of corn liquor, and somethin’ else… somethin’ close to joy. The music crawled under your skin ‘til your hips remembered how to sway without askin’. Voices buzzed like bees in summer heat, laughter rollin’ like dice across the room.

I eased onto the barstool I always took—third from the left, right where the fan overhead spun lazy—and let my bag fall soft at my boots. Didn’t order nothin’. I never did.

Annie caught sight of me behind the bar, swayin’ easy as ever with a tray of empty glasses tucked on her hip.

“You bring what I asked for?” she asked, duckin’ behind the counter.

I reached into my satchel and handed her the cotton-wrapped bundle. “Steep it slow. Sip, don’t gulp. Should ease you through the worst of it.”

She winked. “Law, I owe you my life.”

“Nah,” I said, settlin’ onto the stool near the end of the bar. “Just owe me a plate of cornbread next time you cookin’.”

That got a laugh out of her, quick and sweet, before she vanished into the back.

I turned back toward the floor, just as Mary’s voice cut through the buzz of conversation like a blade through hushpuppies.

“Y’all hear ‘bout the farmer boy gone missin’?” she said, leanin’ into the group crowded ‘round the far end of the bar. Smoke was there, elbow propped, brows knit low. Two more men sat hunched close—quiet, listening.

“Wasn’t just him,” one said. “Old Mabel from the creek road said her nephew ain’t been seen in two days. Said his boots still sittin’ on the porch like he vanished mid-step.”

Smoke grunted. “I say it’s a man gone mad. Roamin’ through the woods, takin’ what he pleases. We’ve seen worse.”

One of the others leaned in, voice hushed. “The natives been whisperin’ it ain’t a man.”

That brought stillness. Even the music in the back room seemed to hush a beat.

“What they say?” Mary asked, brows raised.

“They say somethin’ old woke up,” the man said, voice nearly swallowed by the crackle of heat and distance. “Somethin’ that walks like a man, but ain’t. They leave herbs and ash circles at the edge of the trees again—like back in the old days.”

Mary scoffed, but it sounded unsure. “Old tales. Spirits don’t need bodies to raise hell.”

“They said this one’s lookin’ for somethin’,” he continued, eyes flickin’ toward the windows like the night itself might be listenin’. “Or someone. Been walkin’ the land with hunger in its bones and a face nobody can seem to remember after seein’ it.”

I sat quiet, still as dusk.

“Could just be some drifter,” Smoke said. “Folks get riled when trouble comes and ain’t got no face to pin it on.”

“Then why the sudden vanishings?” Mary pressed. “Why now?”

“Maybe it ain’t sudden,” I said before I could stop myself, my voice low and calm. “Maybe it’s just the first time we’re payin’ attention.”

Four heads turned my way.

Mary squinted. “You heard somethin’ too?”

I shook my head slow. “Just a feelin’. The kind that settles in your back teeth when the wind shifts wrong.”

They didn’t say nothin’ to that. Not directly. But Smoke nodded once, solemn, like he’d felt it too.

The conversation drifted back to softer things—music, cards, the preacher’s crooked fence—but I sat still. That ache behind my ribs hadn’t let up since the moon turned last. The way the air felt heavy even when it wasn’t humid. The way dogs stopped barkin’ at shadows like they knew they couldn’t win.

It weren’t just madness.

And it sure as hell weren’t random.

I could feel it deep.

Like breath on the back of my neck.

Something was here.

Something was comin’.

And this time, I didn’t know if I’d be able to outrun it.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

Remmick’s Pov

It started with the absence.

Not the kind that’s loud—grief flung sharp across the soul. No. This one crept in slow, like rot behind the walls. Quiet. Patient. The kind of missing that don’t scream. It whispers.

I walked to an empty room. No blood on the floor, no broken window, no fight to mark the leaving. Just cold air where her warmth used to linger. Her scent still clung to the linens. The floor creaked where she last stood.

I called her name.

Once.

Twice.

A third time—barely a whisper. Like maybe she’d come back if I said it soft.

But she didn’t.

And God help me, I searched.

I turned over every rock in that cursed country. Asked after a woman with a strange voice and steady hands. A healer. A ghost. I heard stories that might’ve been her—always just a breath behind. A girl boardin’ a carriage to Marseille. A woman leavin’ a parcel at a chapel in Lisbon. A stranger with dark eyes and no surname passin’ through Antwerp.

I missed her by hours. Days. Once, by a damned blink.

The trail always went cold. But I kept followin’. Because somethin’ in me—somethin’ older than this cursed body—knew she was still out there.

I stopped feedin’ off folk unless I had to. Couldn’t stomach it. Not with her voice echoing in my head, the way she looked at me that night—betrayal writ clear on every bone in her face.

I never meant to hurt her.

I only meant to save her.

But what I gave her weren’t salvation. It was a cage.

A century passed me like smoke through fingers. I lost track of time, faces, cities. Learned to blend into the edges. Changed my name more than once. The world changed, and I watched it like a man outside a window he couldn’t break through.

Then word came.

A dockhand in Barcelona. Drunk off his ass. Said he’d seen a woman walkin’ off a freighter bound for the States. Said she didn’t belong to nobody’s country. Said she looked like a shadow stitched to the sea.

That was all I needed.

I took the next ship out. Didn’t care where it landed—so long as it took me west. Toward her.

The ocean ain’t merciful.

The waves came like judgment. Ripped through the hull on the second week. Screams. Salt. Fire where it shouldn’t be. They said none survived.

They were wrong.

I clung to the wreckage ‘til the sky cracked open with morning. Drifted on broken boards and rage. Burned here and there by the time I reached land—ain’t proud of that. But grief makes monsters outta men, and I already was halfway there.

I moved through towns like a ghost with teeth. New York. Georgia. Tennessee. Small towns and big cities, never settlin’. I listened to whispers in back alleys and watched for her in every market, every dusk-lit chapel, every face turned away from the sun.

Nothing. For years.

But I could feel her.

She was here.

Like the heat before a storm. Like a name you ain’t heard in decades but still makes your gut twist.

It led me to Mississippi.

The Delta pressed down heavy on the chest, thick with memory and blood. And that’s when I knew—she was close. Her scent was buried in the clay. In the river. In the music that throbbed outta them joints deep in the trees.

I watched from the shadows first. Didn’t trust myself not to shatter somethin’ if I saw her too soon.

She danced now. She smiled. But I could see the armor in her eyes. She never looked back when she left a room. Never stepped through a door without pausin’. Still runnin’. Even after all this time.

And me?

I’d come too far.

Burned too much.

So I waited. Watched.

And when the moment was right, I’d step out of the dark…

…and she’d never be able to leave me again.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

There was somethin’ stirrin’ in the wind lately. Not loud, not sharp—just enough to make the back of my neck prickle, enough to keep my eyes glancin’ twice at shadows I used to pass without a care. Folks round here would say it’s just the season changin’. The cotton bloomin’ slow. The river swellin’ with too much rain. But I knew better.

I knew what it felt like when the past came knockin’.

It started with a weight I couldn’t name. Not sorrow, not fear. Just… a tightness in the air. Like the calm right before a storm that don’t care how long you prayed.

I was sweepin’ the porch when it hit strongest. Sun had already gone down behind the trees, but the sky still held that warm blue gold, thick and low, like honey drippin’ off the edge of the world. The breeze carried the scent of pine, of distant smoke and a sweetness I couldn’t quite place. My broom slowed. My breath did too.

I didn’t see nobody. Didn’t hear a damn thing.

But I knew. Somethin’ was watchin’.

I didn’t flinch. Just kept sweepin’, let the wind pull at the hem of my skirt and carried myself like I hadn’t just felt old ghosts shift under my ribs.

Come nightfall, I made my way to the juke. Same as always. Parcel of dried herb tucked in my satchel for Grace. A wrapped cloth of rosehip and sassafras root for Annie. Folks counted on me for that, and I didn’t mind. Gave me a reason to keep movin’. Gave me an excuse to slip past the ache.

Cornbread tipped his chin at me when I reached the door. “You late, sugar.”

I grinned easy, lifting the edge of my shawl. “Didn’t know there was a curfew.”

He stepped aside with a smirk. “Ain’t one. But if you keep showin’ up this late, I’m gon’ start worryin’. Com’ in.”

“Now you sound like Adele,” I teased, brushin’ past him.

Inside, the world came alive. Warm wood floors thrummin’ underfoot. Smoke curlin’ from rolled cigars. Sweat glistenin’ on cheeks mid-laugh. A fiddle cried through the room like it’d been born from somebody’s bones, and I breathed deep. I needed that sound.

I didn’t dance. Not tonight. Just eased myself onto the stool at the far corner and let my satchel rest on the floor. The room buzzed around me, voices rollin’ like riverwater.

Then I felt it again.

That chill. That soft press of a stare at my back. Not unkind. But heavy.

I didn’t turn. Didn’t let it show on my face. But somethin’ old shifted inside me. Somethin’ I’d buried centuries deep.

Not here, I thought. Not now.

I caught Annie passin’ and handed her the pouch. She squeezed my arm with a thank-you, unaware of how tight my chest had gone.

“You feelin’ alright?” she asked.

“Just tired,” I lied, soft. “Been a long week.”

She nodded and moved on, bless her.

But my eyes didn’t move from the corner of the room, where the light barely touched.

Nothin’ was there.

But I felt him.

Or maybe I was just tired.

Maybe.

I left earlier than usual, sayin’ my goodbyes with a smile that didn’t quite touch the bone. The walk back was quiet—too quiet for a town this close to midnight. I kept to the edge of the trees, let the dark wrap around me like a veil.

At my door, I paused. Looked over my shoulder.

Still nothin’.

Still that weight.

Inside, I lit one lamp and sat down slow on the edge of the bed, unwrappin’ my scarf. My hands were shakin’, just a little.

There’s a certain kind of fear that don’t come with panic. Don’t scream in your ears or rush your breath.

It settles.

Like a coat. Like a second skin.

And I knew that fear.

I knew it like I knew the taste of ash on my tongue. Like I knew the look in his eyes the night he chose for me what I would never have chosen for myself.

I leaned back, arms crossin’ my chest.

If it was him, he wouldn’t show yet.

Not ‘til he was ready.

Not ‘til I couldn’t run again.

So I did the only thing I could do.

I waited.

And in the silence, my soul whispered one word.

Remmick.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

The grass whispered under my steps as I walked. Basket on my arm. Sun barely peekin’ through the trees. I’d meant only to gather herbs ‘fore the day grew too hot—rosemary, some goldenrod, a few stubborn mint sprigs for Annie’s cough. But the air felt… wrong.

Not wrong like danger.

Wrong like memory.

Like grief wearin’ another man’s skin.

The woods around me were still—too still. The birds had hushed. Even the wind held its breath. And I knew. Same way you know a snake’s behind you without seein’ it. Same way your spirit clenches when the past is near.

I stopped by the creekbed, crouched low like I was studyin’ the mint. But my breath’d already gone shallow. I didn’t need to see him to feel him. The air had thickened, the way it always did before a summer storm. Thick like honey gone too long. Like hunger waitin’ in a dark room.

“I know it’s you,” I said, not even botherin’ to turn. My voice didn’t shake. Not even once. “Ain’t no use hidin’ in the shade. You was never no shadow.”

No answer.

Not yet.

But I felt him in the stillness. In the hush between my heartbeats.

“Come on out, Remmick.”

His name cracked the air open like thunder.

And then—branches shifted.

I turned slow.

He was leanin’ against a tree like he’d been grown there. Pale, still, boots clean despite the mud. Hair tousled like sleep or war. Those eyes—red as dusk and just as dangerous. But his face…

His face looked like grief tryin’ to wear calm like a disguise.

“You always did know how to find me,” he said, voice low and silk-slick, but it cracked under the weight of memory.

“I didn’t find you,” I snapped. “You been followin’ me.”

He smiled—sad and sharp. “Reckon I have.”

The basket slipped from my hand, landin’ soft in the dirt. My jaw clenched.

“You survived.”

“Aye,” he said, never lookin’ away. “Didn’t think I would. But I’ve always been hard to kill.”

I laughed, bitter. “Too stubborn for death, too stupid to know when to quit.”

He took a step. Measured. Careful.

“I looked for you,” he said, breath catchin’.

“And when you found me,” I cut in, “you hid.”

He flinched. “I wasn’t ready. You left, Y/N. After everythin’—”

“You turned me!” I snapped, voice shakin’. “You took my choice and dressed it up like mercy.”

“I saved you.”

“You cursed me.”

Silence. Heavy and wet like the air.

“I woke up hungry, Remmick,” I whispered. “Starvin’. Scared. Watchin’ my own hands do things I couldn’t stop. You weren’t there.”

“I didn’t know what it would do to you,” he said. “But I couldn’t bury you. Not you.”

I took a step back. My heart was thunderin’ in my ears.

“You should’ve let me die.”

His eyes shone then—not from the red glow, but from somethin’ older. Somethin’ breakin’.

“I couldn’t,” he breathed. “I’d already lost everythin’. My brother. My home. And then you—” He stopped, jaw tight. “I’d have nothin’ left if you died.”

I stared at him, tears burnin’ the backs of my eyes. “So instead you dragged me into this hell and called it love?”

“I loved you.”

“I loved you too,” I said. “And that’s what makes it worse.”

His hands twitched at his sides like he wanted to reach out, but didn’t dare.

“You think I ain’t felt you watchin’ me these last few weeks?” I said, steady now. “Think I didn’t know the air changed when you came near?”

“I didn’t know how to face you,” he admitted, voice ragged. “Not after what I did. Not after you ran.”

“I had to,” I said. “You made me a monster. I couldn’t look at you without hearin’ the scream I let out when I woke up.”

We stood there, tangled in the ache of a hundred years.

Then he said quiet, “I didn’t want to own you. I just wanted to belong to someone again.”

I closed my eyes. And Lord, that was the worst part.

Because some part of me still did ache for him. Still remembered the feel of his hand in mine when we were both still human. Still remembered that look he gave me like I hung the moon crooked just to keep him wonderin’.

But ache ain’t the same as love.

“You got no right,” I whispered. “Not to this town. Not to me.”

His jaw flexed.

“Then why’d you call my name?”

“Because I felt you,” I said. “And I’d rather look the devil in the eye than let him haunt me from the trees.”

He smiled then, soft and bitter.

“I ain’t the devil.”

“No,” I said. “But you sure learned how to dance like him.”

He stared at me a long time.

And I knew, right then, this wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

But I’d bought myself a moment.

And in a life like mine, a moment might just be the thing that saves you.

“Go,” I said, voice barely above a whisper. “Before I decide to hate you more than I already do.”

He took a breath. Then turned.

Walked back into the woods without a word.

But I knew that weren’t the last of him.

Because men like Remmick?

They don’t come to say goodbye.

They come to take back what they think belongs to them.

And this is the point when patience isn’t known to him.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

The joint was hummin’.

Music slid through the floor like syrup, thick with bass and heat. Somebody’s uncle was hollerin’ over a blues tune on the piano, Annie behind the bar crackin’ jokes while slippin’ flasks under the table. Sweat glistened on the back of my neck, curls stickin’ to my skin, and laughter rolled up from the dance floor like smoke. I was leanin’ into a conversation with Josephine at the bar, her eyes wide as she told me about a man she caught slippin’ out her window barefoot just before his wife came knockin’.

I chuckled low, brows raised. “And you didn’t slap him upside the head first?”

She rolled her eyes. “I had better things to do than waste my strength on a fool.”

“Amen to that,” I said, liftin’ my glass, though I hadn’t drunk a drop.

Then I felt it.

A cold ripple slid down the length of my spine—so sudden, it stole the breath right out my lungs. It weren’t fear, not quite. But the kind of dread that came from knowin’ something was wrong before your eyes could prove it.

I didn’t see the door.

But I saw Stack.

He was on his feet, jaw tight, walkin’ past me with that slow kind of purpose. Smoke followed close behind, his eyes narrowin’ toward the open entrance. Cornbread had gone quiet at the door, and that alone was enough to knot my gut.

Josephine kept talkin’, but her voice faded into nothin’.

My body moved on its own.

I stood, heart poundin’ like a war drum behind my ribs. The music didn’t stop, but everything inside me did. I walked past the tables, past the girls, through the perfume and pipe smoke and scent of sweat and spilt whiskey.

And then—

His voice.

Smooth. Mockin’. Sugar over glass.

“Evenin’,” Remmick drawled, like he’d been invited to church supper and meant to charm the whole congregation. “Lovely place y’all got here. Full of… soul.”

My blood turned to ice.

He was speakin’ to Cornbread, who stood stiff as a gatepost, eyes narrowin’ as the air seemed to stretch thin between ‘em.

“Think you might be lost,” Cornbread said slowly, not movin’ from his post. “There’s places in town for your kind. This ain’t one.”

“Oh, but I’m right where I need to be,” Remmick smiled, sharp and hollow. “Heard tale of music, drink, and dancin’. Figured I’d see it for myself. Can’t a man enjoy the night?”

His eyes flicked past Cornbread—landin’ square on me.

Like he’d planned it. Like he’d waited for the silence in my soul to find the crack just wide enough to step through.

“Y/N,” he said.

My stomach dropped.

Stack stepped in front of me. “You know this man?”

“I do,” I said. My voice came out steady, but my hands curled into fists at my sides. “I know him.”

“Name’s Remmick,” he said, glancin’ at the twins with a false-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Old friends with the lady. We go back.”

“Too far,” I muttered.

He took a step forward, and Stack shifted, blockin’ him.

“Easy now,” Remmick said, hands liftin’. “I’m just here to talk. That all right with you, darlin’?”

His tone curled around that word like it meant everything and nothin’ at all. The same way it used to when he wanted me quiet. Wanted me pliant.

“No,” I snapped. “You ain’t supposed to be here.”

Cornbread’s hand twitched toward the bat leanin’ beside the door.

Remmick chuckled. “Didn’t know you needed permission to visit old flames. Thought we were past pretendin’, Y/N.”

My jaw clenched. I stepped in front of Stack and Smoke, meetin’ Remmick’s eyes dead on.

“You’re pushin’ it,” I said low, “and you know it.”

He tilted his head. “I’m just tryin’ to make amends. Catch up. Maybe remind you of what we—”

“Shut up,” I snapped. “Not here.”

He didn’t shut up.

Instead, he smirked and said, “What? Afraid somebody might recognize what you really are?”

That was it.

I moved fast. My hand gripped his arm hard, draggin’ him back from the door ‘fore anyone else could hear. His boots scraped the dirt as I yanked him past the porch, into the woods just beyond the edge of the firelight.

We didn’t stop ‘til the juke faded behind us, til the only sound was the hiss of the crickets and the rasp of my breath.

Then I let go.

He stumbled back, laughin’ low.

“You always were the fiery sort,” he muttered. “Mouth full of ash and thunder.”

My eyes flared, shiftin’ to that color I only saw when my blood ran too hot. “Are you outta your damn mind, comin’ up in there like that?”

He shrugged. “Didn’t figure you’d come callin’ again. Had to make the introduction myself.”

“You could’ve blown everything,” I hissed. “You wanna waltz in there flashin’ teeth and riddles, but these people don’t forget what monsters look like once they get wind of it. You forgot that part?”

His face twisted, somethin’ cruel and wounded all at once. “You forgot I ain’t been welcome in any place for centuries. You found a home. I found shadows. You danced while I starved.”

I stepped close, close enough to see the red flicker in his eyes again.

“You don’t get to turn this on me,” I said, voice droppin’ into a tremble of fury. “You made me this way. You left me this way. And now you think you can show up with your coy words and puppy eyes and take what ain’t yours anymore?”

He leaned in, voice barely breathin’.

“You were always mine, darlin’. Long ‘fore the blood ever touched your lips.”

I slapped him.

The sound cracked like a pistol in the hush.

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t raise his voice.

But that smile—the slow, dangerous one he wore like armor—slipped off his face like a mask too heavy to hold.

I was breathin’ hard. Fists clenched. Rain gatherin’ on my skin like it had permission. Like even the sky had been waitin’ for us to come undone.

“You don’t get to say that,” I seethed, chest heavin’. “You don’t ever get to say that to me.”

Remmick stayed where he stood—still, calm. Too calm. Like the eye of a storm that knew the ruin already circlin’ it.

“I reckon I just did,” he said low, almost kind. “And I meant it.”

My jaw shook. “You think this is love? You think this is some twisted soul-bind you can drag behind you like a dog on a chain?”

His brow ticked, barely. “No chain ever held you, Y/N. You cut every one yourself.”

I took a step toward him, finger pointed like it might draw blood.

“You turned me without askin’. You let me wake up alone. You watched me starve. And now you show up actin’ like I owe you somethin’?”

He didn’t move. Just tilted his head, watchin’ me unravel.

“I didn’t say you owed me. I came to see if there was anythin’ left.”

“There wasn’t!” I shouted, voice crackin’. “There ain’t! Not after what you did.”

He exhaled slow through his nose, like he’d been expectin’ this. Like he’d already played it out a thousand ways in the hollows of his mind.

“You always did throw fire when your heart got loud.”

“You got no right to talk about my heart,” I hissed. “Not after the way you crushed it and called it savin’ me.”

He stepped closer—just one step. Careful. Calm.

“You think I ain’t spent the last hundred years crawlin’ through the world lookin’ for pieces of you? You think I didn’t see the wreck I left behind? I know what I did.”

“Then why are you here?” My voice trembled. “Why now?”

He looked at me like I was still the only song he remembered the words to.

“Because even now,” he said, soft and razor-sharp, “you’re still the only thing that makes me feel like I didn’t die all the way.”

The rain started then—slow at first, then heavy. Soakin’ my dress. Mattin’ my hair to my face. But I didn’t move. Didn’t wipe the water from my eyes.

Because it wasn’t just rain.

It was rage.

It was heartbreak.

It was every scream I swallowed the night he turned me.

“You ruined me,” I said. “And now you want me to weep for you?”

“No.” He blinked once. Steady. “I want nothin’ from you you don’t give me freely.”

“You’re a liar.”

“I was,” he said. “But I ain’t lyin’ now.”

I laughed, bitter and sharp. “So what? You want redemption?”

He shook his head. “That ain’t a road I get to walk.”

The silence that followed was thick. Biblical.

And then, slow—too slow—Remmick sank to his knees.

Not like a man prayin’.

But like one beggin’ the grave to let him stay buried.

“Just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it,” he said, voice quiet and cracked around the edges. “You want me gone, I’ll disappear. You want me dead, well… you know better than most, darlin’. That ain’t never been easy.”

Rain slammed the earth in waves now, like it meant to bury every word between us.

I didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

Just watched him kneel in the mud, pale hands open, head bowed like even he knew he didn’t deserve forgiveness.

His eyes flickered red in the stormlight.

Still beautiful.

Still dangerous.

Still mine—once.

And then the memory returned—

His mouth on my throat.

My scream breakin’ the sky.

The taste of betrayal before I even knew the word for it.

The night he turned me.

The night I stopped bein’ his salvation…

…and became his punishment.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t rise.

Just stayed there on his knees in the wet earth, eyes on me like I was a hymn he’d long forgotten how to pray, but still couldn’t stop hummin’.

“You don’t get to play the martyr,” I said, rain slidin’ down the slope of my jaw, voice low and level. “You don’t get to break somethin’ and call it love.”

His jaw worked, but he stayed quiet. Good. He was learnin’.

I stepped closer, slow enough for the mud to cling to my boots like memory.

“You think this—” I gestured at his posture, at the rain, the ache between us— “makes you smaller than me? It don’t. You still got teeth. Still got hunger. But now you got somethin’ else too.”

I let the silence hang for a breath.

Then another.

“My hand ain’t on your throat, Remmick. I ain’t pulled no blade. But you still follow, don’t you?”

His eyes flickered, faint red beneath the dark.

“You follow ‘cause you can’t help it,” I said, takin’ one more step. “Not ‘cause I told you to. But because I’m the ghost you ain’t never been able to bury.”

His mouth parted—like maybe he’d speak, maybe he’d beg again—but I beat him to it.

“You been searchin’ all these years thinkin’ I was the piece you lost.” My voice dipped lower, soft as a curse. “But maybe I was the punishment you earned.”

He flinched.

Just barely.

But I saw it.

Felt it.

“You ain’t on your knees ‘cause of guilt,” I said. “You’re down there ‘cause you know deep in your bones—I still got a leash on your soul.”

He looked up at me then.

Really looked.

And for the first time since he crawled back into my world, he didn’t reach.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t beg.

He just watched.

Like he knew I was right.

Like he knew that no matter how far I’d run or how cruel I’d grown…

…I’d always be the one holdin’ the reins.

I turned without another word, walked back through the trees, each step heavy with the truth we couldn’t outrun.

And though I didn’t hear him rise—

I knew he would.

I knew he’d follow.

Because men like Remmick?

They don’t vanish.

They linger.

They haunt.

They wait for the softest crack in your armor, then slip back in like they never left.

But this time, he’d have to wait.

This time, I wasn’t runnin’.

And I wasn’t lettin’ him in, either.

Let him kneel in the mud.

Let him feel what it’s like to want somethin’ that won’t break for him no more.

Because even monsters got leashes.

And some ain’t made of rope.

They’re made of memory.

Of ache.

Of the one person who walked away—and meant it.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

Taglist:@jakecockley,@alastorhazbin,

[boywivloveficrecs]

Ich bin ein Jäger

Pairing(s): Remmick (Sinners) x Fem! Augustine Vampire! WOC! Reader

Crossover: TDV→Sinners (Reader has no prior knowledge of anything in the TDV universe. Just someone who is an Augustine Vampire.)

cw: graphic scenes (violence) Age gap (Idk who would be older), Stockholm syndrome???

Rating: 18+

Add-ons: AFAB reader, no use of Y/N, one-sided pinning?

(Not Proofread)

WC: 10.4K

It’s a small town. To be expected is all the eyes on him as he enters a church. A white man (Not that the ‘real’ white people agree that he is a white man, but that’s neither here nor there.) in church, the pressure felt like he’s not supposed to be here. But all people will be his people. So, for now, Remmick ignores it.. 

This is a church and all are welcomed, that is what is preached. Especially on this night. 

Christmas. 

Only time he gets to enter a church without burning alive. Only time he gets to hear the words that remind him of home. (Even if they’re not in that exact order.) 

Remmick is looking at the pastor. He knows this pastor. A good man, with a good wife and their precious little daughter who doesn’t seem to like this church very much. His eyes shift to you. Your leg is bouncing. It bounces through the entire sermon. Your eyes never left the cross. Not even as the church ended. (Though the longer Remmick looks at the cross, the stranger it looks. Its end is jagged and splintered.) 

A man approaches Remmick. Remmick gives a smile. The smile returned. After all he did save the man, and he was invited to this gathering. Then comes the pastor. Again Remmick smiles. He greets the pastor. A good frim shake, then a softer grip on his wife. Then comes you. Pretty little smile on your face.

Maybe you’re just being polite. It’s expected of you, after all. Expected of your people. Because if you dare to push back when someone steps on your neck—They’ll only press harder and eventually they’ll break it. (What does the death of a woman of color mean to the white man?) And just looking at your neck, well, it don’t look like it’ll take much to break. 

“Hi.” You extend your hand to him and he gladly takes it. You’re warm, like all people are.

“Hello.” He returns your greeting and almost as a reward, you give him your name. In thanks, he gives you his. It isn’t long before he’s ushered away from you and instead taken to others as they offer to share their food with him. Food that they have labored to get. Worked for days in the sun (What he wouldn’t give to feel the sun again and it not burn him as if he ain’t trying to alleviate the burden his people faced—the burden your people now face.) to get this meal on the table. 

He sits at a table between two men. Remmick knows he looks out of place, but what does it matter? 

Before anything Remmick smells the food.

Can’t have no garlic. 

He takes a bite. Don’t taste like anything. Not to him, but when he looks up as he’s chewing he sees you eating with a smile on your face enjoying the food.

Everyone is smiling. Laughing. Sharing stories and food like it’s enough to keep the world from collapsing. (But it’s not. But what he can deliver is enough.)

Remmick knows it’s not enough to simply have this. He knows it’s not. Just like he knows your daddy is struggling to pay the bills. Just like he knows your mother is struggling to keep her store afloat. Just like he knows the man next to him is struggling to meet his quota. Just like he knows the woman across from him is crying herself to sleep every night because her husband is out fucking whores and the man fucking the whores? Well, Remmick knows he does it because he can’t stand his own life.

It’s no way to live.

And you? Well he knows you too. He knows you hate going to church. He knows you hate humid heat. Knows you know about your family’s troubles — and he knows you’re going to try and fix them.

Though how? Remmick has yet to find out. Maybe you’ll pawn that ring of yours on your hand. Pretty little thing. Jewel catches every bit of light in the room. Looks expensive. Too expensive. Where’d you get a ring like that, anyway?

He doesn’t know. Not yet.

You’re talking to a man next to you, but your eyes keep finding him. That little game he likes to play sometimes. See who'll look the longest. Remmick always tends to win that game. And he does with you. Over and over again until the night starts to thin. It’ll be morning soon. He’ll have to head to his house soon. (Not home. Home is across the sea. Home is long gone.) A temporary place. 

A few people pass Remmick on the way out. Some nod. Some just look.

No one says his name.

And then he sees you again.

You’re standing by the window now, arms crossed, eyes still on that damn cross up front — even from here. Your ring taps the side of your elbow, soft and steady. Like a clock.

He stands.

Walks slow.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just stands beside you and looks out the same window.

“Did ya’ like it?” He heard you mumble beside him. He turned to you and you had a small soft smile on your face. 

“I did.” You smiled again looking up to the cross once more. The light caught your ring. 

“I’m glad. Everyone should have the chance to enjoy the lord on this day.” That confused Remmick. “No matter who we are. Don’t you think so?” You were now smiling at him again. The confusion sat with him. You didn’t like church.

“I do.” It was all he could say before you walked off.

“Well then, have a blessed night.” You left with your parents before he could say anything more.

…

The next time Remmick sees you, it’s through a window. You’re there, talking to the man from Christmas eve. The sunlight makes your skin shine. You shine almost as much as the ring on your finger. 

Then you motion to his house. Remmick’s ears perk.

“I heard the white boy is living over there.” You whispered to the man next to you. The man only scoffed.

“Reckon all them white folk gon start comin’ here?” Remmick kept his eyes on you. You simply looked away from his house and faced the sun letting it warm your skin, or so he can imagine. He hasn’t felt the sun in centuries. Not without it blistering him raw anyways.

“God’s plan I sus’pose.” Maybe Remmick didn’t know you. Least, not as well as he thought.

“The devil and the white man.” Remmick could only smile at the man’s words. “You afraid of the white man? The devil?”

You left Remmick’s sight, though he could hear you clear as day. “I don’t fear the devil.”

“You a God-fearin’ woman, then?” The man asked. As you both walked further and further, Remmick strained to hear your answer. Though in the end, he was left to speculate cause Remmick never heard your answer. He wonders what you’d do if you ever saw the devil. Many say they don’t fear the devil. Well…the devil's never come for them. But Remmick knows the devil. It came for him and his people, and now, they’re after yours. The devil that wears a pointy white hat preaching that all men are equal, but some are more equal than others.

Well since he never heard you answer, it'd be best if he went to find out himself. 

And so he does. It’s night when he walks. And you — you live deep on the southside, damn near the bayous. The kind of place where the roads narrow to dirt and gravel, and the streetlights don’t bother shining. The air is thick out here. Heavy with swamp heat and cicada buzz. Spanish moss hangs like old ghosts from the trees, and something unseen slinks through the reeds just off the road.

Strange for a pastor to be so far from his flock.

Remmick steps up the creaking porch steps. Peeling paint, warped boards. A porch swing sways slow, like someone just left it. He raises his fist and knocks. Once. Twice. Three times — a pattern made for stories that never end well.

(But not his story. For what he brings is salvation)

Again, his ears listen. He hears your voice from inside. Tired, but clear. “I got it, Daddy.” How trusting.

The door opens with a soft scrape of wood on wood.

You’re there, framed by the crooked doorway and warm house light spilling out behind you. A yellowed hallway. Faint smell of oil and iron and old Bible paper. And you — in a robe, hair tied, lips bare.

“Hello,” you say.

Remmick’s eyes go straight to your hand. That ring again. Big and bright, even under moonlight.

“What are you doing out here? This late at night?” Your tone is different. None of that sweet Sunday warmth. No church politeness. No false softness. You’re not smiling either.

Yes. Maybe Remmick didn’t know you.

“Thought I’d come by and say hi,” he answers. “Ain’t seen you since Christmas.”

“That so?” Your brow lifts — and there’s something sharp in your voice now. Like a blade kept just under the tongue.

“It is so.” He waits. Wonders when you’ll let him in. Night hums around you both — crickets and frogs singing their ancient hymns.

You open the door a little wider and lean against the frame, arms crossed under your chest. An invitation, maybe. “Couldn’t’ve come to see me during church?” you ask.

Remmick tilts his head, lets that wolf’s smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “You were so nice the first time,” he says. “Figured — why wait?”

You smile back. He can’t figure out if it’s nice or not. “This late? Had my daddy opened the door, you'd have been shot, boy.” 

“Guess I should count myself lucky then,” Remmick says, still smiling, “that it was you who opened the door.”

You tilt your head at that. The porch light flickers once, as if considering going out. A moth bats against the glass like it’s trying to warn someone. You don’t move from the doorway.

“Guess you should,” you say, voice smooth as molasses but with something else underneath. “But I think your luck’ll run out sooner or later.”

You step just an inch closer—not enough to close the gap, not enough to invite, but enough to make him wonder what you’d do if he tried to cross the threshold.

“Now best run along,” you say, your voice quieter. “’Fore my father finds out there’s a white boy on our porch.”

The word white hangs in the air between you, sticky and heavy. Out here, it don’t just mean skin—it means history. It means ghosts with badges and fire, it means burnt crosses and blood-soaked soil. Remmick knows what it means. He remembers.

He could linger. He could lean in and say something slick. But there’s something in your eyes that stops him. Not fear. Not even hate. Just knowing.

He takes a step back, slow. Tips an imaginary hat like he’s leaving a saloon. “Wouldn’t want to overstay my welcome.”

“You already did,” you reply, soft and if he’s not hallucinating, playfully. You shut the door before he can say another word.

Behind it, he hears the faint sound of your footsteps—bare feet on old floorboards. Then the click of a lock sliding into place.

Smart girl.

He stands there for a moment longer, staring at the door, then turns and walks back into the swamp-dark night. The heat wraps around him like a second skin. The moss above sways in the still air like something watching.

Remmick’s smile fades.

No, he didn’t know you. But now, he wants to.

And so he does.

The next time he sees you, he’s sitting under a magnolia tree, its wide, waxy leaves rustling just enough to remind the world that the air still moves. He’s fine-tuning his banjo, the old wood resting against his thigh like an old friend. It’s sunset—the sky bleeding gold and peach, the kind of light that makes everything look softer than it really is.

The sun isn’t touching him—not directly—but still, he feels the phantom burn along his skin. Like a memory that lives in the muscle. Like his body knows better than to trust the light.

He ain’t welcome here. Not really. Not by the living, and certainly not by the dead that linger in these woods, these fields, these old bones of a town.

And yet, here you come.

You’re walking slow, arms tucked behind your back like a schoolgirl with a secret. You don’t look right at him, but he knows better. You’re watching from the corner of your eye, just enough to let him know you see him—but not enough to let him see you.

He plucks at a string. Then another. Then another. A lazy little tune. Just testing the cords.

The sound hums low and warm, curling through the air like smoke from a porch cigar. Notes hang between you like fireflies blinking on for the night.

You still haven’t said a word. But you’re not walking away either. That’s something. He plays a little more.

“Can you sing?” Finally, you turn your head to him, but your body stays angled away—like even your shadow doesn't know what to make of him yet.

Remmick stands. His eyes flicker to the horizon where the sun is hanging by its last thread. The final golden gasp before night swallows it whole. Finally, those cruel rays are low enough he can risk a step. So he does.

Just a little one.

The moment his foot touches the edge of light, his skin hisses. A soft, mean sound like bacon grease popping in a cast iron pan. He flinches, but he walks. Toward you.

Can you hear it? Can you smell the faint scorch of flesh? He’s burning just walking to you.

“Just a little,” he says, and his voice is steady even if his body isn’t. “Can you?”

You turn your head away. “I never cared much for music,” you reply. “So no. I can’t sing.” It’s the kind of thing said to shut a conversation down. But you don’t leave. You don’t walk away.

Remmick catches that.

He nods, slow, and looks at the road behind you. The way the shadows are getting longer. The way the trees whisper louder as the night gets closer. “Let me walk you home,” he offers.

There’s nothing syrupy in his voice. No charm. No flirt. Just the plain weight of the offer.

He watched as your eyes trail his face. From his eyes down. You’re trying to hide it. After all, a girl like you with a man like him? Well, for others, it just wouldn’t do.

(Or maybe you were just looking at his skin. The skin that is currently healing from the burns you caused.)

“You get sunburned?” Your eyes are trained on his collar bones. “I don’t see you out in the sun much. Your kind ain’t meant for it.” 

He grins. The kind of grin that doesn’t show teeth. “You’re right. Sun don’t like my kind much. It’s dark now. I’ll take you home.” 

You shake your head, but the corner of your mouth lifts. “My daddy wouldn’t like it.”

“I reckon he wouldn’t.” You don’t say yes. But you start walking—and you don’t stop him when he falls into step beside you.

The night rises around you both, thick with crickets and the far-off hum of cicadas. And the burn of the sun is gone, Remmick doesn’t feel the burn.

Just the quiet.

And your footsteps, steady in the dark. Then he hears it. Faint screeching off in the distance—too sharp, too wet. The kind that clings to the bones. The vultures. Always nearby. Always waiting. He calls them his shadows, though they ain’t loyal. Just hungry. Well, it’s a bad night for them. He ain’t gonna kill you—least not yet.

(It’s too bad he never thought they were there for him. Though why would he ever think that?)

Not when he still ain’t gotten his answer.

The path ahead twists like a snake through the tall grass. Eerily silent, save for the screeching. No crickets. No wind. Even the trees seem to be holding their breath. He looks to his side—

You're gone.

Remmick stops cold. No one leaves him without him knowing. No one just slips away.

A hiss cracks the stillness from his right. He turns.

There’s a feeling, deep and primal, starting to claw at his insides.

Before thought can catch up, his left leg jolts back on instinct— Snap.

He looks down. A gator. Biggest one he’s ever seen. Thick-scaled, eyes yellow and slick like oil. The air reeks of rot and mud. It hisses again, low and mean.

Remmick backs up, slow, cautious. But the thing lurches forward, jaws snapping inches from his foot. Animals don’t attack him. They bark, they hiss, they flee—but they don’t dare come close.

Not ever.

Another snap. It lunges. Remmick stumbles, his boots losing grip on the moss-slick path. He goes down hard, the earth cold and wet against his back.

The gator charges.

Though just before Remmick could flash his teeth, there you were. Grabbed the gator by its tail. It hissed at you before turning around and running away. 

“You alright?” you ask, voice low. Where you came from, he didn’t know. How you got here without him hearing, he couldn’t say.

But your chest is rising fast, and your eyes are wide, shining in the dark. The moonlight catches on your ring again, that jewel blazing like a second eye. He nods slowly, still on the ground, mud soaking into his shirt. “Yeah. I’m alright.”

But what he doesn’t say is— He’s never seen anything like that before. Not from a person.

“I didn’t see it,” Remmick said quickly, getting to his feet. “Where’d you go?”

“Oh, I saw a flower just a few steps back,” you said casually looking down. “Guess you didn’t hear me stop.”

“I didn’t,” he admitted, scanning the path behind you.

“Look,” you said, lifting the bloom between two fingers. You held it up—a red hibiscus, full and blooming like it had something to prove.

“It is pretty,” Remmick said, glancing from the flower to you.

Your brows furrowed, and your eyes drifted to his hands. “Did you hurt yourself?” you asked, voice tinged with concern.

Remmick looked down. One hand had a gash in it, smeared with blood and dirt. “Guess I…” he started, then looked to his right—You weren’t there anymore.

“Did,” he muttered, blinking. Then he turned left—There you were. Smiling.

You’d just been on his right.

“Let me help you,” you said softly. Your eyes stayed lowered. In the dark, they looked almost black and he swears he hears your veins pumping blood faster than he’s ever heard. It almost sounds like porcelain cracking. 

“Did you always have that purse?” he asked, eyeing the little blue thing at your side.

“Yes,” you replied, almost laughing at him, the corners of your mouth twitching. “Here,” you said, stepping closer. You took his hand. You were warm. Still human-warm. But you smelled like fresh blood. Clean. Bright. Familiar in a way that made his fangs ache.

From your purse, you pulled cotton and gently dabbed at his wound. He’d have been healed by morning— But you’d never been this close before. And he’d never smelled anything like you.

Got him droolin’.

After you cleaned his wound, you moved with careful, deliberate ease—tucking the bloodied cotton back into your purse, the soft crunch of the material the only sound for a moment. Then came the bandages, pulled from some inner pocket like you’d done this before. You wrapped them around his hand, gentle but firm, your fingers warm against his skin.

Remmick licked the side of his mouth, wiping away what drool he could reach. “It’s a nice ring,” he said, voice low.

You pulled back slightly, your eyes flicking down. He watched you turn your hand, examining the jewel like you hadn’t noticed it before. “Yeah,” you said, tone light but layered, “an old friend was kind enough to give it to me.”

Your gaze met his, and for a split second, he could’ve sworn the whites of your eyes weren’t white at all—but tinged red, like veins swelling just beneath the surface.

“That, and she owed me a couple of favors,” you added with a smile, one that was more teeth than kindness.

Then your hand lifted—slow, soft, deliberate—and you wiped the edge of his mouth where he’d missed the drool. It was an intimate gesture. Too intimate.

Maybe if Remmick had been paying attention, he would’ve noticed the strange way your fingers lingered just a second too long. Maybe he would’ve caught the lack of sound you emmit. (Humans make all kinds of sounds.) Maybe he would’ve known that humans are supposed to be cold when they sweat, but you’re always warm, no matter how much your body sweats. (Though, has he ever seen you sweat?)  

But he wasn’t paying attention. He was watching your eyes, trying to remember what they looked like the first time he saw you. Now your pupils were dilated. Then they weren’t. Then they were again.

Over and over, your pupils changed sizes. A flickering pulse. Like they were breathing. Like something was watching him from inside you.

“Well,” you said, breaking the silence, “I’d offer to walk you home, but…” — you turned your gaze toward the glowing windows of your house — “I have a curfew. And technically, you just walked me.”

Remmick chuckled, licking his bottom lip again, eyes still trained on you. “I’d never ask a lady to walk me home.”

You stepped up onto your porch, your weight light against the old wood, but before opening the door, you turned back with that same strange smile. The kind that made his stomach feel like it was turning over slow in his gut.

“Well, goodnight, Remmick,” you said softly.

“Goodnight, m’lady,” he returned, tipping his head just slightly.

You paused, hand on the doorknob, then added, “Watch out for them gators on your way home. Good rule of thumb—watch for the vultures. If they’re around, chances are something aiming for you is too.”

Then the door closed, and Remmick was left alone on the porch. He knows the rules well. He’s the reason why the rule exists.

…

You’ve been walking around with someone new. Someone like you. Remmick doesn’t say anything. He just watches. 

You’re out every night. 

Fancy that. Preacher’s daughter out every night, and with someone you’re not supposed to be with. 

Remmick doesn’t know where this new feller is from, but he doesn’t have a beating heart. It’s only confirmed when the man is smiling at him through your window. Familiar red eyes and long fangs smiling at him. 

Remmick hasn’t gotten his answer from you yet. He don’t want you dead just yet. So up he goes on your porch steps giving three knocks, just like he did the first time. The man answers the door. He opens it halfway and leans on the frame, shaking his head slowly.

“If you know what’s best for you,” Remmick drawled, voice low and steady, “you’ll come outside.”

The man’s smile never touches his eyes. “No,” he murmured. “If I know what’s best for me, I’ll stay inside. Where you’re not allowed.”

Then, right before Remmick’s eyes, the red fades from the man’s irises, shifting—smooth and eerie—into a milky white. 

Like bone. Like rot.

The man’s name leaves your lips—soft, questioning—and soon enough, you’re standing at the door with one brow raised.

“Remmick?” you ask, glancing between him and the man beside you. The pale, unnatural glow of the other’s eyes fades, shifting back into something more human, though they still don’t quite belong to him. He looks at you, head slightly tilted, waiting.

“What are you doing here?” you ask again, voice quieter now, laced with something unreadable. Before Remmick can answer, the man steps beside you, all too eager, and starts to usher you back inside.

Remmick steps forward, his tone harder than usual. “I think you should let me in.” Normally, he’d take his time, work his way around the rules with a little charm—but that man behind you looks ready to take your head clean off your shoulders. Probably will, too.

“Look,” you say with a smile, one that doesn’t reach your eyes, “I know we’ve talked a few times, but that don’t mean we friends. You gon’ get me in trouble. Can’t be in this part of town, Remmick.”

As you speak, your smile fades, slowly, piece by piece. 

“Now you ain’t gotta—” the man beside you begins, voice low and agitated.

“Go inside,” you cut in, voice firm, but you never look at him. Remmick watches as the man lingers. From behind you, he catches the snarl stretching across the man’s face—fangs glinting in the dim porch light, a string of drool slipping from the corner of his mouth. The man holds Remmick’s gaze for a beat longer, flashing one last jagged smile.

Then he turns and slinks deeper into the house.

“Look, I know you don’t much like my kind—me being white and all—but I really do think you should—” Remmick started, his voice low, edged with urgency. He turned back to you, his smile gone. All that was left was a plain, pleading expression. A silent beg for you to let him in.

“What?” you snapped, cutting him off. Your brows drew together, your tone sharper now. “It’s not about you being—” You stopped yourself, jaw tightening. You exhaled through your nose. “Alright then. Fine.”

You glanced toward the tree line, then back at him. Your voice dropped, the edge still there, but now it was weighed with warning.

“You can’t be out here right now, Remmick. The Klan ain’t too far from us. These woods have eyes.” You crossed your arms tightly over your chest. “I was bein’ nice the first two times, but you really have to go.”

Remmick didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe.

Not for a long second.

“I’m not here to cause trouble,” he said, voice low. “But that man in your house? He’s not right—”

“I didn’t ask.” Then, slowly, without slamming it or snapping it shut, you closed the door in his face. The sound was quiet. Final. Remmick stood there a moment longer, staring at the wood grain, then turned and disappeared into the dark.

The vultures started circling again.

Turning on his heel, Remmick bolted toward the man you’d been speaking to that night—the first time he'd seen you together. It didn’t take much to con his way close enough. One slip of the mind, one slack moment in the neck, and Remmick had him.

He drained him fast, too fast. He didn’t have time to savor it or let the man ease into death. He needed him turned, and he needed it now.

He only hoped he wasn’t too late.

(A head was already hanging by a thread of skin.)

The man awoke with a gasp like he’d broken through the surface of a black river. Blood spilled from his mouth. His hands clawed at the air, confused and feral.

Remmick grabbed him, yanking him close, their foreheads pressing together. His voice was strained, shaking from urgency and the weight of too much stolen blood.

“Get in the house,” he ordered, “and kill the man in there.”

He let go, and the newborn vampire stumbled forward, but caught himself, his instincts kicking in quick. Off he went.

Remmick wasn’t far behind, keeping to the trees. His ears sharpened for signs of life, breath, movement—anything.

He heard you.

You were breathing hard. Annoyed. He could hear it in your exhale—like a tired sigh through clenched teeth.

Then came the knock. The turned man stood on your porch, calling your name in a voice full of false pain, begging for help.

Remmick watched from the treeline.

And maybe it was just the way the shadows moved—but your eyes looked darker now. Your cheeks, hollowed out. Something strange clung to the corners of your mouth.

Just before he could focus, really focus, you turned away. You opened the door. And let him in.

Not a second later, there was fighting.

Remmick strained his ears.

He could hear you. Yelling. Screaming. Pleading with someone—“Stop!”

Then a cry of pain.

But it wasn’t yours. And it wasn’t the vampire you’d let into your house.

It was his. The newborn.

Then your scream followed. Sharp. Guttural. Like you were being torn apart from the inside.

The back door of your house slammed open. A head rolled out.

Remmick’s breath caught as he saw his freshly turned vampire stumble after it, a stake driven clean through his heart. Behind him, you stepped outside—blood smeared across your arms, your dress, even your neck. From the treeline, Remmick could see your hands trembling.

You looked... lost.

Your eyes darted over the yard like they were searching for something, someone. Then, behind you, the vampire moved—clawed fingers outstretched, crawling toward you with his last breath.

“Move!” Remmick shouted, bolting from the trees. You didn’t. You stood frozen as the vampire’s claws sank into you. He heard the rip. The unmistakable sound of flesh tearing.

Remmick caught your wrist and yanked you away, pulling you both deep into the bayou. The vampire would die soon enough. That stake would see to it.

Branches cracked beneath your feet. Your breath came fast and ragged. You kept glancing behind you like you couldn’t believe what had just happened.

Finally, when you both stopped, panting under the thick night air, Remmick turned to you. “Your back,” he said, reaching for your shoulder. “Let me see—”

“No, no. I’m okay,” you said quickly, turning to him, your hands gripping your sides.

“Is it deep?” he asked, stepping closer, trying to look at your back.

You resisted. Surprisingly strong. Remmick narrowed his eyes and used just enough of his strength to turn you gently toward him. His brows furrowed.

Your back was clean—save for deep red marks down your spine. No torn skin. No visible cuts.

“See?” You smiled at him. Too easily. “It’s not my blood.” You turned away again, smiling wider. “Thank you, Remmick.”

But he had heard it.

He had heard the claws tear into flesh.

He’d heard it enough times over the centuries to know the sound. And what he’d heard back there…

That had been your skin.

But there was nothing on you. Nothing wrong with you.

Slowly, Remmick inhaled the air.

The blood—it smelled wrong. Stale. Old. Like dried rust left out in the sun. That scent clung to every vampire eventually, no matter how young or ancient. But on you, it didn’t make sense.

Because he couldn’t smell you. Not a hint of fresh blood. Not a whiff of that sweet, distinct heat that always made his teeth ache, that made the hunger curl hot behind his ribs.

You just smelled like something dead.

Old, rotten blood.

Remmick took a step back without realizing it. His eyes flicked over your face, down your arms, your legs. No cuts. No bruises. But his ears still rang with the sound of tearing flesh.

“You’re sure you’re alright?” he asked, voice low.

“Thanks to you, yeah, I’m alright, but…Remmick.” You looked to him. Looked to him with your doe eyes as if you suddenly realized his presence here didn’t make sense. Looked to him as if realizing someone just staked your friends. Looked to him as if you just saw a man be decapitated. “Oh god.” 

Remmick simply stayed silent.

“What am I gonna do? Two men just died inside my house.” That’s where your mind went? Not the fangs? Not the blood? Not Remmick, who shouldn’t’ve been there in the first place?

S’alright. He’d take it.

“The police—oh god, the police.” 

Slowly, Remmick reached out, patting your shoulder, shushing you gently as you stayed still. “Ain’t gotta worry about that. You can stay with me.” 

You turned to him, one brow raised. “Two white policemen start lookin’ f’me. Two dead men in my house, my parents gone—and they find me in your house?”

Again, Remmick gave a soft shush. His hands moved to your shoulders, steady.

“Ya ain’t gotta worry ’bout all that. I’ll take care of it.” He rubbed your shoulder. Flakes of dried blood crumbled off your skin.

“Remmick.” You looked at him again. Firmer, maybe. Or maybe just tired.

“Said I’ll take care of it.” His hands slid from your shoulders to your cheeks. “Now you head on home. Pack some things. We’ll go.”

He stroked your cheek once, then looked toward your house.

You nodded slowly, still held in his hands.

Slowly, the two of you walked back until the soft glow of your porch lights cut through the dark. Just before you reached the yard, Remmick gently pulled you back, using his hand to block your view.

“Don’t look,” he murmured, voice low, shielding your eyes from the porch—where a head still lay and a body slumped, stake in heart.

Then again he was on the porch of your home. You opened the door and entered. Remmick stayed put. Just as you were half way in, he saw you turn around.

“What’s wrong?” You asked him. Under the porch light, Remmick could finally see just how soaked you were. Blood covered the entire front of your dress, dyed deep crimson. The fabric clung to your body, barely hanging on.

“Nothin’ just waiting for you to invite me in.” Instead of the grin he might’ve flashed at you any other time, Remmick checked himself. This wasn’t the place for a smirk. Not tonight. So he gave you the gentlest smile he could manage—something sweet, something safe.

“Ain’t you gentlemen, but my house is a mess. Think it’s best if you don’t see it.” Again you flashed him a smile before once more the door was shut on him. 

Remmick was gettin’ real tired of this door.

…

Your scent returned to you eventually—once all that blood had been washed away. That sweet, unmistakable scent.

You slept through the entire day, and just like he promised, Remmick made the problem disappear.

(Though strangely enough, by the time he got there, all the questions that should’ve been asked… never were.)

Justice don’t run right here.

Remmick looked over at you—there you were, stretched out on his bed. The heat hung heavy in the room. Your nightgown clung to you like a second skin, and the thin sheen of sweat on your body caught what little light filtered into the house, making you glow.

“They come yet?” you asked.

Remmick shook his head.

You stared up at the ceiling, eyes dull. (Bored) Then you fell back on the bed. Remmick watched as your chest rose up and down. Swore he could hear your blood pumping, swore he could hear the slow beat of your heart. 

“You want some water?” You hadn’t eaten anything. Hadn’t drinken anything either. 

He watched as you turned your head slowly to him. “I wanna go home.” 

“I’ll take ya tonight if you want.” Remmick offered, and slowly you nodded again before closing your eyes, sleeping once more and Remmick sat in his chair just looking at you. 

All this for an answer. All this just to see what you’d do if the devil came a knockin’ on your door. See if you would turn to god. Hell, all those crosses in your home. By the time Remmick went to investigate the bodies, the only thing left was a singed cross. 

He could just find out now. Maybe scare ya’ while you’re asleep. Slowly Remmick stands up. Your breathing is slow. He has to stop and listen. Breath so slow he almost thinks you're dead. But you’re not. A deep breath you take tells him you’re not. 

He’s salivating at the mouth. Remmick smells you. A deep and long inhale of you. Fresh, sweet, blood. 

There is a sound from you. Remmick looks down. Shit. You got him droolin’ all over ya. He wipes your cheek with the back of his hand. But your skin—it’s cold. Not just clammy. Cold like him. But you’re sweating, too. Humans sweat. Humans get cold. Remmick’s been dead too long, maybe he’s forgettin’.

Remmick stayed there, on his bed sitting down just inhaling your scent. It was nightfall. You’ve been absent for almost three whole days. Nobody’s come searchin’ for you. Not your mother, father, anyone. Today was Sunday. 

You missed church today. Still not a word.

Guess this wasn’t the town he thought it was.

You move again and a light hits his eye. He looks down and it’s your ring. You still have it on. The band of the ring is silver and the stone is blue with golden specks. It’s on your middle finger. His hand slides under yours. Your fingers twitch, just slightly. Remmick freezes. Waits. You don’t move again.

Was it fake? Slowly the ends of his pointer finger elongated into a sharp claw. He was about to scratch the stone before you arched your back in stretch. Quickly he reverted his finger to a human one. 

“What are you doing?” Your hand was still his and your brows were furrowed but the way you spoke was still laced with sleep.

Remmick looked at you with a smile. “Just lookin’”

“If you’re wonderin’ if it’s real.” You gently pulled your hand from his grasp looking at the ring. “It is. It’s lapis lazuli. Scratches easy. Lapis lazuli stones are considered the precious stones that ruled the sky and the seas or in other stories the stone combines the blue of the heavens and golden glitter of the sun. As such, it absorbs the sunlight.” You took off the ring and gave it to him. 

Remmick held it in his hand observing the fine metal work. “That ones enchanted though. The friend that gave it to me? She was a witch.” Remmick looked at you. So much for a devoted christian. “Lapis lazuli is a rock. Nothin’ real special, but it’s what she requested. So I went and found the stone, which was hard. I was working on a limited time schedule.”

Why do you speak like that? Speak as if you’re older than you are. Remmick doesn’t know how old you are—after a while, that age of humans becomes irrelevant. Anyone under the age of 100 is young to him. You speak as if you’d have more years than what is visible on your face.

“But eventually, I found a rock and brought it back to her. She did her spells. I’d recite it, but it’s Latin and it was such a long time ago, can’t remember any more.” You shrugged. “Anyways, the spell was done and now it protects me.”

Ain’t god-fearin’ because of this ring? Ain’t afraid of the devil because of this ring? It’s laughable, but Remmick won’t laugh. We’ll see how well your ring puts up against him. “Protects you against what?”

“Curses put on me.” You stood up and Remmick remained on the bed. “Well—a curse, really. Bestowed on my kind, after we were given a gift of sorts.”

“Your kind? The words felt sticky in his mouth. The way you said it—so easily. Like the ones who'd step on your neck. Such a pity.

You simply nodded. “I suffered a long time under that curse. I was limited for so many years. That gift took something away from me, and I missed it.” There you go again. Talking as if you’re older. But you’re not. He knows you're not. “So I went out, and found someone who could fix me. I met my friend, though I don’t think she really thought of me as a friend like I did her, but she’s dead now, so don’t it matter much and in the end I s'pose she got even.” 

“How d’you reckon?”

“Well she placed another curse on me.” You laughed sitting down in the chair he once sat at while he looked at you sleepin’. “It was worse than the first. She didn’t take anything away—just... enhanced what was already there.” You looked at him, and suddenly gooseflesh pricked up his spin. He knew that look. “It was hell. Year after year, I tried to break it. It just wouldn’t. Told me it was an eye for an eye. She helped me and I helped her.” You shook your head and Remmick was stuck on the bed listening to you.

“Old hag knew I’d live longer than her. I was young back then.” Still are. Still naive when you never ask him the questions you should be askin’. So why do you sound so old? Why do you sound as if you’ve lived lifetimes? As many as he had. “Gullible, if you will. I mean, why after all these years, I still gotta help a dead woman? Just ain’t fair.” 

Remmick said nothing and you kept looking at him. Where does he know your look from? He knows it. He really does, but god it’s been such a long time, Remmick starts to forget faces. “Eventually though, I accepted it. Learned to live with it. Enjoy it even. In the end, I’m glad she gave me another curse—though I think it’s a gift now—maybe I did break it. Maybe I just like livin’ like this now.”

You gave a deep pause.

 “It’s better.”

…

This damned door.

Remmick swears he could trace every chip in the paint with his eyes closed, just from how often he’s stood in front of it. The creak of its hinges, the uneven flake of old enamel—it’s all burned into him now. Yet here he is again, and here you come, opening it once more.

“Yes?” you ask, voice soft and languid. You’re backlit, the glow of your home curling around you in warm gold. Domestic light—safe, small, human. Remmick remains where the dark clings to him, just past the porch light’s reach.

“Came to say hi,” he says, flashing you that grin—the kind meant to be disarming.

“Hi,” you echo, a little smile curling at your lips as you lean against the doorframe. Casual. Inviting. That’s good.

“Hello,” he murmurs again, quieter this time, letting it linger in the air between you both.

“Is that all?” you ask, arching a brow. There’s a slight tease in your voice now, but your eyes flicker, cautious. Curious.

Remmick doesn’t answer. Instead, he steps closer, slow and sure, letting the threshold between you become the only thing left.

“What are you doing?” you ask, your voice dropping an octave—not quite nervous, but alert.

Then you take a step forward—just one—and it’s enough.

The scent hits him like a wave.

Fresh blood. Sweet, bright, and warm. How you manage to carry that scent with you, always just on the edge of being bitten, he doesn’t know. But it’s there, thick in his nostrils now. Remmick’s jaw tightens. His tongue presses to the back of his teeth.

“You’re salivatin’,” you say, cocking your head. It’s not accusatory. Just observant.

He wipes at the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand and gives you another grin—this one slower, hungrier.

“Just for you.” Slowly he feels his eyes glaze over, but all he’s looking at is your neck. His mouth is ajar just slightly and he can feel his venom drippin’ from the side of his mouth. Slowly but surely he leans in.

He can barely register your hand against his face again wiping away his venom. But just slightly, the move is enough to turn his head and his vision from your neck to your lips. Well, poison gettin’ in you one way or another. 

His hand moved too fast for it to be considered human, but he doesn’t think you noticed seeing as your warm hand is still cupping his face. His hand held a tight grip on the back of your neck as he pulled you to him, kissing you, hard. His teeth clash against yours.

You’ll have to forgive him. It’s been a while since he’s really kissed anyone. He can feel as you nails scratch lightly on his scalp as you grip his hair pulling him closer to you. You feel so warm. So warm even on such hot and humid nights.

He feels his venom accumulating on his tongue, so he forces himself into your mouth. Your sound of surprise sounds wondrous. You gladly welcome him into you. His grip softens on your neck and both of his hands start to explore your back. Lower and lower creep but just before they can reach for what his body aches for you push him away. 

The momentum of pushing him away sends you stumbling backward, feet dragging across the worn wood floor, until you’re safely behind the threshold—behind the invisible line that keeps him from you.

Remmick stands frozen on the other side, one foot still lifted, as if he could follow.

But he can’t.

He looks at you. Really looks. And there it is: his venom, glistening like spilled ink, trailing from the corner of your mouth. A small, damning shimmer.

Your hand flies up, trembling as you point at him. “No,” you whisper at first, then louder, firmer, shaking your head as if to shake him out of your blood.

“No,” you repeat, breath hitching, voice frayed. “I won’t do it. Do you even know what they’d do to you? To me?” You pause, chest heaving as though you’ve run a great distance. “No, Remmick. I won’t subject myself to that.” Remmick doesn’t flinch.

“Goodbye, Remmick,” you say. It lands cold. Then—just like before—you shut the door.

And again, he’s left outside, staring at the same damned wood. The lock clicks like a coffin shutting. Remmick doesn’t move. Just stands there, bathed in the hush of the porchlight and the slow creep of night. Crickets chirp. 

He got his answer, alright.

You aren’t a god-fearin’ woman and you are afraid of the devil

And maybe what stings the most is—he thought you were braver than that.

But that’s alright. He was scared of the devil once too. But now that he’s got his answer, it won’t matter no more. He can save you. Make sure you never fear the devil ever again. Make sure you can do something with your life and it won’t be meaningless. You can be equal, and no man will be more equal than others.

He wonders what happens now. You’ve got his venom in you.

You should be dead—or dying—but you’re not. Not yet. He’s never left someone like this before. Never walked away with his venom inside them without finishing the job. Usually, it’s through a bite. That’s the way it’s supposed to go.

Well… first time for everything.

Remmick wipes the corner of his mouth with the back of his sleeve, smearing spit and venom across his skin. It glistens under the faint glow of your porch light.

He turns, about to step into the night, when something makes him look back. There you are, framed by the window. Watching. The light catches your eyes—wide, cautious, and just a little bit puzzled. Like even you don’t know why you’re still standing.

Remmick frowns. He doesn’t know either.

He raises a hand, then thinks better of it. Instead, he dips his head in a small bow, mock-formal, like he’s stepping away from a stage instead of your life. Turning on his heel, he walks off into the dark, boots crunching soft against the gravel path.

Still, he can hear you. Your breath, small and quick, just behind the glass. You’re watching him walk away. He knows it.

And depending on how this goes…

It won’t be long before you walk away too—with him.

…

You hadn’t been home when he tried to visit. There was disappointment in that. Maybe you did die and you just never woke up. He should’ve just killed you. Didn’t even need to be brutal. Just a snapped neck and you would have woken up 15 minutes later. 

Such a shame. Off he goes then. Ain’t nothing here for him. That something he’s been looking for just isn’t here. 

Another week passes. Then—three knocks. Firm. Familiar. 

Remmick wakes with a start, the sun already high and hot. Midday. The time he hates most. With a crack of his neck, he drags himself to the front door, every step heavy. When he opens it, his widen in shock because there you are.

You’re radiant. 

Standing on his porch in your Sunday best, sunlight kissing your skin. And in your hands—a pie, steaming faintly under its cloth cover. You smell like warm fruit and something sweet beneath it. Something alive.

Remmick squints at you, blinking against the brightness. Best to ignore your absence. “Wasn’t it you who told me this—” he gestures between the two of you with a loose hand, a smirk curling his lip, “—was a bad idea?”

“Well yes!” you cut in quickly, chipper, too chipper. “But you see, my mother sent me over with this pie. Said you haven’t been to church for some time.”

Your mother? He hadn’t seen her in a while. Though she was dead. Your father too. He cocks a brow. “Aren’t you supposed to be in church?”

Your smile doesn’t falter. “I attended in the early mornin’.”

There’s a beat. Then, you shift your weight, pie still in hand. “Now, this hot… may I come in?” The words land like a stone in his gut. You still have that sweet smell of yours. Means you’re not like him. Not yet anyway. You walk in sunlight. Your skin doesn’t smoke. Your eyes still shine. Still, he doesn’t say it. Doesn’t invite you. Just opens the door wider.

And just as he suspected—you step inside without pause, without hesitation. Indeed you’re alive and kickin’. The light clings to you as you cross the threshold, but it fades, like it can’t hold onto you in here.

Remmick watches the sun blaze through the open door behind you, then gently pushes it closed. He turns to look at you as you set the pie down on his table. “How are ya’?”

“I’m good. Left for a week. Had to do some stuff.” You sat down at the table and again. Just like the last time you were in here, he expected to feel a prickle down his spine. But instead you just smile looking up at him with a slight tilt in your head. You look happy. Real happy. 

He steps further in, slow and careful, like he’s approaching something skittish. Dangerous.

You. You, sitting at his table like you’ve always belonged here. Like there hadn’t been venom between your teeth and rejection in your breath the last time he saw you.

“You look different,” he says, voice low. Testing.

“Do I?” you hum, resting your chin in your hand. “Maybe. I feel different, if only a little.”

Remmick studies you—really studies you. Your skin’s got color, warm and soft, kissed by sun and not a hint of pallor. Your eyes shine like they used to, but something hums beneath them now. Something older.

“You were gone for a week,” he says, circling the table, watching how your eyes follow him. “And then you show up on my porch in the daylight. Dressed for church. Smilin’ like you’ve been saved.”

You laugh, soft and musical, but there’s something sharp hidden in it. “Ain’t that what Sunday’s for?”

He doesn’t sit. He leans against the back of the chair across from you, arms crossed, still watching. Still waiting. “You said you feel different?”

“I’ve been thinking. Thinkin’ real hard.” You stand up just as Remmick is behind you. “But I still have doubts.” You smell stronger today and the heat radiates off of you today. Almost too human. Enticing nonetheless. His teeth hurt.

“Thinkin’ bout what?” He murmured as he bent down trying to smell you. Fresh blood. Your blood is young. 

“Well…what happened last time…” You trailed off. Remmick was right again. You’re not old. Can’t be. Not when your voice sounds so young. Sounds so impressionable. Sound so naive. 

Slowly, his hands settled on your shoulders, firm but gentle, like he wasn’t sure if he was holding you or holding himself back. He drew you close. Close enough that the scent of your skin curled into his lungs and stayed there. It made his gums ache—dull at first, then sharper, the way they always ached right before his teeth came out.

(Though he ignored the sound of vein pulsing. The sound as if they hadn’t been used in a while and were stretching to being used once more. The sound of porcelain cracking.) 

You didn’t stop him. Not at first. Maybe you knew what was coming.

Just before his lips could brush the edge of your throat—just before the hunger overtook the man—a knock sounded, sharp and sudden.

You flinched. The spell broke.

You tore yourself from him in one clean motion, never once looking back as your footsteps pounded against the floor and disappeared down the hall. Back to your mother. Back to the light. Back to safety.

Remmick stood there a moment longer, hand outstretched, the ghost of your warmth still clinging to his fingers.

It was fine. Nightfall would come soon. And tonight would be the final night.

The sun sank like a coin into the horizon, the sky stained in shades of fire and ash. Remmick stood by the window, watching shadows grow long and lean. The ache in his jaw had not gone away. If anything, it had deepened—moved lower, down into the bones. A hunger that knew your name.

He’d waited. He’d been kind. Patient, even.

But patience was running thin.

And you’d been marked now—by his venom, by your choice, by something neither of you fully understood.

No more knocks. No more interruptions.

Tonight he wouldn’t wait for you to come to him.

He was coming to you.

And so he did.

Just as before, Remmick stood at your doorstep, cloaked in the hush of twilight. The porch light cast long shadows across the wooden floorboards, and the scent of honeysuckle clung to the air. But this time, when the door creaked open, you stepped out to greet him.

Your figure cut through the soft light—barefoot, loose nightdress, a curl falling out of place near your temple. You looked like you hadn’t slept, but you were calm. Maybe resolved.

“Your parents?” Remmick asked, his voice quiet, cautious.

“Gone,” you replied, arms loosely crossed over your chest, but not in defense—more like you were holding something steady inside you.

He nodded once, stepping a little closer. “What is it that you want?” he asked, voice lower now, earnest. “I’ll make it happen.”

You tilted your head slightly, a skeptical smile ghosting your lips. “What can you do?”

“I can take you North,” he said, the words slow, deliberate, thick with promise. “North where we could be free. You wouldn’t have to worry about a thing.”

The porch light flickered once. The air between you buzzed with something unsaid.

“You’d do that f’me?” you asked, gaze flicking to his, voice smaller than before.

“’Course,” he breathed. “Do anythin’.”

“But what if they—”

“You ain’t gotta worry ’bout a thing,” he interrupted gently. “I’ll handle it.” His hand lifted, rough fingers brushing your cheek. His palm was calloused, but the way he held you was almost reverent.

“Remm—” your voice cracked around his name.

Softly, he shushed you. “Shhh,” he whispered, his thumb stroking just beneath your eye. Your skin wasn’t as warm tonight. That was alright. His hand lingered like he was grounding himself. “Just like I handled the last problem.”

There was a pause—one thick with knowing.

You looked at him. Really looked.

“Alright then…” you murmured, and a small smile touched your lips. You reached up, holding his hand in both of yours, delicate and sure. Then, turning slightly, your gaze flicked to the open door behind you. The threshold. The place where old lives ended and new ones might begin.

“Come on in, Remmick.”

And he did. 

Slowly, Remmick crossed the threshold of your home. Each step he took felt heavier with meaning, soaked in anticipation. A grin stretched across his face—feral and proud—as he watched you move through the soft amber light of the kitchen, your silhouette framed by fluttering gingham curtains and the muted hum of a quiet house.

His eyes wandered along the walls. Old walls, wilted dried herbs. Then his gaze landed on another cross. This one wasn’t ornamental. Its angles were too sharp. Too precise. The bottom point gleamed like it had drawn blood before.

“Remmick?” you called from the kitchen, voice lilting, casual. Like this was any other day.

He hummed low in his throat, not trusting his voice. Not with what was coming.

Let’s see what your little ring was good for.

His eyes darkened and glazed over, vision sharpening until the fibers of the wood under his boots became crystal-clear. His shoulders drew back with a crack, his body shifting. Bones lengthened in his fingers, joints grinding as claws pushed through skin with an eager, slow stretch. His ears twitched, catching the creak of a cooling kettle, the soft rustle of your clothing. But nothing else. No heartbeat. No breath. Still, so still.

Strange.

Then the ache came. That sweet, gnawing pull in his gums as his canines extended, tearing just slightly at his lip. The rest of his teeth followed suit—each one honed to a razor’s edge.

God, it felt good.

“When was the last time you ate?” you asked suddenly. Your back was still to him, your hands fussing with something at the counter—tea leaves maybe, or pie slices.

His eyes flicked to your ring. It didn’t glow. Didn’t burn. Didn’t stop a thing.

But then again… maybe it was never meant to.

“A while ago,” he said, voice a rasp, thick with desire. He took a step forward, almost salivating. “Haven’t eaten proper since… well. Since your friend.”

He didn’t need to say which one. The silence that followed named her for him.

“So you’re hungry?” you asked, still without turning. Your tone was measured, smooth like syrup.

“Starvin’,” he growled, claws flexing.

“That’s good.” You turned. Slowly.

He bared his teeth fully now, ready to savor the shock on your face. But what he saw made something shift in his gut.

Your eyes did widen at first—but only slightly. There was no scream. No flinch. Just the ghost of amusement curling at your lips. And then… you smiled.

Not in fear.

In recognition. And Remmick’s claws twitched again—but this time, not from joy.

He didn’t like that smile.

Not one bit.

Then came the sound.

That sick, wet stretch of muscle tearing and reforming. The kind that always reminded Remmick of leather being pulled too tight—followed by the sharp snap of bone shifting just beneath skin. He knew that sound. Had heard it in the woods. Beneath moonlight. In his house. Only now… he knew exactly where it was coming from.

From you.

He froze, eyes locked on your face as something moved beneath your skin—quick, serpentine. Dark veins crawled up from your jaw like ink bleeding into paper, slithering under your cheekbones and reaching the corners of your bloodshot eyes. The whites of them turned red, slowly—almost deliberately—as if savoring the change.

And then, your smile twisted. Became something other. A grin, cruel and radiant, blooming with two sharp fangs that caught the light.

The grin that had lived on his face just moments ago? It was gone. Slid off like water on polished stone.

Now it belonged to you.

Remmick stepped back instinctively, his claws flexing in the air between you. Confusion struck first—then horror, slow and creeping. His lips parted, but no sound came out.

He watched you. He watched it—the creature you’d become. No… the creature you’d always been.

(That’s where he knew your face from that day. He had worn it so many times, though now it just wasn’t on him)

“Me too,” you whispered.

Note: Eh. Not my best work, but I wanted it out there. Took me forever to write💔

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