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lefteagleblizzard · 12 hours ago

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ℭ𝔞𝔫'𝔱 𝔩𝔢𝔱 𝔶𝔢 𝔤𝔬 Remmick x male reader

Summary: Life’s never been easy in a town where your name and your voice mark you as different. He came in one night, same accent and struggles. But when he returns soaked in blood, you’ll have to decide what’s more dangerous: the monsters outside, or the one who wants to make you his.

Tags: stranger to lovers. Irish reader. Dark!Remmick. Dub-con. Possessive Remmick. Lots of flirting. Corruption. Manipulation. Obsessive behavior. Stalking. Minor character death. Make out session. Vampire x human sex. Blood drinking. Blood kink. Blood play. Top Remmick. Bottom male reader. Anal sex. Reader gets turned into a vampire.

ℳ𝒶𝓈𝓉ℯ𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

Words count: 8000

The bell above the door hadn’t rung the whole night.

Outside, the street was near silent, dark and damp through the crooked alleyways of the old quarter. The lamp posts flickered on occasion, their gaslight hiss audible even from within your little shop. Rain must’ve come and gone without you noticing, the windows fogged at the edges and distorting the outside world to make it seem dreamlike.

Inside, it was faintly warm. The shop smelled of paper and wood, floorboards groaned with every step from decades of foot traffic.

The walls, a muddled cream turning to yellow, were mostly hidden behind high libraries full of books. Tomes and hardcovers stacked deep in some spots, the topmost layers leaning like towers on the edge of collapse.

The front door was cracked open the slightest to let the breeze of fresh night air pass inside the store.

On the floor in the middle of it all, you were bent over a box of books, spine aching, forearms burning as you tried to wrestle it into place for the fourth time tonight. Sweat gathered at the edges of your hairline and trickled slowly past your temple, running slick down your cheek and jaw. You weren’t even halfway done reorganizing the philosophy and theology section as you adjusted your grip on the box.

“Still got yer door hangin’ open, have ye?” A deep and casual voice cut through the cluttered stillness of the shop.

Your muscles froze mid-lift from that accent just like yours, and not. Irish undoubtedly, but not watered down by years abroad. Northern, maybe.

Dark hair, damp and curling where it clung to his temples, his fringe matted to the smooth, slightly flushed plane of his forehead. The top buttons of his white shirt undone, a glimpse of white beneath, a flash of chest slicked in sweat.

The silver chain around his neck clung to his skin, catching the warm lamplight as he stepped further in. Those suspenders stretched over his shoulders gave him that boy-from-the-docks charm that didn’t match the alertness in his eyes a bit too still.

There was amusement there, head tilted slightly with a smirk shallow as he caught sight of your struggle.

“Strugglin’ with that, are ye? Could lend a hand if ye ask sweet.”

You sucked in a breath, rolled your shoulders and let the box thump to the floor with a deep thud. One hand on your hip, the other smearing sweat from your brow, you gave him a good long look.

The heat from exertion hadn’t left your face yet and your chest rose with shallow breath.

“Shop’s open. Ye can come in,” you managed. “And, aye… wouldn’t say no to help. Been shiftin’ these bastards since sunset.”

He didn’t move immediately, rather stood there in the doorway, tilting his head. The hairs on the back of your neck stir. Something about him made the air feel wrong.

His boot met wood as he stepped inside, the door-bell unleashing a small melody in the process. One stride, then two and before you could blink, he was closer than you’d been ready for.

Body betrays your calm as your pulse surged, the beat hammering against your sternum. You tried not to flinch but you saw the moment his eyes dropped and settled on your chest.

Gaze lingering for a second too long before drifting downward, slow and smooth, to crouch and curl his fingers around the heavy box.

Your aching arms proved how much it weighed but he lifted it like it was nothing. Barely a flex of effort and his biceps strain against the fabric of that too-thin shirt. Muscle coiled and moved under his skin, the line of his forearm dense with veins and taut.

You swallowed thickly, having been alone too long, used to silence and to not having anyone look at you like that. Your eyes lingered longer than was polite and when he glanced up at you again, his lip twitching at one corner and you realized he’d noticed.

“Remmick.” He said his name low, like a secret just for you. The syllables sat rich and intimate in his mouth.

You looked away, cheeks prickling in embarrassment and immediately set to organizing the nearest stack of books as if that could erase what just passed between you.

“Right,” you muttered, voice unsteady but trying for casual, already stacking without a plan. “Nice t’meet ye.” All while you tucked those books onto the shelf with shaky logic, placing volumes wherever they’d fit.

You reached for words to fill the silence.

“So what’s a man like y’self doin’ ‘round these parts, then? Can’t imagine you’re from here.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just watched you with those eyes of his sharp, quiet, lips parted slightly, breath slow and shallow.

“Just passin’ through.” The faintest smile again.

“Mm,” you hummed, peering over your shoulder. “Could tell from the voice. You’ve got it same as me. North? West?”

He nodded once. “Bit of both.”

You smiled a little at the difficult to describe level of comfort at knowing your shared origins, turning to him and patting your chest with mock pride. “All Irish blood here as well,” you said, trying to joke and bond with him.

Something shifted in his face. The subtle and barely visible glow in his eyes was like a candle catching breath.

His jaw tightened, lips sealing shut like they were locking something in and, suddenly, you were very aware of how quiet the shop had become, while he heard your heart skipping and the blood rushing hot beneath your skin.

Books in your arms, he observed as you slotted them onto the shelves like it mattered, though you couldn’t have said why, not truly. Always shifting and reordering the little kingdom of your shop like maybe if you got it right, the world would finally take notice and stop pressing down on your shoulders so hard.

You didn’t see him wipe at the side of his mouth to remove the bead of spit that gathered at the edge of his chin.

“Ye always reorganizin’ like this?” he asked, the lilt still mild.

“Dunno. Helps me think, I guess.” You shrugged while pulling another from the box, a worn leather-bound copy of The Children of Lir, running your thumb along the engraved spine before placing it down. “Or maybe I just like torturin’ myself. Could’ve picked anything but I went to a place that doesn’t even want me here.” A short, breathy laugh came next.

Your tone was light, but Remmick heard the bitterness just below the edge. You picked up the next book, thinner and water-damaged but still, your hands handled it like it was sacred.

He could see how your fingers trembled just a little and he tilted his head slightly.

“An’ how’s the place been treatin’ ye then, mm?” he asked.

The words came light and sounded friendly, but even to his own ears it landed too measured.

He was holding the edges of his wrath like glass in his palms and it took everything in him not to let it bleed.

“Not as bad as it was at the start. Folk here don’t forget you’re not from ‘round these parts. Accent sticks out like bruises on a nun.” You laughed to yourself. “But it’s gotten better.”

You stepped back from the shelf and set your free hand on your hips, twisting to crack your spine.

“There’s two wee ones that come in every week with their mam to read fables,” you continued, tugging another book from the box. “Little lads, properly obsessed with selkies and monsters and all that shite. Think they believe they’ll see one if they squint at the pages hard enough.”

Remmick said nothing, watching how your shoulders moved with each breath, still holding the box for you.

“The mother though…” you smirked, turning back toward him with the book still in your hand. You straightened your spine and pinched your lips into a perfect haughty sneer. “‘Excuse me,’ she says, voice tighter than her corset. ‘Are these books…appropriate for children?’ Like she’s not lettin’ ‘em climb dead trees in the graveyard behind her own house.” You laughed outright now, open and honest at recalling the woman’s superior attitude.

“And there’s a man. Comes in Thursdays, like clockwork. Won’t say what he’s collectin’ but always buys somethin’. He pays full price so he’s welcome.”

You turned again, brows lifting as you reached into the box for the next one.

“Ye happy here?” No lilt or smirk in his voice, those words felt like rocks being thrown at ye.

Your hand paused above the box, blinking and suddenly breathless in a way that had nothing to do with lifting books.

You turned your head slightly, half-glancing toward him, unsure if you’d imagined the tone but it had been real.

Happy?

No one asked that.

People asked how sales were, if you’d dusted the poetry shelf or where the toilets were, even though the shop didn’t have any.

You swallowed and before you could stop yourself, the words started tumbling out, spilling from your lips like you’d been holding them back too long.

“Don’t think I’ve been properly happy since I got here,” you admitted, quieter now, voice stripped of its playfulness. “Not really. Folk look at me like I’m squattin’ in their church or put some foreign curse on their kids for touchin’ the encyclopedias.”

You laughed bitterly, eyes flicking to your boots.

“I try so hard. Keep the place tidy, learn their names and say ‘mornin’’ when it’s pissin’ rain and I haven’t slept. But it’s like I’m just tolerated.”

Your voice broke slightly then, not enough for tears but it made you stop, looking down at the book in your hands. The gold flake on the spine was peeling.

“I guess I just wanted somethin’ simple,” you said, quieter still. “Somewhere I could belong. Books don’t judge how I say things or where I’m from. They don’t get cold when they realize I’ve nowhere else to go.”

“Fuck. Sorry. Didn’t mean to dump all that on you. You’re just holdin’ a box, you’re not my priest.” You turned your head quickly, looking up at him with a sheepish, crooked smile and embarrassment in full display, voice dropping into a murmur.

He didn’t speak.

With those eyes you had, clear and glinting with self-deprecation, Remmick thought you might be the most precious fuckin’ thing he’d seen in years.

“S’alright,” he said softly. “You talk like that, I listen.”

Your hands grazed his as you finally reached to take the box from him. Skin touched skin, the briefest brush of warm fingers over cold ones. Your arms flexed delicately, straining under the weight as you drew the box in close.

Veins popped just faintly under your skin as you cradled it gently and it made something twist in his gut.

He wanted to press his mouth to the thudding pulse in your wrist and drink until the sweet, earnest blood poured past his teeth like wine blessed by saints and the ache in his chest quieted.

You set the box on the counter, arms shaking just slightly, exhaling through your nose.

“So, uh…” you looked up at him then, trying to reclaim some air of normalcy. “You lookin’ for anything in particular?”

He blinked once. The question had caught him off guard because he hadn’t come here for books.

“Might be I came lookin’ for somethin’,” he said, his voice low—warmer now, but only just. “Figured ye might have a title or two, maybe somethin’ nearly as interestin’ as yerself.”

There was something wrong with the smile now, a little too slow and wide, like it didn’t reach his eyes.

Your eyebrows rose instinctively at the challenge buried beneath his words, eyes darting downward toward the box still cradled on the counter beside you. You muttered softly to yourself, half in Irish and half-broken English, the way people do when they’re thinking too fast for their tongue. “Swear I saw it… t’was in here somewhere.”

You dug, shifting aside volumes, leather-worn, threadbare and torn-lipped, before your fingers found the cloth-covered spine tucked half-hidden behind a row of older, heavier works. You gasped faintly in triumph as you drew it out.

The cover was green. Not bright but mossed, softened by age and the oils of countless fingers before yours. The edges of the pages curled slightly inward. Gold flake still clung to the title, just barely. You brushed your thumb over the words, reverent in your delivery.

W. B. Yeats — The Wind Among the Reeds.

“Here.”

You turned then, arm outstretched, book offered like a gift. A smile lingered at the corners of your mouth, proud of having found what you believed to be the perfect thing for him.

He hadn’t moved, stood rooted to the floor like a shadow nailed to the shape of a man. Hands tucked deep in his pockets, face unmoved, eyes locked on your mouth.

Your pulse told him more than your face ever could.

You cleared your throat, voice dropping softer, suddenly shy.

“It’s not really a love story,” you told him, glancing down at the book in your hands. “It’s the kind that doesn’t end so much as a haunt. Lovers that ruin and leave behind bones.”

An exhale through his nose as his head tilted slightly, curls shifting across his forehead, his eyes never once leaving yours.

“Yeats always knew how t’bruise a heart. Beautiful words for things that rot ye slow.” His tongue slid over his lower lip, absent, almost thoughtful.

The way he said it made your throat tighten. He stepped just a fraction closer.

“Never could tell,” he added, “if his pain came from the livin’ or the ones already dead.”

Your smile was small then, brave in the way only someone unarmed could be and you replied with a shrug.

“Bhraith mé… is cosúil le rud a léifeadh duine mar tusa faoi dhó.”

(Felt like the kind of thing someone like you might read twice.)

The grin that split his face was too wide. Lips parted, teeth sharp and stained faintly darker at the gums.

“Maybe ye just wanted me dreamin’ of ye when I read it,” that voice now a velvet purr.

He leaned back to glance down at the book again. “An’ what do I owe ye for that, then?”

His head tilted again, a predator pretending he wasn’t hunting.

You smiled. That soft, cocky thing again to tease.

He wanted to bite it off your face.

“Nothin’ yet. Read it first.” Your fingers brushed the corner of the book before you offered it to him and tilted your head. “If I guessed right, if it hits ye just the way I think it will… then maybe next time, I’ll show ye what else I’ve got a knack for choosin’.”

That did something to him.

“Oh, now that’s wicked, darlin’,” he breathed, crooked smile back and full of meaning.

He held the book lightly now to keep the smell of your hands on it.

“Careful now,” he whispered, leaning forward again just a fraction. “If ye keep guessin’ me right, I might think ye were made for me.”

His voice dipped on the last word, turning it into something worse than a promise.

The book shifted in his hands as he turned to leave. The sky beyond the windows had begun to glow faintly at the approach of dawn.

He had to leave and it killed him.

Then something dropped from between the pages and it made a small clicking sound. It bounced once against the wooden floor and rolled a bit toward your boot.

A small pin the shape of a four-leaf clover that you remembered vaguely. Probably used it as a bookmark and forgot about it entirely.

If you had been thinking then you would have definitely not have done what was about to occur.

One second you were dusting the pin in your palm, the next, stepping into his space, your hand brushed the white fabric of his shirt, fingers lifting the right suspender to adjust the strap where it lay taut across his chest.

“Here, let me…” you whispered.

Knuckles grazed the edge of his chest as you carefully attached the pin to his chest and he leaned forward slightly.

Why did it felt like he wasn’t breathing?

You could feel the stillness of his chest, the absence of rise and fall. The muscle beneath the shirt was hard and you hadn’t even meant to feel that.

He hadn’t been touched like that in decades. Not with tenderness or that unconscious affection in the curl of your fingers and the little crease between your brows as you focused on pinning the clover to the perfect place on his chest. Your knuckles brushed the skin under the edge of his collar and his throat ached — dry and tight — with the weight of restraint.

His fangs ached, pressed behind the gumline like blades, cock twitching in his trousers at the innocent intimacy of the moment.

Once you were done, you stepped back, arms crossing over your chest. “Bit o’ luck never goes amiss,” you said. Your voice was quieter now. “Not for folks like us.”

He stared at you, that strange stillness again.

“Pretty thing that is, aye… but not half as lovely as the one puttin’ it on me.” husky tone, low and soaked with smug amusement.

You snorted, too flustered to be clever and your hand lifted before your thoughts caught up and smacked his chest lightly. A friendly scold and you soon turned away before your face betrayed just how his words made you feel.

You were halfway to the counter when he called your name and it made your body stop in your track.

It hit you like a cold hand down your spine.

“Things’ll be better soon. I promise ye that.”

The door swung gently closed to alert you he was gone. A minute passed as you stared and then the cold realization began to crawl up the back of your neck.

You never told him your name.

It didn’t start all at once.

The night after he left, the rain had been tearing at the city for hours, drumming against the windows with a fury that blurred the streetlights outside.

You’d stayed later than usual and when you went to close up. The brass bell above the door gave a small jingle as you turned the lock.

That’s when you saw the mat inside the threshold had patches at the center and it was soaked at the edges, as if someone had been standing there for a long time.

And the lock was still latched.

The next night, late in the hours. You’d just finished shelving a donation box of old encyclopedias. You were getting ready to close again when the bell above the door chimed.

You turned slowly toward the front but no one was there.

Waited. Five seconds. Ten.

Then walked to the door in case this was one of the usual local teens pulling a prank.

Nothing.

You shut the door fast, locked it and backed away from it, heart now thudding.

It happened again the next night.

And the one after.

The bell would jingle once and make your nerves snap taut.

Every time you turned your back to the deeper shelves, you felt a prickling under your skin. Like the sensation of being observed like a painting hung in a mausoleum.

You kept telling yourself you were just tired from all this working too hard late at night.

Hence why you would accidentally fall asleep in the place. You’d be sitting at your desk, notes scattered, cheek pressed into your palm as the ink bled slowly across the margin of a receipt. Then you’d jolt upright when waking up.

Hand still tucked beneath your chin, elbow asleep from the pressure and the windows you had far away from you would be fogged at the outside edges.

In the center a perfectly clear circle, wiped clean like someone had been standing there watching.

Today, the street outside was empty and you didn’t mind, really. The quiet suited you. Your shift had started an hour ago, the sun now sliding low and red over the distant rooftops, shadows stretching long across the hardwood floor. The place had been entirely yours up until that moment.

The brass bell above the front door sang its usual delicate tune and then came a smooth and easy voice equipped with a deep Southern drawl.

“Well now, there he is. Thought I was gonna have t’send up a search party this time.”

You stopped mid-step on the high library ladder, one hand still gripping the spine of a dark blue collection of books.

That voice was well known and you smiled while climbing down.

“Mornin’, Mister Price,” you called as your boots hit the floor, accent thick and rolling, Irish vowels softening the name as it passed your lips. “Or I s’pose evenin’, now, with the way the light’s goin’.”

He chuckled, that warm, molasses laugh he always carried.

“Evenin’, aye,” he mimicked gently, the Irish lilt stumbling on his Mississippi tongue. “You say it sweeter, though. If I’d’a grown up with a voice like yours round, I reckon I’d be readin’ poetry to walls.”

You stepped from behind the shelf and emerged into the main aisle, brushing your hands on your trousers absently. Price stood by the doorway, hat in hand like he was afraid to bring in dust with it, his boots perfectly clean, dark hair combed back, sleeves rolled to the forearm.

“You flatter me, sir,” you said, walking toward the counter with a grin tugging at your mouth. “Now, are ye here for more actual readin’, or are we playin’ the same old game again?”

His eyes lit up at that like usual.

“I s’pose I’m here to tempt fate,” he said, slowly making his way to the front desk. “Maybe see if the fine gentleman behind the counter can suss me out this time. Think yer luck’ll hold?”

You leaned one elbow on the counter and raised a brow.

“Well now, that’d depend, wouldn’t it? I’ve been at reorganisin’ all mornin’, got a few weapons lyin’ about if ye fancy pushin’ yer luck.”

“Dangerous,” he grinned, resting one hand on the edge of the desk, thumb tapping gently against the wood. He leaned in slightly, his grin easy but sharp behind the charm.

“You ever think maybe I’m just tryin’ to impress the man behind the counter?”

You huffed a small laugh, walking to the end of the counter where another pile waited for sorting.

“Tryin’ too hard, then,” you said over your shoulder. “Impressin’ someone usually works better when you’re not collectin’ cursed documents, y’know.”

“And here I thought you’d be flattered.” He followed, hands in his pockets now, tone warm and low. “A man comin’ all this way, spendin’ his hard-earned on your favorite shelves.”

You turned slightly, giving him a glance, lips tugged into a half-smile.

“I’m flattered,” you said. “Don’t mean I’m takin’ the bait.”

He laughed again, that laugh always a little rough at the edges.

“Ye ready f’me guess?” you asked, walking back behind the counter.

He folded his arms, one brow lifted. “You don’t even know what I’m lookin’ for.”

You raised your hand, pointed a finger in mock warning.

“Ye never say what it is yer after, and still I’m meant t’divine it outta dust an’ guesswork.”

“Aye,” he said, mimicking your accent again and terribly. “That’s half the fun.”

You narrowed your eyes at him and then leaned down, rummaging under the counter until your hand closed around a title you’d pulled out earlier in preparation, just in case he came. You liked this more than you admitted.

You laid it out in front of him with a flourish, palm flat on the cover.

Witchcraft and Superstitious Record in the South, compiled by H.B. Adams.

His eyes dropped to the cover and a grin started to pull at the corner of his mouth but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Close,” he drawled, “not quite it, though.”

You blinked. “What d’ye mean?”

He chuckled, tapping the cover once with a knuckle. “I’ll give you credit, sweetheart. You always get close. But today I’m after The Cross and the Scalpel. You know it?”

Your mouth parted. “The medical missionary memoir?”

“Mmm,” he hummed, smirking. “1843, original press. Ol’ Reverend Tinsley down in Vicksburg. Talks about savin’ souls while cuttin’ tumors out of ‘em.”

Your brow furrowed and you let out a breathy little scoff. “Well Jesus, that’s unexpected.” You put your hands up in mock surrender. “Fine. I concede.”

“You always do,” he winked.

You shook your head, already stepping away from the counter. “I’ve got it. Somewhere in the theology shelf. Won’t be but a tick.”

“Take your time,” he said, voice low. “I enjoy the view.”

You didn’t look back since you were already disappearing behind the tall row of aged wood and teetering volumes, heart still amused and light. You moved quietly, hand trailing across the spines, muttering to yourself.

There were two books out of place and tutted under your breath, pulling them free and fixing the order.

You glanced up to see the sun was gone.

The window showed nothing now but darkness. You stared at it, some tight thing pressing under your ribs and just as you were about to turn, your eyes snapped to the front glass.

Two small, glowing gold points.

Set too high and unmoving to be headlights and too still to be fireflies.

They observed and you couldn’t breathe. One blink and they were gone like they were never there.

It’s not real. You’re tired. You haven’t slept well recently. You’re seeing things, that’s all it is.

“Got it,” you said aloud to no one, to break the tension choking your own throat, pulling the book from the shelf with a puff of dust, cheeks puffing and blowing it off in one breath.

Seconds later the door exploded open.

The book nearly flew from your hands when your heart punched into your throat, turning sharply at the noise, breath caught in your chest.

The door stood wide, the handle cracked and hanging loosely, the wood around it splintered like something had struck it hard.

Setting the book down carefully on the shelf, you stepped back and turned.

No Price. He was gone completely. You called softly and there were no answers.

You moved between the aisles, weaving through the stacks.

Nothing.

The shop was silent again but it didn’t felt empty.

You walked back to the counter, fingers ready to pull open the bottom drawer to maybe find something to fix the door handle, but stopped halfway there still between libraries.

There was a bright glint on the side of the counter against the warm wood that you spotted from far away.

Droplets of fresh blood exactly where Price had been leaning earlier, a small smear where his hand must have been.

Behind you, the old wood of a floorboard behind creaked.

You stepped back instinctively to turn and your back hit something solid.

A warm chest.

A sharp, broken gasp got caught halfway to a scream and you spun, staggering back two full steps.

Remmick stood there, hands raised in front of him, palms outward trying to show you he wasn’t any harm. His hair was wet, curling slightly, damp with sweat or something worse. The tank top clung to his torso, white and soaked in patches, the thin silver chain at his neck catching the dim light.

His suspenders hung loose at his hips, swaying slightly with his breath.

That emerald pin that you gave him the first night you met was now there in the same place you had placed it on his white shirt.

But that wasn’t what caught you.

It was the blood on the side of his mouth that caught your attention.

A thin trail, smeared down from the corner of his lips to his chin, half-dried and half-wet.

On his neck, faint red streaks dragged down the skin, patchy and raw.

Beneath his jaw, a streak of red dragged crooked across his neck, not deep but messy, as though he had wiped at it in a panic and only spread it further.

On the side of his nose there was a thin trail that dried there, dark against his skin, carving a path down to the corner of his mouth where it pooled faintly. A smear across his chin and a bloom of it at the base of his neck.

His thumbs were stained dark, the colour seeping under the nails. Droplets and streaks of blood clung to his tank top showing the built he had beneath it.

He looked wrecked.

You opened your mouth to speak, but he beat you to it. “Didn’t mean to scare ye,” he said softly, voice low and fragile. “I—fuck—” he looked to the side, staggered half a step, like it hurt him to stand. “Didn’t know where else to go.”

You forgot the question forming on your tongue as you stepped forward, instinct more than thought. “What happened to you?” you whispered.

“Ye said it yerself. Some folk ‘round here just don’t like us,” he said, smile faint and hurt.

You stepped closer to him until your feet closed the short distance between you before your mind could catch up with your body.

And Remmick watched it happen with something dark blooming slow behind his eyes.

The light overhead caught the thin sheen of sweat on his chest, right where the neck of his white tank dipped low over the thick muscle there. The cotton clung to him in parts, translucent at the collarbone, streaked in patches where the blood hadn’t dried yet.

His hand rose then, slow and steady and you didn’t flinch when it cupped your cheek. The faint tremor in his palm wasn’t hard to miss.

He was lost for a second as he looked at you, the flickering light catching in the amber of his eyes. His thumb ghosted just beneath your cheekbone, breath shallow and jaw tense.

“I’m leavin’ tonight. I’ve no choice.” He said suddenly, voice rough and you blinked.

“What?”

You stared at him and his gaze never left yours. “…I needed t’see ye once more ‘fore I go.”

That quiet desperation wrapped in a calm mask made your throat tighten.

“Why?”

“Because I want ye t’come with me.”

Your spine straightened in instinct, like you’d misheard him and you stepped back.

Or tried to.

His other hand moved, landing at your waist and keeping you where you were. Warm fingers spread at your side, thumb digging slightly into your hip.

“Remmick—” you whispered.

Your gaze dropped from his face, from those awful, beautiful eyes that never seemed to blink. Your heart was pounding again, harder now, stammering against your ribs like a warning.

The lack of immediate opposition, the silence and your hesitation were an answer in itself. You were thinking about it and that alone was enough for him to lean in closer.

“I’ve been down ‘round here f’ years an’ I’ve never felt anything like that night with ye.”

You were trembling now, fingers barely touching the fabric of his shirt, knuckles brushed red where your grip had tightened.

“I don’t want ye left behind in this place,” he went on. “I can’t stomach the thought of them layin’ a finger on ye. I’d never forgive myself if somethin’ happened,” he whispered.

The weight of his words cracked something in you.

You didn’t speak or pull away.

Your eyes drifted to his face, the naked want behind his eyes and the lips stained faintly with blood.

The blood on him wasn’t his.

None of it was, like he wanted ye to believe.

It soaked into the seams of his pants, still damp beneath the waistband, painting streaks down his forearms, flecked across his chest and beaded in faint rivulets across his collarbone, clung to the silver chain around his neck, and trickled from the corner of his mouth.

It all belonged to the man who played games with you about books, who smiled with all his teeth like he’d earned you just by being persistent. The one who leaned on your counter and called you sweetheart.

Remmick had watched the way your eyes crinkled when you smiled at that bastard. Heard your heartbeat shift when Price leaned too close, tasted the flicker of excitement behind your words when you caught him off guard with your guesses. You didn’t even know what you were giving away, how sweet your affection looked from the outside.

How desirable and unacceptable.

It was all it took. He waited just beyond the alley while the sun dipped and your laugh floated out behind the tall and old shelves.

In seconds, Remmick was already behind him. The man never made a sound from how fast everything happened.

His body left the earth with a choked noise and hit the brick wall at the back of the shop like a sack of meat, pinned through the chest by Remmick’s knees while his fangs sank deep inside the man’s jugular. Blood spilled fast at first, then slow until it went still.

But Remmick didn’t stop there because the rage in him bloomed and spread fast violently.

He shredded the man apart.

First the throat with his fangs. Then, the sternum, fingers splitting bone like wet bark, yanking ribs open with a shuddering crack that felt better than it should’ve. Finally, the jaw, because he’d used it to speak to you, so Remmick wanted to hear what it sounded like breaking.

He hid the rest left with his now ruined shirt soaked beyond salvation after it clung to him heavy with blood.

Peeled it off with hands shaking not from guilt, but from restraint.

He knew what he’d done and he’d do it again.

Because you were his.

Now, standing in front of you again, all trembling breath and sweet voice, he wore the aftermath like bait.

Letting you believe it was him who had been hunted. That the blood was his and not of the man whose neck he’d crushed for smiling at you too long.

You stood there, too close to him, heart pounding like a war drum behind your ribs, your body wound tight in the space between fear and want. He’d backed you into this moment with words spun like scripture, palms warm at your waist, voice like honey over poison. Still, despite every signal in your bones telling you something was wrong, your mouth parted and the question fell out anyway, soft, trembling and stripped down to your most vulnerable self.

“How’m I meant t’trust ye?” It lingered there, heavy, hanging in the warm air of the bookshop. You kept your eyes low but because looking him full in the face might have broken the fragile hold you had on your own will.

Remmick smiled. Not that wolfish grin you’d seen before, this smile was quiet and softer.

“Ah, darlin’,” he whispered, brushing his thumb gently against your cheek. “Trust ain’t about bein’ safe. It’s about choosin’ the one who’d burn the world down just t’keep ye from breakin’. That’s me, mo ghrá.”

He said the word like it was sacred.

“I won’t ask ye to give it to me all at once. Not now. But think about what it’d be like. You and me. Nothin’ holdin’ us back. Nothin’ in our way. No one shovin’ us to the side of the street like we’re rot in their gutters.”

You swallowed, throat tight. He leaned down more, lips ghosting inches from yours, forehead resting against your own.

“Ye’ve a heart far too big for a place this mean, darlin’. They’ll tear it to bits if ye stay an’ I swear t’ye, I’ll rip every last one o’ them apart ‘fore I let ‘em touch it.”

Your breath hitched, lashes fluttering and a knot formed inside your throat.

“Come with me an’ I’ll build us a place with these two hands an’ not a soul breathin’’ll lay a finger on it.”

His thumb traced the corner of your mouth, painting the skin beneath his thumb with rusty red.

He was glowing with sweat, with blood you had no clue wasn’t his own, curls still damp and clinging to his forehead and despite the fear and wrongness that crept along your spine, you wanted him.

‘My mouth is wet with your name and the night knows not which lips have spoken it.’ he murmured, voice low and lush as the words pierced you like a blade slipped beneath the ribs.

It came from the book you gave him that night. You’d read it more than once and marked that line. The one you never admitted made you ache with a kind of hunger that books never truly quenched.

“I’d set the world alight for ye, just say the word, darlin’. I’m yers.”

Your lips crashed into his in surrender, desperately grabbing the back of his neck, fingers curling into damp curls, tasting copper on his mouth and not caring. He groaned low, almost inhuman and crushed you to him, hands sliding down to your waist, locking there.

Your body arched into his, chest to chest, the heat of his skin bleeding through the tank, the blood smearing between you unnoticed. His grip was hard and possessive, lips parting to catch and devour yours in a fierce kiss.

His mouth tasted of iron, clung beneath the sweetness of him, rich and heady, laced into the heat of his tongue as it slid across your lower lip and deeper into your mouth.

Your back struck the tall bookshelf behind you with a low thud. The thick, stained wood shuddered behind you from the impact, but you barely noticed.

He hovered over your fame and leaned to deepen the kiss.

Hot, wet and endless as his tongue slid against yours, tasting you like a man denied water for days. You gasped into him and he swallowed it, the sound lost in the slick slide of your tongues moving against each other.

The shelf behind you creaked.

A futile warning that got ignored as he kept pressing.

His body pinned yours to it now, the muscles of his chest flexing as the fingers on the side of your face tightened enough to tilt your head and drink deeper from your lips.

Books began to topple, thumping to the floor as you kept engaging in the kiss.

A deep and guttural groan rolled from the pit of his chest and bled out between your bodies, humming against your sternum, a pulse of something primal and possessive that shook you to your core. His lips parted wider against your own.

Teeth a bit too sharp pressed just barely into your bottom lip and before you could flinch, before your mind could name what was happening, they pierced.

A sting sharp and precise that caused the warmth of your blood to flood out between you.

The second he tasted it, he pushed harder into you, breath shaking with lips now slick with your blood now and his tongue lapped eagerly at the wound, dragging over it to gather every drop with slow, greedy strokes. The hand on your cheek slid around to the back of your neck, gripping the nape like a claim as he pressed his body.

The shelf cracked and you barely registered it because his mouth was everywhere, tongue teasing, lips tugging, kiss growing more desperate and wild as if your blood had unlocked something he’d kept chained until now.

With a crash, the shelf behind you fell.

You yelped, but the sound was swallowed by his mouth and books tumbling around, the shelf falling like a toppled cross and he came with it, on top of you, his weight pressing you down, solid and unrelenting as your body landed on the wooden bookshelf now on the floor.

The impact was only a fraction of what it could have been because his arm moved fast, catching your neck and cradling your head, absorbing the worst of it so your skull barely felt the impact with the wood.

All you did feel was the full weight of him, thighs tight around yours, chest heaving above you and the tank top sticking to his skin, damp with droplets and small streaks of blood and sweat. His silver chain dangled above your neck as he kissed you again, still hungry and lost in it, moaning quietly into your mouth as the rest of the shop seemed to collapse around you.

You heard the domino crash of other shelves falling in succession, toppling one after the other. Books spilling everywhere and pages getting torn.

The heat of him rolled off in waves now that he was completely above you, a heavy press of sweat-slick muscle and breath that never seemed to draw deep, only expelled in low, guttural sounds that ground out through clenched teeth.

His groan dragged long and wet against your open mouth, broken in the middle by a grunt. He tongued at the corner of your lip again, sucked it into his mouth.

“Christ almighty,” he muttered between kisses, tongue slipping over your teeth as his hand on your waist clamped tighter, hard enough to bruise, likely already painting your skin in hand-shaped marks you’d find later, hot and purple.

The wood beneath you groaned as you further sunk in it. Your fingers curled harder into his hair, tugging his curls tight against your fist and he gasped against your mouth with a hiccuped, “Nnnhh—fuuuuck—” as your other hand slid up the breadth of his shoulder, feeling the hard bunch of muscle under soaked cotton and sweat.

His breath was all teeth now, panting through his nose when his lips weren’t devouring yours, huffing and snarling into the kiss.

His hand drifted down, large palm spreading flat against your lower back before he started to haul you up off from the bookshelf, one thick arm behind your spine pulling you into the crook of his body. The other hand braced behind you against the nearest shelf fir support and, the second he did, the wood cracked under the force.

The shelf let out a long groan before snapping, a surprised moan muffled against his open mouth as you felt the jolt of weight shift behind you, more books cascading to the floor in a torn flurry.

His groan was frustration made flesh, low and vibrating. “Shite—” yours instead, when it followed, was a breathless chuckle.

“Ye’re—hahh—makin’ a fuckin’ mess of the place, Rem,” you murmured, your breath ragged against his mouth, lips raw from the friction, “An’ here I thought you were leavin’ tonight—”

He didn’t smile or laugh. His eyes were locked to your mouth, amber-red in the way of dying coals in a fireplace, pulsing faint, like heat building behind the surface.

“We’re leavin’. You an’ me. Ye said yes.” He rasped, voice hoarse, voice not right, like something was fraying at the edge of it. His head lowered toward your neck, breath hot and mouth dragging open kisses across your collarbone.

His lips found a smear of blood on your jaw coming from your bleeding lip and he licked it up slow, wet and audible, his tongue dragging back to your mouth as he went.

“Ye’ve no idea the things I’ll do t’thank ye proper, darlin’.” He breathed, his voice low and ragged, broken in places like an old pipe giving way.

Another kiss, this one deeper. You moaned into it, his tongue sliding wetly against yours, his grunt when your tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth was loud, a desperate growl that ended in a breathless, “Nnnhhhhmm—fuck, yer killin’ me—”

His hand released your waist only to drop lower, palm sliding over the curve of your arse as he hoisted you up from the wrecked shelf.

When he broke from the kiss, he hovered close, breath hot, lips smeared in blood and spit brushed your throat, pressed wetly there, then dragged lower, followed by his tongue dragging along your pulse, thick and slow.

His palm wrapped around your upper arm tightly, fingers pressing too deep as he began to guide you back toward the counter.

Thick and glutinous drool gathered at the corner of his chin as he tugged you rapidly through the narrow aisle.

God, something in you whispered to run because men didn’t act like this, nor would they ever get so hungry and turned on by the taste of blood.

But your fucking soft, yearning heart didn’t listen.

The way he looked at you and how he held you was everything you’d ever imagined but never found. Only read in books. Longed and cried for behind the shop curtain when the days were long and cold and lonely.

The counter met your back with a bang, everything on top of it rattling violently as he was over you again, lips dragging your mouth open once more with his own.

“Mmmfff—” you gasped into him as his tongue sought yours again, shameless, open-mouthed, desperate. He licked up the side of your lips, tasting sweat and blood, the low groan in his chest vibrating through your whole skull.

The drool against your skin smearing from his jaw landing just under your cheekbone.

Both of his hands had disappeared beneath your shirt, the callouses on his fingertips scraping up your ribs, the pads of them catching on hair and bone and muscle. He palmed your sides like he meant to memorize them, dragging his thumbs inward along your stomach, slow and greedy, until they pressed into the soft curve below your pecs.

Down their path, his fingers left smears of drying blood and the coppery scent of it, filled the small air between you.

Your own hands, trembling slightly now though not from fear, flattened against his chest. He kissed you harder before moving.

An hand of his flew to your waist and turned you, your hips slammed into the edge of the counter with a thud that knocked your breath out, head ducking forward instinctively, both hands flying to brace yourself against the surface.

His hips ground into yours from behind, his cock grinding right up along the cleft of your ass through both your clothes. You gasped, the pressure immediate and blinding.

Even through the thick fabric of his trousers, you could feel it hot and throbbing, the curve of it thick and wide. Your own hips jerked instinctively, trying to relieve the ache, grinding back into him with a muffled moan.

“Ahh—shite—Remmick—” you gasped.

He groaned into the back of your neck, both hands pressing down on your hips to still you, hips rolling once more, slow and agonizingly deliberate.

His fingers fumbled down at his waistband, rough and quick. The zipper screeched down loudly even over the thunder of your own heartbeat hammerin’ through your skull.

You scrambled for your own belt, clumsier than him by far, hands shaking as you yanked it open, button popping, trousers sagging. The whole time, his mouth never stopped, panting against your skin, speaking between kisses, low and breathless:

“Soon as I laid eyes on ye that night, standin’ there with yer cheeks flushed, little sheen o’ sweat slidin’ down yer jaw, I knew ye were the one f’me.” His voice dropped, all rumble and want.

The second your trousers were down, half-falling past your knees and felt the air hit your arse, one of his hands dropped between your thighs and wrapped tight around your cock, stroking once, firm and sure and your whole body bucked with a strangled hiss.

You pushed back into him instinctively, ass grinding against the thick line of his cock, greedy for friction, as felt it twitch.

He groaned, teeth clenched, hand sliding up from your hip and back to his mouth.

Turning your head enough to see through the haze of desire you saw the glisten of drool and blood mixed from your earlier kiss.

He scooped it with two fingers, collected it fast and shamelessly, jaw hanging open, tongue flicking against the back of his teeth as he worked his own spit between his fingers before down.

The second his cock touched your entrance slicked, thick and pulsing, your whole spine arched.

When he entered, the sound he emitted was inhuman as he sank in, inch after inch, stretching you with a brutal, steady thrust.

Stretch blinding and the only thing keeping you grounded was the iron grip of his fingers digging into your waist, anchoring you there as his cock pushed deeper until he was all the way in, shaft so thick your toes curled.

He didn’t ease into it. His hands were iron at your hips as he fucked into you with force that rattled your bones, brutal thrusts that shoved your body forward against the counter hard. The wood beneath your fingers creaked, not unlike you with a jaw clenched, breath stuttering and the edge between agony and bliss blurring until all you could do was hold on and take it.

You bit down on your bleeding lower lip, trying not to scream and stay upright.

He wasn’t helping ‘cause he wouldn’t slow down.

Every thrust was deep and ruthless and… so perfect.

Remmick groaned, lips dragging against your shirt-covered shoulder when you felt multiple sharp points there, the delicate kiss of blades beneath fabric.

He wasn’t hiding his fangs anymore, too lost in the bliss of the moment and, with a savage growl, he bit down straight through cloth, shredding the shoulder seam of your shirt with those terrible, beautiful teeth.

The second it occurred, a scream tore through your lips as pain exploded bright, the fabric of the shirt was torn away with his mouth. The wound opened beneath the bite instantly, blood welling up fast and his mouth latched over it.

He sucked in greedy, wet and loud laps, tongue lashing over the gash with shuddering sighs of pleasure that vibrated into your flesh.

You could feel the suckling drag of his mouth as he took your blood in, throat working audibly, while drinking you in mouthfuls.

All occurring as he kept fucking you harder, cock pistoned in and out of you, your arse red from the slap of his hips meeting you over and over, the squelch of friction mingling with your breathless, trembling moans.

The fingers that were wrapped around your own deck felt wrong now. Too long as they curled with unnatural precision, stroking your length in tight, perfect jerks.

He snarled around your shoulder, tongue sweeping the wound again, gathering blood in his mouth, lips smeared red.

Then that other clawed hand reached up and ripped your shirt wide on the other side, baring more of your shoulder and chest to bite down on.

Another wound bloomed, skin splitting beneath his bite with fangs buried deeper than before. A warm rush of red liquid pouring down your chest, and his mouth worked on the gash, tongue working fast to make sure nothing more would trail away, grunting as he lapped.

The more he fucked you, the more blood was pumped into your body and the more he drank and the more blood he drank, the harder he fucked you.

You felt your heart begin to race too fast, adrenaline surging to keep you you alive but your body was failing.

Legs trembling now and head swimming, mouth parting for breath that came too shallow.

And behind Remmick moaned deep into your neck now— when did he even got there in the first place?— as his fangs hovered at your jugular now, tasting with his tongue dragging over the skin there.

Desserts f’r last.

You turned your head, slow and dizzy, catching a glimpse of him at last.

His tank top, once white, was now soaked in your blood, plastered to his body. His chest was smeared with crimson, dripping in places. That bright green pin at his collar, the four-leaf clover you’d given him, was ruined, stained deep red, barely clinging.

His eyes burned.

Red irises glowing bright and wrong. His fangs, fully bared, hung from his mouth like daggers, coated in blood same as his crimson lips, stained and glistening, mouth open as he panted over your skin.

His claws at your waist dug in as he slammed forward one final time.

You screamed, body clenching tight and came hard.

Your cock erupted in his clawed grip, pleasure ripping through you as you spent your last resources of adrenaline. You collapsed forward on the counter, chest hitting wood.

Your hole clenched around him in spasms and with a feral snarl, Remmick thrust deep and came inside you. His cock pulsed hot, thick spurts filling you full, the sensation near unbearable.

His fangs sank deep into the artery inside your neck, piercing straight through flesh. The delicious blood gushed hot into his mouth as he groaned, loud and shameless while drinking.

Lips latched tight to your throat, as he felt your heartbeat stagger.

Your vision went dark at the edges, knees giving out, body slumping limp on top of the counter. Your last sight before the black took you was of that once emerald pin that had slipped from his shirt and fell onto the counter.

It clicked faintly on the blood-slick wood.

His clawed hand reached up, tilted your head and his mouth found yours.

One last, greedy, bloody kiss before everything f’ye went black.

He pulled back when your pulse faded, kissed your lips once, a gentle press, reverent.

Then tucked himself back into his ruined trousers, the blood still soaking the waistband.

He lifted and carried you like a lover.

With one claw, he reached for the pin, looked at it for a moment before attaching it to your chest.

Red on red.

A gift returned.

You had that thing for so long, few to non bad things happened. When you handed it to him to wish all the best, it became ironically inverted.

Your luck ran out the second you said the first words to him, a spell you didn’t know you casted, dooming yourself right from the start.

That pin, now soaked in your blood, placed by his claws directly over your heart like a wedding ring.

The first thing anyone might recognize when they’ll see you again, eyes golden, lips red, glued to Remmick’s side for eternity.

He bent down to kiss your cheek.

Whispered, voice horse and hungry. “Got lucky, didn’t I?”

Before vanishing with you into the dark.

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lefteagleblizzard · 3 days ago

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Jack O'Connell laughing & smiling

#he’s so adorable #jack o'connell #remmick #sinners movie #jack o’connell x male reader #jack o’connell x reader #remmick x reader #sinners x male reader #remmick sinners #sinners 2025 #i love this man too much

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lefteagleblizzard · 4 days ago

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Hi I know you have a lot on your plate, but I can’t WAIT FOR some more Mike x male reader, I LOVE THAT SERIES, but for now I’ll keep rereading the series until a new part comes out. THANK YOU for make such a masterpiece of fanfic about Mike x male!❤️❤️

Thank youuuu <3 I’m really grateful for your words man. I can’t really guarantee right now a new part since I have my interests somewhere else at the moment but you will definitely have something the day the new movie comes out. I’ll go see the movie myself and I’ll definitely write something for him again <3

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lefteagleblizzard · 5 days ago

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Hii I was the one who suggested the Irish male reader with Remmick. :)

I was thinking something with smut and angst in it,maybe reader has a job in a bar or some public place and yearns for a better life because he's mistreated and remmick shows up at night and they get to know eachother and are able to connect over their heritage.They passionately do the zaza and eventually remmick turns them or something so reader can leave his job?

I kind of imagined reader as someone who can't hide his accent cause I know damn well I can't lol.

I think your remmick fics are really good btw!!

Ahh thank you for your words and for reaching out! Would you be cool if I maybe took it in a slightly darker direction? still smutty and emotional, just with a lil vampire obsession flavor on top, totally fine if not! <3

#remmick x reader #remmick sinners #remmick x you #remmick x male reader #remmick #x male reader #male reader #x bottom male reader #bottom male reader #jack o’connell x male reader #jack o’connell x reader #jack o'connell #sinners movie #sinners 2025 #sinners x reader

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lefteagleblizzard · 5 days ago

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hello so i just finished the new remmick fic and i just wanna say im so glad you exist you make me so happy by feeding my hyperfixation thank you so much for your incredible work you’re amazing

Nah thank YOU for being so kind <3. Wishing you all the best

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lefteagleblizzard · 5 days ago

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Hii, i hope you’re having a good day if you’re even awake lol. I really like your fics and was wondering if you could do a fic with Remmick and a reader with an eating disorder. Sorry if im asking for too much or if you’re not comfortable with it. I’m also using a translator so i apologize if i’m not being clear. If you’re open to doing it, don’t rush it, take your time<3

Hi! I totally appreciate you sending the request, but that’s a topic I’m not super comfortable writing about, bit too close to home for me, hope that’s okay! sending you lots of love

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lefteagleblizzard · 6 days ago

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OMG A NEW REMMICK FIC POSTED?! EVERYONE SHUT UP WHILE I READ IT! ANYBODY TALKS AND THEY’RE GETTING SHOT!!!!

LMAOOO Don’t know if I should feel honored or concerned

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lefteagleblizzard · 7 days ago

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𝔅𝔩𝔢𝔢𝔡 𝔟𝔢𝔰𝔦𝔡𝔢 𝔪𝔢 Remmick x male reader

Summary: While the last survivors inside cling to their flicker of hope, you wait outside with Remmick and the freshly turned horde, hungry for the moment to strike. Before the slaughter, he dedicated to you something that makes your dead heart stutter with devotion and your body shatter beneath him in blood-soaked bliss.

Tags: set during the main events of the film. Established relationship. Two villains in love. Irish dances. Vampire x vampire. Possessive Remmick. Hive control. Mind control. Corruption. Monster fucking. Blood drinking. Blood kink. Blood play. Rough sex. Dominant Remmick. Submissive male reader. Blowjobs. Anal sex. Overstimulation. Vampire stamina.

ℳ𝒶𝓈𝓉ℯ𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

Words count: 6000

The last warm bodies left were left inside. The windows of the place were boarded from the inside, light barely leaking out in slivers like pale veins, revealing twitching shadows within.

Standing outside that damn place, blood was dry and cracked across your chin and lips. You’d wiped at it with the sleeve of your already ruined shirt, a futile gesture. All it did was smear it, dark streaks across the fabric, mixing with the flecks of grime from the earlier slaughter.

A grim sigh passed your lips, low and sharp while remaining on the dry patch of ground, knees drawn up, arms slung loose to either side. From here, you had a perfect view of the juke joint and the flicker of movement behind its windows. A wind whispered through the trees, carrying with it the copper stink of blood and sweat.

He came back, horde close behind him, some still wore tattered pieces of what they’d died in, others had already shed their humanity like old skin. Their eyes glowed, glassy and wet, teeth too big for their mouths.

Stark and Mary pressed together, lovingly. All over each other, always, even in death.

Remmick walked straight to you and sat too close, pressed tight, thigh brushing against yours. You didn’t flinch, never did. You’d been his too long for that. A strong and firm arm, calloused fingers digging in just a little too tight, wrapped around your waist, yanking you flush to his side.

His head dipped immediately to the crook of your neck, making you feel him breathe in deep, purring against your skin.

The dried blood on his face smeared against you, fangs nudging your pulse point, sharp and casual while pulling you tighter.

Impatience radiated from his body. The signs were so subtle, but you’d learned them across a century. The slight twitch in the thumb that circled your side, how his nose flared and that low hum rumbling in his chest like a growl.

Your left hand came up without thought, cradling his cheek and smearing it in blood, thumb brushing just under his eye. He made a low noise coming from his chest and muffled by your neck.

His fangs dragged across your skin before he bit. The pain came sharp and just as fast it was chased immediately by the warmth of blood escaping and his tongue catching it, licking and sucking, followed by a long, lazy lap when it tried to drip.

“Hnghh—Rem…Remmick,” you hissed, words breaking as your head tilted automatically, baring more of your throat.

You tried to speak through it, but his mouth was moving now, down to the edge of your collar, nosing at it like a beast who’d found his favorite chew toy, teeth sinking through the fabric, into the meat of your shoulder.

“Ahh—f…fuck—” Your spine curved, a strangled moan escaping.

He didn’t let go, even as your hands scrabbled at his shirt and forced your voice through the haze.

“They got…nnhh—they got nothin’ in there,” you managed, voice rasping, hips shifting in time with him, drawn by the rhythm of his feed. “They’re gonna rot in that place with no food or water. They’ll lose their fuckin’ minds.”

His tongue traced the tear in your shirt, then your skin, each lick wet and deliberate that earned him another soft gasp.

“They’re weak,” you growled through your teeth, tilting your head to whisper closer to his ear. “They got days. We got eternity. They’re just meat in there. Let ’em rot in their own fear. We ain’t gotta do nothin’. Just wai—”

A bite into your collarbone, sharper and claiming.

“We got eternity,” a couple voices came behind you from the horde of freshly turned vampires, repeating like a hive. The words didn’t come in unison, more staggered.

You hadn’t even meant to do that, it still slipped sometimes when your tone hit right or the hunger pushed too far.

Only time would help you learn it completely, or maybe support from your demonic companion at your side might’ve helped too, if he’d ever let you finish a question.

But every time you tried to ask how you could do it better, he’d grin, lean in, whisper something filthy in that thick accent of his and suddenly you’d feel that heat press into your skull. Within seconds you’d be bent under the weight of him, the control bleeding from his voice and lessons always ended with hours of him inside you, mouth on your throat, whispering how good you followed or how well you obeyed while making you feel what you couldn’t yet command.

The moment broke like skin under teeth when he pulled back and began to kiss, fast and hungry, along your neck, jaw and cheek.

Quick pecks warm and wet, each one smearing more of your blood across his lips and back onto your face.

Your lips found each other, mouths bloodied and open. You bit down into the kiss and he bit back, both of you growling into each other. Your tongues tangled, slick and impatient, his fangs raking the roof of your mouth and your own cutting his lower lip. The copper tang filled your senses as he moaned into your mouth, a guttural and possessive sound. Blood dribbled from the corners of your mouths, mixing with saliva in sticky trails.

Remmick groaned, chest rumbling against yours low and pleased, letting you dominate the kiss for half a second before he took it back, sucking your bottom lip between his teeth until the skin broke, then licking the wound with long, slow strokes of his tongue.

Your fangs clicked hard against his each time a kiss turned more to teeth than lips. You could feel the small cuts inside your mouth healing just as fast as they were opened.

A noise began around you, a humming barely audible for your ears from the ones who still circled like wolves denied the feast.

Then a couple of them began clapping in synchrony, a broken banjo string was plucked and the tempo began to build.

A voice began to hum loud, then another took a higher harmony and the shape of the tune took form.

Guttural, driven by need, but coordinated, the melody bent, broken by laughter and madness.

He was still devouring you while, all around, the music built.

Your hips rocked once into his instinctively, your bloodied mouths barely pulling apart for a moment, strands of red and spit still connecting your lips as your eyes flicked toward the sound.

He was doing it, you were sure of it deep in your bones.

Your mouth hung open, the blood cooling in streaks over your cheek and throat. “Wh-what’re you doing?” you asked, voice raspy and hoarse, spit and blood glistening on your mouth and dripping down your chin with wide and feral eyes drunk in adoration and awe.

He grinned back at ye, long and perfect fangs stained dark red, wet still with your blood. His lips too red now, eyes glowing gold and narrowed with pleasure, pupils slanted with the thrill of the feed.

His jaw flexed, tongue peeking out to taste what little blood still clung to the edge of his mouth as he rose and stared ahead at the juke joint.

The song behind you swelled with the whole crowd that began playing and laughing through the melody.

It started with his low hum, vibrating from somewhere deeper than his throat.

Remmick’s boots scuffed once through the loam.

Then again.

The third was heel-first into the ground.

“The ground was cold, me limbs were numb, the light had just begun.”

Air got caught in your throat—not for breath, you hadn’t needed it since the nineteenth century—from recognition. The line sliced down your spine and back up your jaw, because even before the second verse began, you knew.

“Ye stood there quiet, didn’t run, just watched what I’d become”

His voice was rich, dragging each vowel through his fangs like it was a sweet, hard candy he didn’t want to finish too quickly.

He took a step low to the ground, bent in the knees, his spine fluid. The dirt rose with each strike of his boots, each click and hop snapping through the rhythm like a sermon slamming against the bones of the earth. A triplet-heavy pace slammed into the space between each syllable of his song.

“With one-two-three, ye let me in and never asked me name—”

His foot flicked forward in a blur of motion, heel snapping into a precise sideways scuff across the dust, then planted heel–toe–heel, twist, pivot, hop.

“Whack-fol-lol, I’ve kept that look an’ never been the same.”

He spun once, heel of his boots digging deep into the earth and then he turned to you.

That smile of his was feral and violent, blood dripped from his chin, thick and fresh, trailing down the hollow of his throat. Eyes burning gold, a wild glow, curls stuck wetly to his forehead, smeared with droplets of blood.

He extended a hand, fingers long and streaked with dried blood under the nails, reached toward you with reverence and claim.

You placed your hand in his and he pulled. There was no resistance from your body or struggle from his strength. Your chests collided, the wet stick of blood and sweat grinding together like glue. His arm was immediately back around your waist, the other free hand tightening around yours like you were the only thing he’d been holding onto for the last hundred years.

The melody around you two surged in a racing, fiddle-lashed rhythm that stormed ahead of sanity.

The vampires around you spun, hopped and clicked heels into rhythm, flailing with eerie grace while echoing in perfect jagged cadence together.

“Whack-fol-lol, I’ve kept that look an’ never been the same—!”

You stared at Remmick and he looked only at you, hand tightening around yours as he leaned close again, lips grazing the shell of your ear.

The blood-drunk music didn’t stop, if anything, it surged and climbed like something alive. Their still slick hands came together in pounding claps. The swarm formed around you and Remmick, tightening into a large ring of bodies swaying and leaping like puppets pulled by the same invisible thread.

Remmick’s hand gripped yours and with a sudden twist of his wrist, he spun you out and in again. The world blurred for half a second and when it stopped, you were chest to chest. His hand came to rest on your back, just above your hip, warm from stolen life and trembling with restraint.

You locked eyes with his glowing ones, wicked with lust and blooming hunger.

Step-step-turn, pivot. His legs shifted before yours could think. He led and your body followed instinctively, like the thousands of times you had done this dance. Not always like this, though, but in hidden places after quiet kills.

Remmick stepped forward with that heel–toe–hop, boot scraping a click from the stone underfoot and your body followed him perfectly, mirrored but loose, entranced. Your weight shifted with his, limbs falling into that ancient cadence with obedience and memories of his to guide you.

“Ye bared yer throat without a flinch, stood firm and didn’t flee—!”

You spun again, under his outstretched arm, half-circle, palm grazing his ribs as you pivoted. The world spun, the moonlight exposing the blood still clinging to your lips as you fell back into him, chest pressed against the slope of his throat. His palm came to rest tight on your waist, fingers splayed, pinky curling in like he was reminding who you belonged to.

His breath poured hot against your neck, ragged now, the way it always got when he was overwhelmed. You stepped again, side, tap, heel, leaning into each other.

“An’ I knew then I’d rather burn than let ye walk from me.”

His lips brushed your ear, the vibrations of his humming rattled down your neck, into your jaw and through your collarbone, teeth grazing your throat again.

He dipped you quick and gracefully, but then pulled you up with such force you gasped, chest slammed against his again as your head lolled back.

“With one-two-three, I bit too deep, an’ licked till ye near swayed—”

He bit your shoulder to bloom hot blood down your shirt collar, his tongue caught every drop before it could fall.

The horde circled tighter now. Every single voice in the crowd joined his last lines as they shouted and completed what Remmick couldn’t say.

“Whack-fol-lol, I’ll break the world, if ever ye betray!”

His voice turned to a growl when those last words were said, the edge of a promise and a threat rolled together in a snarl.

The circle of monsters swayed and spun, clapping in unison, echoing in fractured cadence those last lines.

The beat never faltered like the music around, his hips rocked into yours with every downbeat. Heel, toe, toe—heel, toe, toe.

“I kissed yer lips, I tore yer skin, I held ye while ye died.”

A growl of breath that followed, a rumble in the back of his throat like he could still taste your final mortal breath in his mouth.

His hand slid behind your waist again, gripping tighter just as his mouth found your jaw, lips pressing there with shaky, almost desperate devotion.

“An’ still I kissed ye long enough to pull ye t’my side.”

He sang into your neck before he bit down.

Your mouth parted in a hiss so sharp it might as well have been a cry, though no pain followed it, only ecstasy. The beat cracked open with the skin of your throat and his fangs slid in. The blood welled hot and thick and his groan was immediate.

Your feet moved on instinct, slower but still following something intimate, hips grinding faintly with his as the blood fed him. His tongue lapped over the wound, drawing every drop while the music surged from voices tangled together

You gasped against his neck, voice gone ragged, hands clawing at the back of his shirt as he lifted his head again, lips smeared with your blood and eyes glazed with hunger, high on the taste of you, on the feel of your weight against him.

The horde did what he couldn’t do now, fangs clashing as he licked again up your neck.

“With one-two-three, ye begged for breath an’ gave it all to me—“

“Whack-fol-lol ye’re mine in pain and mine ye’ll always be!”

Those crimson lips of his enveloped yours in a brutal kiss, tongues clashing and blood-slick, hands gripping your back. You didn’t care that his fangs scraped yours, cutting the insides of both your mouths, the pain fed you.

The horde screamed the chorus now, chanting words in repeat over and over while some vampires slammed the side of their head against another’s neck, teeth digging deep and the moan that came was not of pain.

The pulse of the music turned carnal as Remmick’s grip tightened, hand sliding down your spine as he guided you. Three tight revolutions, bodies flush and hips swaying against one another like they’d forgotten how to move apart.

He leaned in then, his lips so close they nearly brushed yours.

“I’d guard ye from the hunter’s stake, from sunlight an’ fire—”

His voice curled low and that’s when you moved, tilting in subtly, slipping through the circle of his arms until your breath ghosted over the side of his throat, just under his jaw, where the skin was still damp and pink and warm from the earlier feast.

A shudder, almost imperceptible, passed through him the second your lips brushed over that spot, the way he’d always melt in this type of intimacy when your fangs came anywhere near his throat.

“—I’d tear their—hhhhnngh—ah—!”

Slow, precise and mean your own fangs payed the favor back and sank in, his whole body convulsed.

A thunderous grunt forced through gritted fangs and a throat that couldn’t decide whether it wanted to groan or growl. The lyric crumbled as his voice cracked with ecstasy.

His hand slammed to your waist to keep you close in the crook of his neck, the other tangled into your shirt, claws curling in the fabric scratching the skin beneath. His body buckled forward, rocking against you with a lurch as the sensation tore through him.

The rich and ancient blood was hot in your mouth and his hand spasmed once on your back as your tongue lapped against the punctures and then you pulled back, fangs dragging.

Red eyes now staring at your gold ones. Feral and burning, irises like raw flesh, veins flickering around the edge as he stared. Hands rising to your face like a man unsure whether to cradle it or crush it. Palms to your jaw, knuckles bent slightly, thumbs brushing your cheekbones.

He didn’t look away from you, didn’t even blink as he kept you locked to his chest.

The horde did what he ordered them to do, their mouths moved like they’d been carved to do it, voices rising in unison, unnerving in their unity.

“I’d tear their hearts, curse all their names, and leave their kin afraid—”

“With one-two-three, I’d watch ‘em burn…”

You tilted your chin up instinctively, and he bit again, a graze across your jaw that made your knees buckle.

“…and bless each mark I made…”

He groaned, the sound muffled against your skin.

“Whack-fol-lol! I’d murder saints but not protect ye from me…”

A pause from all of them. His lips brushed your temple, then your cheekbone, then just under your eye, barely touching and your whole body arched toward his.

“…mo ghrá.”

My love.

Mumbled with a voice soaked in venom and adoration, a monster who would never allow a god to take you and never promise you safety from himself.

Remmick pressed you tighter, fingers spreading possessively, the other crept up, nails grazing your nape under your hairline.

He rocked you gently, forward and back, the two of you pivoting together like vines twisted too long to separate, steps lazy and slow now, consumed from need.

“One-two-three! Yer mine, ye see!”

He snarled it joyfully, guttural and delighted seconds before his mouth crashed into yours.

Teeth clicked, fangs dragged and blood smearing instantly, impossible to know where the taste of one ended and the other began. It flooded your tongue the second his lips met yours, hot, copper and so sweet.

Your tongues tangled together, slid and twisted with hunger, followed by fangs that scraped him.

He growled, echoing through your jaw when his fangs caught the edge of your own and drove down.

A long strand of spit and blood hung between your lips as he pulled back. He didn’t wipe it.

“One-two-three! Eternally!”

The horde shouted around you, echoing it much louder every time, their chant filled the air.

Then Remmick lifted you. Both his hands gripped your hips and you left the earth like a weightless offering. He held you just inches up, arms flexing and steady, mouth still open and panting.

Your blood painted his chin.

“One-two-three!” The horde crooned again, voice slick with laughter, “Me blood, me prey!”

“Whack-fol-lol, I’ll kiss yer throat an’ bite ’til love turns red an’ frays!”

Every lips surrounding you screamed in jagged unison and, for one heartbeat, the world narrowed to nothing but his hot breath against your throat, the slap of blood dripping off his split lip and smearing your chin as he smiled.

Wide enough to show every fang in his mouth, gleaming and smeared with you.

A single drop of blood rolled down your chin, hovered at the edge and his thumb rose, wiped it gently and then he sucked it clean from the pad of his thumb, red pupils locked on yours the whole time.

The other free hand gripped your hip tighter, dragged you against him, up and forward until you felt his cock, heavy and hard, pressing into your hip through his trousers, the shape of it impossible to ignore.

His hips rolled a little to make your breath catch and your thighs twitch. He hummed against your neck now, lips dragging along your artery, fangs barely touching skin as he whispered into your blood.

“…mine.”

A soft press of heat and promise to your collarbone, where his earlier bite still pulsed faintly.

While still holding your waist to keep you pressed against his sturdy and blood slick build, he turned and looked up at the black sky.

He looked hopeful, a boyish glint in his eyes in hope of soon seeing his kin.

“See what the rest of ‘em do, won’tcha?! If they’re fightin’, let ‘em. I ain’t in the mood—”

He paused, his hand dipped lower, enough to pull a shiver from you.

He grinned at you sideways, wicked and full of promise.

“…want to spend some quality time with me darlin’ here.”

The vampires snarl, moan, hiss with frustration, but obey.

He was already walking away, dragging you with him.

One foot forward, heel–toe–toe, shoulder angled with a predator’s grace, spine loose and coiled, a slow hop as he pivoted.

Your fingers slid into his, slick still with blood and the moment they locked he spun you under his arm. He was laughing, a low, rumbling chuckle bubbling from his throat and spilling from his fanged smile.

Heel–toe–hop. Pivot. Hop-click-sliding your way far from everyone and everything else.

You followed so close your bodies barely separate, knees brushing, hips kissing together. He dipped you low, enough that your chest pressed to his, fangs flashing as you grinned up at him. Then he jerked you forward into a bounding step-turn, his arm wrapped tightly around your back, and your momentum crashed you against his chest with force.

His mouth found your neck again like he couldn’t bear one more beat without your taste in his throat. His lips pressed to the old wound, tongue darting out in rapid, needy flicks between gasps. Your head dropped back to give him more access.

He pushed you, one final half-twirl of your joined hands brought you both down and landed on his back with a thud muffled by moss and you landed on him.

You lean down while straddling him, breath shallow, feverish, letting your ass grind deliberately over the thick, clothed bulge beneath him. The movement earns you a guttural groan from deep in Remmick’s chest.

Your lips part in a breathless laugh, giddy and intoxicated by the way his hips jerk upward involuntarily, unable to stop himself. You lean down further, chest brushing his while you smear open-mouthed kisses and sharp bites across his neck and shoulder. The fabric of his shirt clings damp to his skin, soaked through with blood, some yours, some his, some shared.

Remmick moans, voice half-lost in a laugh as he bites into your jaw with a sound more like a growl, one hand gripping your ass, the other spreading wide over your lower back to grind you down harder against him.

His movements are sloppy and urgent as your fangs drag along the edge of his throat, smearing blood across your lips. His skin tastes like old iron, you don’t need air, but your breaths come shallow anyway, ragged with anticipation, each inhale thick with the scent of copper and lust.

You barely notice the whisper of his voice in your skull until you obey before realizing it.

With trembling fingers and clumsy movements, you reach down, heart slamming against ribs as your hands paw at his belt, dragging the buckle loose with a frustrated noise between your teeth. He watches you, his red eyes locked onto every desperate motion like a predator who already knows how the hunt ends.

His voice pulses behind your eyes, like every syllable strokes a nerve that blooms with heat.

You manage the fastenings with frantic fingers, pushing open the stiff fabric and when you finally drag his cock free, you hear him hiss through his fangs, eyes fluttering closed for half a heartbeat before snapping back open. His cock is thick and flushed, slick already, the head swollen dark and leaking.

“Look at ye starvin’ f’it,” he mutters, voice breaking in half between a laugh and a grunt, hands sliding into your hair, tugging to make your scalp sting. He grins wide and you see his fangs glint, stained red. “Show me how good ye obey.”

Sliding down between his legs, mouth watering at the smell of him, you lower your face to the crease of his thigh, mouth opening wide to bite into the soft flesh just beside the root of his cock and you sink in, tongue lapping the blood as it wells.

He growls, hips jerking again as your mouth lingers, tongue rolling over the bite, lips sucking around the wound like you’re trying to drink him dry, his cock twitches with every flick of your tongue.

You trail kisses along his inner thigh, mouth smeared with blood and spit, teeth grazing the sensitive skin until he twitches again, moaning low.

Then you turn your mouth toward his cock and slide your tongue up from the base to the tip, slow and deliberate over the flushed head.

Lips stretching wide as you take him, swallowing inch by inch, throat relaxing as he sinks deeper and he grits out a curse through clenched teeth, fingers tightening in your hair.

Your jaw aches already, but you don’t stop, tongue working him with practiced ease, curling under the shaft, lapping at the slit just like how you knew he enjoyed it.

Bobbing your head in rhythm, slick sounds echoing between your lips and his skin while he thrusts into your mouth, shallow but insistent.

His hand wraps around the back of your skull, palm hot and wide as they push you deeper and faster. Your throat spasms once, then you force it to relax to take him deeper, drool spilling from your lips to coat his shaft, eyes glazed and wet as you lock them onto his.

Glowing eyes half-lidded, mouth slack with pleasure, head tilted back against the mossy earth and fangs in full views from your point of view. He groaned with every drag of your mouth down his cock.

You moan around his cock, long and muffled, vibrating through his shaft and he jerks hard, hissing through his teeth.

“Ye love this—ahhh! Fuckin’ mouth, ‘s like a fuckin’ velvet trap,” he gasps, hips stuttering. “Every fuckin’ time—can’t get enough of yeh.”

Your mouth works him harder now, sucking him deep, tongue flattening beneath the shaft, dragging upward in hard, wet licks before plunging back down again.

You pull back slightly, lips still wrapped around the head, tongue teasing the underside as he pants. Then you dive back down, taking him in messier and hungrier.

The muscles of his thighs tense under your hands and you feel his muscles trembling, as you obediently take him harder and faster.

His hips thrust once, twice, buried deep, and his cock pulses hot against your tongue as his cum floods your throat. You swallow every drop, greedy and desperate, milking him with your mouth until he twitches with overstimulation.

You barely had a second to lick the last drop off your lips before Remmick shifted, grunting low as he pushed himself upright, his thighs spreading wide in the dirt.

Then his eyes found you still on your knees hovering over, mouth glistening and face smeared with his cum and blood, yours and his tangled in drying streaks across your lips and chin.

“Me sweet lad, c’mere,” he growled, thick brogue curling around the command.

There was no hesitation as you climbed onto his lap, knees settling on either side of his hips, thighs already trembling from how hard he’d made you work your throat, your body swaying just slightly, drawn forward into him like gravity had rewritten itself to center on his heat.

His cock, still hard and slick with the remnants of your mouth, pressed up under the curve of your clothed ass. The friction as you sank down into his lap made both of you hiss in tandem.

“Fuck—” a groaned passed through your lips while rocking once to feel it again, that ridge of heat and hardness grinding up into you through the layer of cloth. His hands caught your hips instantly, palms wide and rough, dragging you flush to him and grinding you down harder.

You braced yourself with your hands on his shoulders, fingers digging into muscle, the bulk of him under your touch still quivering with aftershock and hunger. Then you tilted your mouth to his, your lips parting, catching him in a kiss. You tasted iron and salt, his tongue met yours with a violent rhythm, dragging the blood from your teeth into his mouth.

His hands slipped under your shirt, curling around your waist, dragging you impossibly close until your back arched like a drawn bow. Your cock throbbed untouched, grinding against his abdomen through the soaked barrier of your pants and every thrust of your hips against his made both of you gasp against each other’s mouths.

“Yer so good like this,” he hissed between kisses, voice broken, breath hot against your cheek. “So fuckin’ pretty all drippin’ blood, gimme that mouth again—”

You moaned into his lips, catching his lower one between your teeth, biting until it split again and then sucking the blood straight from it.

He snarled, hips jerking upward under you, then he leaned in, breath ragged and lips moving against your skin in wet, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw and cheek, biting the corner of your mouth, trailing down to your throat.

His breath is shaky, his voice fraying between each mouthful of you. “Don’t know why any fucker’d refuse this,” he pants, dragging his lips across your jaw, to your neck, nipping, licking. “They can’t even dream of what we have. A hundred years wi’ ye and I’d trade none of it.”

He chuckles darkly against your throat, voice vibrating through your skin. His teeth scrape your collarbone and you moan aloud, fingers tightening around his shoulders.

You press your forehead to his, panting, laughing softly against his mouth when you take a peek at his memories regarding the conversation he had minutes ago with those few survivors left.

“That woman inside,” you murmur, catching his eye with a grin. “The Asian one. The look on her face when you spoke to her in her language—”

You snicker into his lips, kiss him, bite him, your nails trailing down his back.

“That was irreplaceable!”

Remmick grins, blood-wet with slick fangs.

You kiss him again, slower now, heat pooling between your legs as your hips grind harder against him, your clothed cock rubbing against his.

“You sounded hot speakin’ like that…”

Eyebrows lifted in malice, taking hold of your jaw hard, not enough to hurt, but just shy of it, pulling your face closer, voice dipped lower and meaner.

“Ngóh wúih yāt bin yáuh yāt bin dei chóu néih, jí dou néih m̀h soéng yiu hyut, jí soéng yiu ngóh.”

(Ah'll fuck ye raw, lad-'til even blood don't tempt ye. Ye'll thirst f'r nothin' but me cock, me hands, me fuckin' name.)

Your breath catches before answering in the same language, between panting kisses, mouth still bleeding at the edge.

"Bai jéui, jouh jauh deui la."

(Shut up. Just do it.)

His laugh cut through the air, wicked and soaked in delight. That terrible and beautiful grin, teeth bloodstained, lips split at the corner and fangs bared like a beast flashed just before he struck.

The claws that replaced his hands gripped your hip hard enough to leave bruises for hours and, in one brutal movement, he slammed you to the ground. The breath left your lungs from the overwhelming heat that ripped through your body as your back hit the dirt, the weight of his body settling over you as he crawled over you on all fours, curls falling forward.

He was already on your neck, sinking his teeth into the slope just under your jaw with no warning. His tongue followed, slick and hot, lapping at the blood as it spilled, moaning against your skin while your legs instinctively lifted, wrapping tight around either side of his waist.

You groaned loud as he bit again on your collarbone, your shoulder. Each puncture dragged your spine off the ground and made your cock throb painfully, the fabric sticking uncomfortably against your skin from sweat, blood and precome. His tongue was everywhere, hot and greedy, dragging along every smear he’d made, each kiss leaving a new streak of spit and red across your chilled skin while purring against your skin.

Then he began crawling down your chest, hands moving with him, palms flat against your body and his claws raked slow lines down your shirt, tearing the fabric down its path.

He nosed at your sternum, then your abdomen, licking at old and fresh blood alike, smearing the remnants of bites you didn’t even realized were still bleeding.

You were gasping now, hips twitching upward with every pass of his tongue, and he laughed, low and hot.

“Don’t ye make the sweetest sounds, aye?”

He pulled at the waistband of your pants and the fabric resisted for a moment, his breath catching as if considering just tearing them like every other time but, miraculously, he controlled himself.

He wanted those clothes still on you, limping in them, reeking of him, to let the others smell the grave on you. Let them know who you belonged to.

With practiced speed, he tugged them down your legs, leaving them bunched around your knees just long enough to stare.

Red eyes, wet and glassy with the lust that never faded, raked over you.

Your cock stood hard and proud, flushed, twitching in the open air, smeared with your own need and the remnants of your earlier mess with him. The moment the cold air hit it, it twitched again.

“Ahhh… would ye look at that,” he moaned, voice gone low and near reverent now, claws diggin’ hard into yer thighs. “Beggin’ without sayin’ a word, aren’t ye?”

His fingers dug in sharp, curved and obscene as he yanked your legs apart wider and pulled them up onto his shoulders, folding you open as he bent down to your inner thigh and bit.

Your whole body bucked with the shock, pain and pleasure stitched together so tight there was no telling them apart anymore. His fangs sank into the tender skin there, just inches from your cock and the groan that ripped out of you could’ve brought angels to their knees.

You grabbed at the ground again, useless, cried out as he bit again. His tongue lapped the blood before it even dripped, slurping noisily, moaning around each suck, eyes half-lidded with ecstasy.

Your cock twitched, harder than it had been all night, pulsing in the air untouched and he chuckled against your skin, teeth brushing your thigh.

“Sweet cries, darlin’, all for me, an’ me alone. Ain’t a soul alive gets to hear ye like this.” he murmured, licking a stripe from one wound to another.

Another bite, a lap soon followed, then a muffled groan from deep in his throat like he was feasting on your pleasure as much as your blood. You tried to buck or grind against his chest, but he held your thighs too tight, pinned and parted as he worked his mouth all over your legs.

“Fuck—fuck, Remmick—” gasping rapidly, your hands curled into fists as you dug into the dirt beneath you.

He looked up at you and that image would never leave your brain.

Face soaked in blood, smeared across his lips, chin, nose, his tongue flicking out. Eyes wild and red, burning like a pyre. His claws curling around your legs possessively, his whole frame heaving with restraint and desire.

His breath hitched and he grinned again, all fangs and madness, dragging his face back toward your cock now, blood smearing across your hips and pulled your legs tighter around him, his claws now digging into your calves, dragging your body closer, inch by inch, until your cock was hovering just above his face, leaking and trembling.

A rush of hot, humid wind hit the tip, his lips hovering just above the head, eyes still of that furious red.

The heat that enveloped your dick nearly broke you, his tongue pressing firm and guiding it past his fangs with such perfect control. You felt them barely enough to kiss the shape of your shaft, grazing along the sensitive underside, just like how he knew you liked it.

Whole back arching off the ground as he moaned around your length, the vibrations sending shocks through your gut. His claws slid from your thighs up to your abdomen and pressed down too hard, the tips punctured without warning.

They dug deeper as he pushed your hips back into the dirt, holding you down as he sucked you deeper, inch by inch, until his nose brushed the blood-wet hair above your cock. His tongue rolled and flattened, lapping with desperate, animal greed, every flick sending you closer to the edge and making your thighs tighten around him.

Each time your hips bucked up, his claws pressed harder into your belly, drawing fresh lines of red that seeped into your shirt and stained your skin, the blood running in rivulets.

He pulled back with a wet gasp, your cock glistening with spit and the smear of blood he’d dragged up from your thighs, and without a second of breath he turned his head and latched back onto the bite he’d left just minutes ago on the inside of your thigh and sucked hard.

Your whole body convulsed while crying out with his fangs biting shallow into the wound and tongue working in messy, greedy laps.

Loud and gluttonous sounds were muffled to your skin, strings of spit and blood connecting his lips to your skin as he grinned wide, eyes locked on yours.

“Tell me how it feels, darlin’,” he panted, tongue draggin’ slow ‘cross his bottom lip, blood glintin’ red as he licked it clean. “Tell me if ’m doin’ it right…or if I need t’cut a new map into that body ‘til you never forget me.”

The clawmarks across your belly burned as he flexed his fingers, dragging the tips again in small circles, making the blood smear across your skin in wet shapes.

His fangs brushed your shaft, tongue flattening under you.

His throat flexed in time with the desperate suck of his lips.

One claw slid between your legs, curved under your ass, fingers sharp and possessive as they dragged you closer, lifting your hips into the rhythm of his mouth like you were weightless.

The pressure became unbearable, your hands finally found his hair and tangled in it, gripping as you gasped and choked on your own cries.

Just as you thought you couldn’t take another second, he pulled back. Just the head in his mouth now and he circled it with his tongue once.

Then he bit right behind the head, those fangs dragging along the most sensitive flesh causing your body to twist euphorically.

He groaned around it, swallowing everything you gave him while holding you down with one hand on your abdomen and the other still under your ass as your whole body shook through the orgasm.

Only when your cock softened slightly on his tongue did he pull back, lips red and shining, spit trailing from his chin to your stomach.

The perfect view of your body was served in front of his crimson eyes, trembling and wrecked with blood cooling in streaks across your stomach where his claws had dug in, your cock still twitching from the brutal orgasm he’d just wrung.

And he wasn’t even done.

Remmick rose back over you with a groan, body gleaming with blood and filth and power, thighs flexing, cock hard again.

“Still wi’ me, are ye?” he rasped before grabbing your hips to drag you back toward him, the thick and insistent head of his cock pressed hot and heavy against your entrance, already pulsing like it knew where it belonged.

You felt him pause just long enough to grind the head of it against you, smearing the precome, circling your rim, pushing in only slightly and then back out again in cruel teasing.

“Ready t’be mine again?” he murmured, leaning close until his lips brushed your ear, the heat of him a fever pressing into your side. “Let me in, aye? Let me fuck ye full ‘til all that’s left rattlin’ ‘round in there’s my name.”

You gasped, eyes fluttering. He grinned before proceeding to push in.

The stretch took hold and he groaned right behind your moan, a deep sound that vibrated in his chest and poured out of him like a threat.

He bottomed out in one long, brutal thrust, cock thick and wide, punching your insides into shaking submission. Your body twitched under him, legs flexing around his waist, arms rising without meaning to, desperate to hold something.

Brutal move, deep and rough thrusts like. He leaned over you, one hand braced near your shoulder, the other gripping your thigh so hard you could feel the bruises blooming.

Every thrust drove deeper, cock stretching you wide, the curve of it hitting something inside you that made your vision blur.

Remmick’s mouth was on you again, biting at your neck, your chest, licking the blood he’d already spilled from your collar. His fangs dragged down your throat in time with each brutal push of his cock, your body jerking beneath him while hr laughed into your skin.

“Ye make the loveliest little sounds, don’t ye,” he purred, hips snappin’ up into ye again, harder now.

You could feel his cock twitch. He was close, you felt it in the way his grip tightened on your thigh or how his jaw clenched on your wound.

“Almost there, love,” he panted. “Gonna fill ye so full—leave it drippin’ out of ye so they all know—”

His claws dug in harder and when he snapped his hips forward one last time, burring himself as he came.

Thick, hot pulses flooding you deep, body clenching around him to try and keep every drop while he gasped and moaned through clenched teeth.

All you could do was gasp against his chest, feel the slick of his body against yours and shudder with the knowledge that this wasn’t the end.

Not by a long shot.

Note: Inspired rhythmically by the Irish folk tradition and the beautiful cadence of “Rocky Road to Dublin.” All lyrics are original and entirely fictional, created as part of a fan work.

This piece was created purely out of love for the character, the world and the musical roots. I never intended to offend or appropriate any culture, I simply had this idea burning in my brain and after a lot of back and forth I thought of sharing it with others who love Remmick as much as I do. <3

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lefteagleblizzard · 11 days ago

Note

Really loving the vampire fics recently, makes me want to ask if you'd be down to write for The Vampire Diaries/The Originals at some point

Thank youuu <3 I’ve actually never really watched The Vampire Diaries or The Originals, just caught bits and pieces while a friend was bingeing. I couldn’t really get into it. Romantic stuff doesn’t grab me and it didn’t feel horror-y enough for a series about supernatural beings.

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lefteagleblizzard · 14 days ago

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𝔑𝔬𝔱 𝔰𝔞𝔣𝔢, 𝔧𝔲𝔰𝔱 𝔥𝔦𝔰 Remmick x male reader

Summary: He came to your doorstep burning, hunted, half-dead and you let him in. Now you’re bleeding, fucked open and ruined by the monster who calls your name like a prayer and kills for you like it’s love.

Tags: set years before the main events of the film. Strangers to lovers. Vampire x human. Possessive Remmick. Hints of stalking. Protective Remmick. Minor characters death. Vampire x human sex. Monster fucking. Blood drinking, blood kink, blood play (Our boy needs to be kept hydrated). Rough sex. Dominant Remmick. Submissive male reader. Anal sex. Riding. Vampire stamina. Overstimulation.

Part 2 - Part 3

ℳ𝒶𝓈𝓉ℯ𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

Words count: 10000

The morning hadn’t come yet, you’d been out in the field since god knew when, still in boots damp with dew, thighs sore from the bent squat you held as you weeded patches of yellowing wheat that shouldn’t be dying, but they were nonetheless.

From the porch behind you, the barn loomed skeletal and you were reminded of the time it had creaked full of life, livestock restless in the dark, but now it held barely a pair of half-blind goats, hens too dumb to lay proper anymore and a horse so old his back dipped like a broken bow. You still fed them all and hauled their water.

Each season you turned the soil, tilled by hand, rain or no rain, with blistered palms and still the wheat came up thin, the corn patch went to rot and the beans curled yellow at the edges.

You were about to pack in for the hour, maybe sit on the porch with black coffee, when the wind stopped and soon a loud sound followed.

A dragging noise that came out of nowhere. You squinted into the tall grass that bordered the back acreage. Something was moving. Not walking, dragging.

You were already on your feet before the porch made a crack like a board snapping under pressure. Something slammed on it hard.

There was a moment where you thought maybe a coyote had gotten into the trash again but then your eyes found the trail.

A long, shallow dent carved through the dirt, like something had been pulling itself forward with little strength, all leading to a crumpled figure past the steps.

Brownish tank top clinging to a body cut with lines too harsh to be healthy, twisted over one shoulder and torn. Skin pinkish and scraped raw in places like it had been burned badly.

A groan peeled out of his throat, ugly and guttural. His hands scrambled against the wooden steps. His arms shook, muscles twitching as he tried to haul himself up before stopping. His head slumped as his gaze drifted across the tall grass, to the edges of your broken field.

You followed it and there, small at first but growing clearer, was a group on horseback. Four, maybe five riders, all slow and scanning the horizon.

They were looking for something, or someone.

A hitch in his ribs as he shifted again, another low groan forced between clenched teeth. His face turned to you, still slack with exhaustion, but his eyes were not human.

Gold, lurid and lightless. They flickered once before sliding shut, his whole body slackened as he collapsed against the porch rail.

You stepped back, one foot on the soil, sinking slightly into the trail he’d carved, one heartbeat thudding into the next as something cracked open inside your head.

The blood in your head roared, thoughts came in floods.

You should’ve called out right then, raised your voice and flagged the riders combing the fields. Or hell—the porch was soft, the wood old. One kick could snap a plank in half to plunge into the exposed part of his chest.

He wasn’t supposed to be here, just like you.

The sun had started to crawl up the slope of the field. It was touching the lower stalks now and the tall grass still sheltered most of the porch in patchy shadow, but the light was rising too fast.

A beam lanced across the steps and touched his arm first.

It immediately began to burn.

You didn’t remember deciding to move but your knees were soon on the wood and your hands pressed flat to his big biceps.

He groaned against your touch, his head lolled and fell against your shoulder. The weight made your spine bow as you pulled with everything you had.

Your lips were near the shell of his ear, voice smaller than you remembered it ever being, even when you were a child hiding behind barn doors from men.

“You can come in.”

Palms slick against the dark line of his shoulder, one hand clutched too tight around the burnt curve of his bicep while the other braced awkwardly to keep his head from rolling to the side as you began to drag him backwards through the door all the way down to the cellar.

You let him slump against the far wall, trying not to drop him too hard but unable to control the last fall. His back hit the stone with a heavy thunk and he didn’t stir.

There was a bucket placed under the leak like always, catching the rain that slipped through the warped ceiling beams and you took advantage of that to splash the water across his shoulder and over the burn, the water hissed when it hit him, steam rose fast.

You dipped a rag in what was left and wiped at the worst of where the skin had pulled back, where the blood had dried into thick crusts.

Under your hands, his chest rose in steady breaths. His pulse flickered faintly in his throat and his face remained slack. High cheekbones, brows low and tight even in sleep like he’d never relaxed a day in his life.

You leaned in close enough to see the edge of one pupil under his lashes twitch.

With shaking legs as you stood, you went back up outside the house to get some fresh air and something else for him.

The old goat, the mean one with the single bad eye, shifted in its pen and gave a low, disturbed grunt. It didn’t want to follow and you had to tug hard on the collar.

The walk back was slow as it pulled against the lead once, twice. Then reluctantly came with you.

When you opened the cellar door, the goat stepped in as you let go of the rope and closed the door immediately.

Hands braced flat to the wood, heart pounding. Still not sure what you’d done.

Three hard knocks were heard. The door didn’t rattle, no voice came through.

You moved down the hallway, the door handle felt warm when you opened it, the light struck you square in the eyes, bright after the cool of the parlor.

Those men were dressed in long oilskin coats dark with wear, silver buttons tarnished black. One had a wide-brimmed hat pulled low over his brow, the edges feathered by years of weather.

Another kept one hand on the stock of a rifle strapped tight across his back.

“Morning,” the middle one said, voice even, polite the way barbed wire is.

You nodded.

“We’re tracking something dangerous,” he said. “Something we saw came through this region. Likely came down from the ridge. Might’ve crossed your back field. You see anything strange this morning?”

You crossed your arms, one hand over the other, trying not to make it look like a shield.

“Been up since four,” you said. Your voice came out calm. Steady. “Working the field. Haven’t seen a damn thing I didn’t put there myself.”

His eyes flicked down to your hand.

You hadn’t noticed it until now the dried blood on it.

His gaze didn’t change but something behind his eyes clicked.

“You alright there?” he asked, as if casual. “You get hurt?”

You let out a breath through your nose and shook your head.

“One of my animals went into labor,” you said, voice thick with irritation. “Didn’t go clean. Took half the morning. Made a hell of a mess out back. Field too.”

You let your eyes harden slightly, like a man tired of being questioned. That was the trick, you couldn’t play it soft.

“Shame,” he said, stepping back. “Hope she pulls through.”

“She won’t,” you said quickly. “Too old. Should’ve been put down last season.”

The man in the coat gave a grunt that might’ve passed for sympathy.

He turned and took one step.

Then stopped and looked back over his shoulder, head tilted and eyes narrowing slightly.

“I hope,” he said, “you didn’t let him in.”

The words fell like wet stones in your chest while you said nothing.

“There’s no saving that one,” he murmured. “That thing doesn’t just feed. He twists someone from the inside, leaves holes in the memory where people used to live. Whole families are gone because of him.”

You could have sworn you heard a creak from behind you, a soft groan of wood strained under weight.

Could it have come from the cellar stairs?

The blood in your veins ran cold and you did your best effort in offering them a tired smile, one you practiced after seeing it so often on your parents' faces.

“Well,” you said, voice pleasant. “I’d best get back to it. Still a mess to clean.”

He nodded once more and didn’t thank you this time, just turned and walked away.

You shut the door carefully, felt your palm against the wood and exhaled.

The sun was already bleeding out behind the ridge by the time you came back.

The old road back from town ran crooked between black pines and fields gone brittle with drought. You hadn’t made much from the morning’s haul, but it was enough for salt, some oil and garlic.

You’d picked it out yourself, heavy bulbs still clotted with dirt. It took you most of the late afternoon to crush it, pressing each clove into the mortar until they burst into pulp until you grounded it into powder, packed it dry into a paper pouch and shoved it deep into your pocket, ready to see if he was gone with all the time that had passed.

Maybe you expected the walls painted with what used to be the old goat and nothing else.

What you didn’t expect was to get slammed against the rough wood of the wall there. A hand clamped around your throat and claw curled into your hip as he pinned you against him.

His body was pressed close, towering over you, heat pulsing off him in waves.

He was covered in blood, soaked completely. Dried at the corners of his mouth, thick around his chin, darker still where it had run down the exposed column of his throat.

It had soaked into the fabric of his tank top, darkening it from chest to hem, clinging to every plane of muscle beneath.

His chest was bare in places, the shirt torn in places and allowing you to see a sliver of his scar already healed from the morning’s burn, new skin glowed faint and pink beneath the drying blood.

His face was sharp, high cheekbones flecked with grime and dried gore, lips parted, dark and bloodstained, the edges drawn tight with restraint and those golden and lurid eyes locked on you, but not focused exactly, because his face was pressed against your neck.

Mose dragging slowly along your skin as he inhaled deeply, the shudder of breath making your hair stand on end.

His mouth brushed your pulse and you felt his fangs resting with pressure to make it clear they could end you in a second.

He didn’t bite even though he could have. His jaw was tense, the muscles shifting under your fingers where they trembled against his chest.

The bloodlust he felt for you was immense, hence why it surprised you when his breath hit your lips and he pulled back to meet your gaze, face only inches from yours.

The fangs were out, fully exposed, long and lethal, still wet at the root and lips curled slightly in something conflicted.

“Why didn’t you kill me?” His voice was hoarse and raw, scraped low in his throat, heavy and desperate.

Your lips parted but didn’t know what to say. Nothing came, not even breath as his eyes dropped to your mouth and lingered, drawn and mesmerized.

You could feel the warmth of his breath, panting now, his chest rising faster, whole body tensed like he was fighting something.

He took one step back while his hand stayed on your throat before throwing you against the wood.

Silence flooded your ears as the breath left your body for the second time in seconds. Your vision blurred, a sick blackness curling at the corners as you hit your head.

When you woke, it was due to the whisper of curtains rustling. Soft morning gold filled the room.

You blinked, groaning, the back of your skull throbbing with a dull ache. The pain was manageable, surprisingly so, but your whole body felt stiff. Your limbs were heavy, your mouth dry and your fingers curled instinctively into the sheets around you.

You were in your bed.

Maybe it had been a dream, that one hell of a day had just been a dream all along.

Except, you saw dark and dried stains on the bed, two handprints. One to either side of where your body had laid, too large to be yours and pressed down as though someone had hovered over you and watched.

You stood weakly, stepped toward the mirror and noticed droplets of blood on your shirt and at your neck, just below the collar, dried and rust red.

Your gaze drifted to the window outside, the yard stretched long and quiet, automatically counting your old and weak companions.

One…two…three-four-fiv—

You were missing some.

Yep, definitely missing some.

He was gone completely. Maybe he’d fed, healed, moved on and silently thanked you for your hospitality, but even that lie came half-formed because something was still watching.

At first, it was your own shadow shifting wrong at dusk. You’d glance left and see movement to the right.

A shape among the trees, you’d think it was nothing.

When the sun dipped fully and the land fell into that deep amber haze, you’d look up and you’d see two dots glowing, low to the ground, far off past the fence line.

Gold, twin and sharp. Too symmetrical to be lanterns and too still to be fireflies, you’d blink and they’d be gone.

One evening, you found yourself in the barn again.

The sun was low and slow, fat rays of honey-colored light poured through the hatch, catching in the dust motes that danced weightless through the barn air. You’d climbed up out of old instinct, your boots knowing the ladder before your mind caught up. Same perch as always: back braced against the inner slats, one leg dangling over the open drop, the other curled close, elbow resting on your knee.

It was too high and never safe but it had always been yours.

A loop of frayed rope sat to your left, half-tangled through a rusted pulley. The hay down below was thin now, barely a pad against the ground if you slipped.

The wind was sweet, full of grass and old flowers, sun-warmed and still clinging to the scent of day.

“Y’don’t get any less strange, do ye now?” A voice casual and drawing.

Your breath caught and your eyes opened slowly.

He stood below you, hidden from the golden light due to the high plants, shirt wrinkled, collar open and slack, a white undershirt visible beneath the cotton where it clung slightly damp to the shape of him.

The first few buttons were undone and you saw the line of his chest, the faint ridges of muscle moving with his breath.

His curls were dark and wet, still dripping at the ends like he’d just walked through rain or worse, rinsed off something red in the stream.

He grinned too wide, lips stained faint with something that might’ve been berries hadn’t you known what he really was.

His eyes tonight were not glowing but no less inhuman.

And he held a banjo. It looked as old as the barn. The rim dulled, rimmed with brass so worn it had turned brown at the edges. The skin was taut, marked with the small nicks and divots of long, hard use. You could see faint finger-oil stains on the wood.

He strummed a lazy chord, dissonant and loose before stopping and tucking it behind his back, letting the strap slide over one shoulder.

He stepped into the barn and without warning he floated until his boots touched the edge of the loft’s beam not two feet from you, not even trying to hide his nature.

He tilted his head, watching you.

Up this close, the skin of his face was too smooth in some places, too rough in others.

“Darlin’,” he said at last and the way the word wrapped around his teeth made your chest clench.

“That day,” he murmured, accent thick like it’d been pressed in whiskey, “all that blood, y’holdin’ me like I were somethin’ worth savin’, an’ I never asked ye your name.”

He blinked, slow.

“Can’t have that, now.”

He gave a mock bow, hand splaying across his chest.

“Name’s Remmick.”

The way he said it made your stomach turn over. You swallowed, caught off guard by the sudden intimacy of it and the fact that he even cared.

You quietly answered your own name and he repeated it under his breath once, like he was testing it in his mouth, weighing it on his tongue. A small exhale slipped through his teeth and he looked at you again, this time with something darker curling behind the faint gold in his eyes.

“Mm. Suits ye too well.” He took a step forward, eyes never leaving yours.

You said nothing but your jaw set tight, you couldn’t afford to let him see how your breath hitched when he called you that. Not when your spine still remembered the feel of that wall, his hand on your throat, the flash of teeth and blood.

“What are you doing here?”

He chuckled, low and amused, like your question cracked something open in him he didn’t bother hiding.

“Y’make it sound like I’ve got a plan t’ finish somethin’.” He said, boots creaking faint on the old wood as he took a step closer.

Your hand curled tighter over your knee, your nails digging into soft fabric. “Don’t you?”

He grinned wider, flashing just the tip of his fang, no threat.

“If I wanted ya dead,” he said softly, voice dropping, banjo shifting across his back, “I’d’ve ripped your throat out the second I had ye under me that night. Ye remember it, don’t ya?”

Of course you remembered it, the fear had never fully left your limbs, but it didn’t change the fact that you’d dreamed with your mouth open, lips parted for fangs that never came.

You didn’t answer with words and he noticed, eyes flickering down to your throat, then back up again.

“Been lookin’,” he said, voice low and strange. “Y’know, since that night. T’find anythin’ t’tell me who you were, what you are. Found nothin’ on your bloodline.”

Your stomach turned while your hands clenched.

His gaze softened dangerously.

“Darlin’,” he murmured, “how d’you manage t’live this long bein’ so…” His tongue clicked. “Unnoticed.”

He grinned again but this time, it wasn’t mocking, rather curios.

“My parents owed the wrong people,” you said quietly, eyes on your hands. “They never registered me. Not just because they didn’t plan on me. A kid’s a liability when your house is already balanced on rot, it gives the enemy leverage.”

Once the first sentence slipped out from your mouth, there was no stopping it.

“So they taught me to hide.” How well you’d learned. You told him about the floorboards your father marked with chalk when they squeaked, the way you memorized engine sounds like lullabies, the rules about lights and shadows.

“I worked the fields when no one was looking, learned to lie properly—”

You didn’t realize how tightly your hands were curled until the knuckles turned white.

“Last year—” Your throat closed for a second. “Last year, I was up here just like this. The sun had gone down and I was thinking about sleeping up here again. Then I heard them coming.”

You didn’t need to describe the truck or the boots.

“It all happened so fast.” You looked at him and there was again that thing you hated most.

It was like a mirror.

You saw him that day broken, slumped, oozing blood onto the porch with those hunters behind and it had hit you with recognition as you saw yourself in his shoes after hours of hiding that night.

For a second he looked so much like you.

Remmick’s jaw tightened, his now gold eyes never left you.

“I waited hours after they left to finally get inside.” Your voice had gone hollow.

“I didn’t know the whole story. Not right away. I found letters hidden in the kitchen drawers, receipts with names scratched off. That’s how I found out everything.”

You paused, fingers flexing on your thighs.

“Over the months, I visited the town to find them. The town doesn't ask questions if you got a hat brim low. You bring in things and keep your voice down and they give you what you need. That’s all.”

He had a thousand things to say, a thousand wrong things that clawed up the back of his throat and he couldn’t say a single one of them without breaking something.

You were made invisible because no one ever thought you mattered enough to remember. They tried to erase him by force, you were forgotten by design.

You could vanish tomorrow and the world wouldn’t even blink.

He hated it.

He hated the men who made you suffer. Hated the town that didn’t care. Hated the way you still looked at him like you were waiting for him to leave, too.

He wanted to bite it out of you, hold you down and remind you what it meant to be seen and wanted so completely it made your bones ache. He wanted to ruin solitude for you, make it so you couldn’t work through the day without feeling what he did to you.

Those unnatural gold eyes gleaming faint as he watched you with a strange, shifting tension.

“Who were they?” Simple words, but the way he spoke through his teeth like each syllable had to be restrained with a jaw clenched too tight, left a cold taste in your mouth.

“I don’t know,” you muttered, your fingers clenched over the beams, knuckles pale. Your voice wavered in frustration, an exhaustion so old it had hollowed out a space behind your ribs and built a shrine there.

“I don’t fuckin’ know. I’ve spent the whole year since digging for answers.”

Still not meeting his eyes, you shifted, boots scraping against the old frame, finding a foothold as you stood up tall along the crossbeam and the hayloft groaned below you.

You stood balanced between memory and impulse, arms slightly out, not steadying so much as existing and testing gravity.

“I come up here,” you said, voice tight, “every time it gets too quiet in my head.”

The wind teased your shirt, catching the edge like it wanted to help make the decision.

That was when you looked down at the ground. It was black beneath you now that the sun ran away, pure darkness.

“Some days I want to fight them,” you said, barely a whisper. “Tear the truth outta someone. Other times I’m not scared anymore of dying, not when I know it won’t change anything or that there’s not a soul who’d notice.”

The silence crept back in and your voice broke at the edge.

“What if I told ye there was a way t’see ‘em again?” His voice came soft and barely above a breath, interrupting your thoughts.

Your head turned slowly, spine still straight against the sky as you looked over your shoulder at him.

His eyes shimmered low-gold in the dark, steady and locked on yours. His tongue wet his bottom lip, fangs just visible in the motion.

“There are people,” he said, “who can bend the fabric o’reality with nothin’ but the right tune of music t’pull the dead back across the veil.”

You swallowed as he stepped closer now, almost directly beneath you.

“I’ve been chasin’ them,” he said, voice low and tight. “A long time t’bring back my people. My kin. What’s left o’them.”

He lifted his hand up toward you, not reaching blindly, rather offering.

“Ye want answers?” he said, the words low, rolling like smoke from a dying fire. “Then we do it right. You search in the light, scour every road, every shite town with a name. I’ll search when it’s dark.”

His eyes locked to yours, gold, unblinking and fierce.

“An’ when we find ‘em,” his voice dropped lower, softer and more dangerous, “…we’ll make sure yer mam an’ da ain’t just bones in some field no more. Ye’ll see them again. I swear it.”

Silence wrapped around you then until you asked, brittle, unsure but brave. “You think that’s possible?”

He didn’t laugh, just gave a crooked smile, bare but real.

“I know it is.”

Hope began to rickindle in your chest at the confidence in his words and you’d been turning, one hand on the railing, eyes already halfway down to where Remmick waited with that crooked grin.

The wind howled suddenly through the slats and you weren’t steady enough. Your balance broke, foot slipping and gravity yawned open.

The barn flipped sideways, the floor gone pitch-black beneath you while the wind roared through your ears as adrenaline flooded your system.

A brutal grip wrapped around your wrist, fingers locking bone-deep just as your other foot left the ledge and you were yanked forward not gently.

The impact was jarring, your chest slammed against his, breath ripped from your lungs by the sheer force of his catch. His arms closed around you with terrifying strength, pulling you flat against him.

Your heart was a war drum, hammering so hard in your ribs you could feel each pulse crash against his chest and he didn’t flinch.

His head was in the crook of your neck, mouth open against your skin, breathing you in like the scent alone steadied him.

The grip he held on your wrist hadn’t loosened, fingers digging into your skin. His other arm was a band across your waist, clenched so tight you could feel every tense muscle shaking faintly.

“Next time ye try that,” he growled, voice scraped raw, a rasp at the back of his throat that barely sounded human. “I won’t catch ye.”

“I’ll let y’hit the ground and stay there. I’ll wait ‘til you’re broke on the ground, drag what’s left up and make the rest o’ it hurts tenfold worse than the fall ever could’ve.”

The silence after was louder than any scream. You shifted slightly, breath rattling in your chest and he let your wrist go but that one arm still clutched around your waist.

You looked up and wished you hadn’t.

Full red eyes, no softness in them. Lips parted and fangs fully lengthened, the edges catching the faintest starlight and his thumb, longer than it should’ve been, dragged slowly up your cheek.

“Ye think death’s worse than me?” he whispered, followed by a smile you don’t want to see. “Go on, try it. I’ll show ya what it means t’beg for the end.”

The words chilled your blood and you yanked away hard and this time, he let you go.

You didn’t look back while jumping from one beam to another lower, boots slamming into the next support and then down again.

The ground met your boots and you staggered. Your knees trembled, the wrist he gripped ached, skin bruised in the shape of his grasp and you cradled it to your chest, breathing fast.

When you turned back, the barn loomed dark and tall, and there, high above and exactly where you’d been, he stood balanced perfectly in your place, eyes glowing down at you, watching and unblinking.

You didn’t know if you were afraid because he’d saved you or because he hadn’t let you die.

You hadn’t seen him in days, gone completely.

Still, like some goddamn fool, you did your part out there in town, faking smiles.

You grinned when you didn’t want to and shook hands you’d rather avoid. You nodded to women at the produce stand, asked soft questions about music of all things. If they knew of anyone in town who sang too well, played too often, left too much behind in their wake. It felt absurd and humiliating.

It almost made you laugh as you recalled what you were doing just for him while the sickle in your hand swung slowly, slicing stalks of tall grass, pulling bundles into rough armfuls to harvest for the dying animals still too stubborn to follow the quick ending Remmick could offer them. You’d wake up and count one less goat, one fewer hen.

Greedy bastard.

By the time the sky dipped into copper and rust, you were back on the porch, sweat dried to salt across your brow, the sickle’s curved blade hanging limp at your side. The last streaks of light stretched long over the dirt road, still visible and bright.

Heavy tires gritting over the gravel were picked from your ears, growling engine rolling low and mean, heavy and fed on oil.

Your whole body went cold as you forced your boots not to move. Your legs itched with the urge to run, to dive into the barn behind hay like you were ten again and still small enough to hide perfectly.

You stood there instead, heartbeat rising to your throat, scythe tight in your palm as the truck stopped and two doors opened.

The first thing you saw were their boots. Clean and polished in a way that didn’t match the mud, then the rest followed.

Two men stepped down and they froze when they saw you, faces shifting in subtle shock. The one on the left stepped forward slow, his coat brushing behind him in stiff gusts. His face was pinched tight in recognition. He looked at you like he’d already seen your face before.

“What’re you doin’ here?” he asked, simple words and soft voice.

You licked your lips, tongue dry, chest tight. You tried to answer even and calm.

“Just workin’ my field.”

He scoffed, a bitter and ugly laugh.

“This field?” he repeated, gesturing out with a mocking sweep. “Hell, this field’s about to be ours. We’re just waitin’ for the last damn paper to go through now that the last two owners finally did somethin’ useful and died.”

The second he referred to the last two owners, he stopped and really looked at you.

A snicker came soon after, the one behind joined in, low and sharp as he played with the knife in his hands.

“You look just like ’em,” the man murmured, cocking his head.

The one behind chewed the inside of his cheek, smirking. “Your folks,” he said, “they used to check that barn like it was rigged t’blow. Every time we pulled up, they went white.”

Your grip on the scythe tightened.

The tallest man, rifle slung on his back, fingers twitching, stepped closer.

“You lookin’ to square their debt?” he said, voice was almost warm but definitely mocking.

The shame came fast of how little you had and the horror arrived with it because you knew now who these men were.

“Maybe it’s time you saw ‘em again,” the man said with a smile, hands moving behind his back. “Reunite the family. The last thing we need is an heir out of nowhere."

To your own shock you noticed how he was reaching for the rifle on his back when talking to you in a poor attempt to distract.

Fear overtook your body and the sickle snapped upward in your hand, arc perfect, aimed right for his neck.

He caught your wrist before the blade connected. His fingers snapped tight around your arm and turned it hard. You snarled, twisted, tried again, but his grip didn’t budge.

The other laughed harder as he watched his buddy redirect your own scythe and forced your arm back toward your own throat.

You struggled with all of your abilities, he was just stronger, drunker on cruelty. The blade crept closer and he slammed you into the side of the house hard.

The scythe glinted under the last shimmer of light, the sun dropped behind the ridge and darkness fell in your last seconds of life.

“You dumb little fu—” the scraping breath of the man trying to kill you ended abruptly and the pressure on your arm vanished suddenly.

His body jerked back too far, like something yanked him from behind and the blade in your hand turned, slipping through your palm and cutting you shallow there.

You gasped, stumbling sideways, blood trickling from your fingers, looking up to see Remmick standing next to him.

His face so still it might’ve been carved, so furious it looked downright terrifying, lips peeled back to bare the full length of his fangs.

The man’s jaw was completely shattered, bone split out beneath the skin like a hinge kicked off its frame and he barely had time to gurgle before Remmick sank his fangs into his throat.

The noise was wet and he was vicious as he tore the skin of the man’s throat wide. A gape opened, red and yawning, skin shredded like paper. Blood poured in sheets over Remmick’s lips, down his chest and into the ruined grass.

You staggered backward, sick already twisting your gut, hand that clutched your other one.

His shoulders rose and fell with each suck, each drawn pull from the dying man’s artery, curls soaked with droplets of blood now, shirt clung in streaks and mouth that shone crimson.

When he finally released the man, he collapsed in a heap, neck an open pit until no more air went through it.

The second charged, knife gleaming beneath the moonlight to avenge his buddy.

Remmick turned and caught the man’s wrist mid-swing. The crunch was sickening when he squeezed, bone and tendon collapsing as he reversed the knife to slide it into the man’s chest until the handle was buried deep in there.

The scream that tore out was cut short when Remmick took the neck next and bit harder on the jugular.

The man spasmed, twitched, to then go still and collapse on the ground.

Remmick turned to you, covered in blood and chest heaving, still dripping from his mouth. The light in his eyes flickered unstable like a candle flame caught in the wind that refused to die.

The once white shirt he had, already ragged before, now with the entire right side soaked through in scarlet. The fabric stuck to his body, plastered down over the curves of muscle, over the shifting planes of his torso as he breathed.

The veins in his neck pulsed, jaw twitching and lips parted slightly.

“Yer bleedin’.” The words hit like a whisper against your pulse. You looked down, dazed at your hand. The cut from the scythe throbbed as blood smeared your palm.

When you looked up again, Remmick was now in front of you. There was no restraint in his posture nor any pretense of humanity left. What stood in front of you was a monster, one who’d just torn apart two men for touching you and still, your chest only throbbed because he was finally here again.

You didn’t care about the wet copper smell clinging to his ruined shirt and splashed up his throat, still tinted red with someone else’s end.

Blinded by desire, it was your turn to move now, stepping into his space and lifting your hands and cradling his face like he hadn’t just killed for you.

His skin was burning hot under your palms, warm, blood-wet, trembling with barely leashed need and the second your touch landed, he let out a deep, possessive purr from the back of his throat, ragged and feral, bursting through bloodstained lips and twisting into a growl as he looped one strong arm around your waist.

He pulled you against him tight, your chest crushed to his, ribs against the firm weight of muscle soaked through with metallic and red liquid. His shirt clung to both of you now, ruined fabric pressing to your clothes, bonding you in blood and heat.

He caught your injured wrist and lifted your hand to his mouth, eyes never leaving yours as he licked.

Tongue hot, soft at first but insistent, dragging slow over the cut in a wide, possessive stroke. The moment he tasted your blood, his body shuddered and a groan vibrated from deep inside him, pressed right into your skin.

He licked hungrier and more aggressive, tongue flattened against your palm, then curled between your fingers to catch every trace of what you’d spilled. He groaned rougher now, needier and that sound went straight to your spine, made your legs unsteady and your cock twitch with heat.

His eyes fluttered shut, lips sucking the wound clean, mouth still hot and wet around the heel of your hand.

“Knew ye’d taste sweet,” he groaned into your skin, the words muffled by your hand but rough edged all the same. “Spent days thinkin’ on it. Dyin’ for this, darlin’.”

Your hand was still cradled between his fingers as he crashed forward, mouth catching yours in a heat, blood-tasting kiss so intense it knocked the breath out of your chest. His lips were wet and you didn’t care as you moaned into it, kissed back with everything you had, hands fisting in his ruined shirt as your teeth clashed and tongues warred.

His fangs dragged along your lower lip as he kissed you, sharp and wicked, cutting tiny slits when you leaned in too hard and that only made it worse, his groan deepened as soon as he tasted the blood you didn’t mean to give.

He invaded your mouth with his tongue, hot and greedy, diving deep to collect every drop of what he’d drawn, lapping at the cuts like a man starved, hands grabbing at your hips, possessive and grateful.

You whined when he pulled away from your lips and he chuckled into your mouth, full of teeth and want.

“Givin’ it t’me now, are ya?” he murmured, voice of all heat-soaked filth and velvet pride, “Knew I’d get a taste o’ye one way or another.”

Your own hand slipped away from him and wrapped around the scythe still clutched loosely at your side. This is to bring it up and press the cold, curved metal lightly to your own neck.

He froze, breath ragged as he watched you dragging the scythe’s edge across the side of your neck. A sharp sting that left a trail of red beading along the skin like pearls, you tilted your head to the side as you moved it again up over the hill of your shoulder, a second trail joined the first, bright red and fresh in the pale light.

His hands went tight around your waist, pupils blown now, eyes gone molten, teeth visible, saliva thick at the corners of his mouth and dripping at the corner of his bloody chin at the sight of the gift you made for him.

He surged forward.

The scythe clattered to the porch as he buried his face in your neck and began feasting. His tongue ran over the blood again and again in broad strokes, dragging every single drop you’d offered him.

You arched into him to allow better access, whined low in your throat as his tongue found the base of your neck and sucked, moaning openly against your flesh like the taste of you was killing him.

His mouth crashed against yours the second he pulled back, lips slick with your own blood, the taste of yourself lacing between your teeth as his tongue forced its way in.

He groaned into your mouth and it vibrated straight through your jaw and down into the center of your chest.

His grip tightened, arms locked around your frame and suddenly you weren’t on the floor anymore.

It felt like a lurch in your gut as the air dropped away, ground vanished beneath your feet. Eyes still shut, tongue still tangled with his, he lifted your body off the floor with a growl buried deep in his throat. You gasped into his mouth and he ate the sound, tongue dragging over yours again and again.

The wind cut around you for only seconds before your back slammed into the mattress and tangled sheets, the window behind him shattered light across the floor, curtains ripping as his boots tangled in them and landed on the floor of your bedroom.

Blood smeared across the floorboards where he stepped, where you’d landed, his hands never once letting you go. He tossed you down hard enough to bounce the bed frame against the wall with a crack and he was above you in seconds, blood staining the sheets.

He landed between your legs, one knee shoved them apart as he pushed forward, hips tight and low, the full press of his cock, heavy and huge through blood-soaked pants grinding slow against your own with purpose.

He grunted and rolled his hips once, dragging the thick length of him right along your own, the heat of it unreal, obscene through clothes already clinging with blood.

His eyes glowed gold and his fangs were gleaming and shining with your blood. He stared down at you like a thing reborn in ruin, expression contorted with hunger, lust and need.

His tongue dragged over the cut on your neck in hot, wet and long strokes alternating with slow and filthy kisses that left your skin smeared in red. He moaned low into you with every lap, every taste, pressing groans into your jawline, into your temple, his breath coming heavier the more he drank from the surface.

You felt every ridge beneath his tattered shirt with your fingers, every tremble from where he tried not to tear you apart too soon. You reached lower until your hand cupped him through his pants.

The sound he made against your throat wasn’t human, fangs scraping again and his hips jolted forward instinctively, grinding hard against your palm as you squeezed. He kissed you messier, licking the corner of your mouth where blood had trickled.

Your fingers dragged at the buttons of his shirt, the other hand still wrapped around the thick outline of his cock, feeling the heat of its pulse under your grip.

You got the fabric undone only halfway before giving up and peeling it off his sturdy build and soon you were working his pants open next, frantic and clumsy, all while he didn’t stop kissing your throat even once. Every breath from him came with a hiss, a grunt, a moan, mouth leaving trails of blood over your neck, your collarbone, dragging sharp teeth over the thin layer of skin where your pulse throbbed.

A groan passed through his fangs when he felt fingers wrap around his shaft, hips jerking into your grip as his teeth snapped bare centimeters from your throat.

You stroked once and he twitched in your grip, cock hard and drooling at the tip while you squeezed at the base, thumb circling under the ridge of his head. His hips rolled into it, breath stuttering hard and he pressed his forehead into your collarbone, growling through grit teeth as you began working him slowly, deliberately, up and down.

“Y’gonna make me lose it—fuck, I’ll fuck ye so hard yer name won’t come back t’ye for hours—” His voice crack and immediately he seized your wrist and pulled it away.

The loss of contact made your breath stutter in your chest, but before you could protest he’d taken your other wrist too and pinned them both above your head.

He held your wrists in only one hand, inspecting with pride the one still slightly bruised he’d left days ago.

They were still mottled purple, violet rings blooming under the skin and his stare sharpened, mouth curled slowly and fangs glinting.

Y’looked good like that, all marked from him. So fragile and delicate, so many ways to ruin and have fun with.

He leaned down until his nose brushed the edge of your cheek and the growl that vibrated from his chest wasn’t human as his mouth descended on your shoulder, hot breath huffing against your skin before his tongue dragged across the shallow wound you’d given yourself earlier.

The blood there was fresh as he drank over your skin in slow, needy laps. He traced the blood, followed it down to where it gathered in the dip of your collarbone, then further, pushing his face against your chest, licking long, wet stripes across skin even where the blood had dried all while smearing the crimson down toward your abdomen.

You bucked once beneath him and he growled in delight, tearing your shirt open without hesitation, seams splitting beneath his hands, buttons skittering across the bed like broken teeth.

“I won’t lie t’ye,” he mumbled in a husky tone, breathing hot across your abdomen. “I thought of ravishin’ ye right then that night ye saved me t’ thank ye proper.”

He tore your pants down next, fabric splitting at the seams as your thighs were bared to the cold air and the burning weight of his mouth dragging down your chest again, sucking at the skin above your navel, teeth scraping enough to mark.

A large hand moved down and grabbed your right thigh, digging into the muscles and spreading your legs wider with inhuman strength. His mouth met your inner thigh with an open-mouthed kiss, fangs scraping faintly over the softest skin there, right beside your cock and make your whole body tense.

One sharp claw was pressed to your thigh and then dragged sideways, a clean cut that was deep enough to let blood trickle.

His lips covered it and kissed your thigh like your blood was the wine he’d waited centuries to drink. Tongue lapping the new wound, curling around the trail of blood as it slid down the curve of your leg and you felt him moan into it, the sound vibrating into your skin and his other hand gripped harder, holding your leg still so he could kiss the bleeding mark again.

His other hand moved between your legs as it reached down and slid his fingers to your hole, two fingers slick with blood that pressed in shallow, then deeper.

The stretch was sharp at first, but your body welcomed it from the overwhelming need and he watched everything while licking and kissing your thigh seconds before adding another finger, circling and scissoring as his fingers fucked you deeper.

The moment his fingers slipped from your body you felt the emptiness like a wound, ache stretching where his touch had been.

Your hands fell limply to the bed, the imprint of his grip still red across your skin. He crawled forward like a predator who knew there was no longer any point in rushing.

When he rose above your wrecked body, your legs moved automatically, wrapping around his hips like your body knew what was coming and refused to be denied.

The head of his cock, slick with precome, pressed tight against your stretched hole, pulsing thick and hot against the tender rim.

He looked down, eyes golden and wide, burning like hellfire, fangs bared in something too savage to be a smile.

“Ye ready for it now, darlin’?” he murmured, voice thick with promise, “Ready t’feel every inch of what ye opened yerself up for?”

Your answer was a broken moan as he pushed in, the fat tip breached you first, spreading your entrance around him as your body clenched instinctively, trying to take him in but barely able to.

Every inch forced deeper as you felt the way he filled you, the width dragging against every nerve inside you.

You moaned louder, back arching off the bed and his hands gripped your thighs, pushing them further apart as he sank in the last inch and bottomed out.

Your hole stretched wide and raw, the girth of him keeping your rim open around the base of his cock, heat blooming inside you with each shudder of his breath.

He held still, buried to the hilt, your body pulsing around him in rhythm with your heart before he moved.

The first thrust was brutal, dragging himself out almost all the way, letting you feel every ridge and vein to then slam back in hard. The sound it made, wet and loud, echoed off the walls like sin made physical.

You cried out and he laughed breathlessly into your shoulder as he proceeded to fuck you hard and deep. Long strokes, hips grinding to make sure you felt everything. Your cock twitched between your abdomens, pressed between your skin and his blood-slick chest, every rut of his hips sending a bolt of pleasure right through your spine.

As he picked up speed, the rhythm turned rough and relentless, hands dragging your hips down to meet every thrust, skin slapping against skin, the stretch of your hole now wet, noisy and so fucking full.

His voice broke into curses, moans and snarled bits of praise in that ruined Irish drawl of his. “Ye’re takin’ me so good—hnnnnfuck—”

Your cock was leaking while he kept wrecking you from the inside, the head smeared with your own precome and your thighs trembled around his waist.

The heat in your belly snapped tight and then broke as you came hard. A cry punched out of your chest as you spilled between you both, ropes of it streaking your chest and his abs. Your whole body spasmed around him, hole clenching down so tight he roared and slammed in once more.

His cock jerked inside you, twitching, thick and so far in you swore it pushed against your lungs as he filled you, thick spurts of hot seed pumping, warmth blooming inside your abdomen as he grunted, cursed and pressed in even deeper, grinding as he emptied himself into your stretched, aching hole.

Full weight of him collapsed onto you, head settling into the crook of your neck (his favorite spot), breath ragged against your skin and fangs brushing your collarbone.

You felt the heat of his mouth as he resumed licking in lazy, indulgent laps along the bloodied skin of your shoulder, savoring the aftermath

His cock, still inside you, twitched as it hardened again and a low, devilish chuckle rumbled from deep in his chest, vibrating into your body through the weight of him on top of you.

“Darlin’,” he murmured, voice low and ruined like honey over something burning. “The things ye do to me… You’re better than blood…”

He still wanted to enjoy you more, the night was young.

The bed creaked beneath him, wood groaning under the weight of his blood-soaked body as his hands found your back, massive palms seizing you, claws pricking already-tender skin and in one fluid, inhuman motion, he hauled you up.

Your legs clamped tighter around his hips on instinct as you were airborne again, back arching, head falling briefly to his shoulder as he turned.

When he sat back against the headboard, broad back pressing into the wood, you straddled him fully in his lap.

Your knees sank beside his hips, thighs trembling with exhaustion and overstimulation, your breath heaving as your hands braced against the wall of his chest and raised your head.

His eyes were fully red now, a deep, glinting crimson that swallowed the room’s light. His fangs had lengthened, almost too far to keep his lips closed around them, protruding wicked and sharp from his parted mouth.

Breath huffed out around them, steaming faintly where the last of your heat still clung to his face. Long, past finger-length claws that raked down your back, not to wound (yet), but to keep you held.

“Saved your pretty neck from those bastards, didn’t I? Now I think I deserve a little somethin’ back. A reward, aye?” Voice like gravel soaked in whiskey, vowels slurred from heat and hunger.

He was grinning, terrifying, wide and blood-slicked, eyes gleaming like stars seen from underground.

You leaned in, forehead pressing flush to his, hot breath ghosting between your mouths. You didn’t care about the claws, the blood or that look on his face that said he’d tear the world in half to keep you in it.

“Cut my neck for you,” Your fingers twitched against his shoulder, smearing fresh blood. “…sliced my shoulder without blinking. And now you want more?”

You laughed softly, tired and breathless.

“You keep takin’ like this, Remmick, and I’ll be out cold before you even get to the good part.”

His claws moved down from your back to your sides, then to your chest as they pressed.

A single line, then another. Small, deliberate cuts carved into your skin with terrifying care. Not meant to maim but to feed with the blood that welled fast, small rivers crawling down the slope of your sternum, over your stomach, glistening under your collarbones.

“Then I’ll just have t’make sure y’stay awake,” he purred, voice soaked in heat. “Don’t want ye missin’ a single second.”

His mouth found your chest and he fed, kissing and dragging laps of his tongue across the small rivers he’d summoned.

Mouth smearing through the blood, warm and reverent, sucking gently around one of the deeper cuts before drawing back to lick the trail it left behind. His lips were already stained from your dried blood from earlier, now rehydrated by the fresh.

Your head tipped back and your hands gripped his shoulders tighter, but your strength was fading, pulse slowing and limbs weakening.

Remmick felt it.

You saw it in the way his eyes flicked up mid-lick,his tongue lingered on your skin like it was trying to remember you before you slipped too far.

He lifted you only an inch, enough to line himself up beneath you again.

His cock was hard, thick and furious beneath you, pulsing between your legs as he angled himself and pushed in. You gasped, your body opening slowly, trembling with effort.

He bottomed out deep and you forced your eyes open even through the haze.

Red eyes burning up at you, mouth soaked in crimson with fangs stained and hair a wild halo of blood-damp curls.

You kissed him fully, open-mouthed and tongue against his fangs, groaning into him when you began to move up and down.

Each bounce sent a jolt through your core, your knees buckling, but you kept going gripping his shoulders. His cock dragged deep, each thrust catching at the edge of your limit and forcing past it.

You slammed yourself down again and came hard, cock pulsing, spilling across his stomach, painting both your chests in streaks of heat as your body clenched down around him and he followed.

With a growl ripped from somewhere older than language, he buried himself to the hilt and came again, flooding you, thick spurts of heat pulsing inside your spent body.

You shuddered and fizzled in saturation, your nerves couldn’t take more, veins too empty. The air began to hum and your vision fluttered like moth wings.

He held you close, arms easing you back onto the ruined sheets. You felt the warmth of him as he leaned over your chest, his lips pressing lovingly and possessively to the bloody skin there.

The first thing you noticed was the heat from your own skin, bare against blood-wet sheets that dried and cracked with the faint stiffness of clot. Your body ached in places you couldn’t name. Your thighs burned, stomach tight and chest still throbbing where his mouth had marked you with red and bruises.

Golden noon slanted sharp across the bed and for a moment you thought your eyes would burn.

The realization that he wasn’t there hit you hard, blunt and hollow in the chest.

No breath on your neck, just your own body sprawled across the wreckage of last night’s ruin.

You looked down and found marks everywhere. Long, shallow cuts trailing across your ribs. Mouth-shaped bruises on your shoulder, your chest. Your thighs were a mess of dark splotches and ragged scabs, inner skin streaked with blood that had dried in the shape of his mouth.

You grinned, wincing.

‘Thank you, darlin’.’ The mockery of his voice in your own head was both obscene and affectionate. You threw on a shirt and some briefs on, each movement made you hiss through your teeth, muscles stiff and slow from everything he’d done to you.

You padded downstairs barefoot and there he was, sprawled on the floor of the parlor, back against a chair, legs crooked and banjo propped across his lap.

He was plucking strings idly, no real rhythm, just lazy unconscious flicks. The shirt he wore was still the same from last night, soaked and stained where the blood had dried in thick patches.

It clung to him unevenly, buttons half-undone and seams pulled out, the collar dark and rust-colored where blood had soaked through. One side of the shirt hung open completely, exposing his broad chest, sharp with muscle, the skin pale beneath streaks of dried crimson.

Droplets of blood, dried to rust, speckled his pectorals, some smudged into the edges of old scars, some dried in thin runnels down the line of his ribs. He hadn’t bothered to clean up, like he wanted to keep wearing the night.

“The fuck are you doin’ down here?” you snapped, instantly going for the nearest curtain. “You tryin’ to die for real this time?”

He didn’t flinch or even stop strumming, he just looked at you with a crooked grin, eyes still drowsy from the night before.

“Ah, listen t’ye soundin’ all fretful an’ sweet. Ye know I could eat y’whole just fer that tone alone, don’t ye?”

“Remmick,” you hissed, jerking a curtain closed with one sharp tug. “There are four open windows. I am not scraping what’s left of you off the goddamn floor just ‘cause you wanted to vibe with your creepy-ass instrument in direct sunlight.”

You were about to slam the last window closed when you heard him hum.

“Wait,” he said.

You turned and the grin widened.

“Take a peek outside, aye? Left y’a wee somethin’. Gift from me t’you, darlin’. Still smokin’, if y’re lucky.”

Your brows pulled together, wariness prickled your spine. Still, you stepped to the window, one hand lifting to shield your eyes from the last of the glare as you peeked between the slats.

There were two blackened bodies completely carbonized, twisted into unnatural shapes like they’d tried to escape the burn.

Those two men who came for your field and were about to take your life if you hadn’t already chosen your monster.

You turned back to him.

“All o’ it done for ye,” he whispered.

You barked a laugh and staggered once, shaking your head, still stunned by the casual and absolute violence while you took a seat on the floor right in front of him.

“You’re insane.”

He didn’t argue, just tilted his head, lips parted in that lazy, crooked curve like sin had decided to incarnate itself just for your benefit.

“Y’knew what I was when ye let me in.”

A melody was born as he began to play.

His eyes flicked up and stilled when he saw the edge of one of his bruises on your shoulder.

His pupils twitched, then elongated, irises burning inward as if lit from within. His lips glistened, mouth parting wider now, the edges of his fangs poking visible. Spit gathered in one corner as it trailed down his chin.

The banjo slid from his lap, the strings gave one last gasp of sound as they kissed the floorboards and he began crawling towards you.

His hands spread wide, palms dragging with cruel patience over the wood, knuckles brushing dried blood still left from last night’s aftermath.

He was over you completely now, arms braced on either side, knees pinning your thighs apart, hips hanging above yours, head tilted, that beautiful face twisted into something too close to devilish.

You reached up, one hand pressed to his jaw and you felt the inhuman twitch of muscle just beneath the surface as you kissed him.

His mouth opened against yours, fangs brushing your tongue, spit mixing with yours as he kissed you back and when he lowered you fully to the floor, his body covering yours, weight full and hands sinking to your waist, you didn’t resist.

In his head, he made a simple vow.

He would destroy anyone to protect you.

Anyone.

Except from himself.

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