Text
Chefs fucking kissđđ. This is exactly what I wanted to see. I love this side of remmickâŚ.. NOW MOREđ
đşđ đ đˇđđđđ


á´á´ÉŞĘɪɴɢ: á´á´á´!Ęá´á´á´ÉŞá´á´ x ę°!á´á´á´
á´ĘÉ´!Ęá´á´á´
á´Ę
á´Ąá´Ęɴɪɴɢęą: ęąá´á´á´, á´
á´ęąá´á´Ęá´á´á´-á´á´á´Ęá´á´ÉŞá´ Ęá´á´á´ÉŞá´á´, ęąá´Ę/ęąá´Ęá´ ÉŞá´á´ á´á´á´ Ęá´á´á´ÉŞá´á´, á´
á´á´ Ęá´á´á´
á´Ę, ę°á´á´á´Ęá´ Ęá´á´á´
á´Ę, Ęá´á´á´É´ Ęá´á´á´
á´Ę, á´á´á´
á´ĘÉ´ á´Ęá´, Ęá´É´á´
á´á´Ęęą (á´ Ęá´á´á´ÉŞá´ ɪɴɢ), á´á´á´ á´á´á´ÉŞÉ´É˘, á´ ÉŞÉ´ á´ , á´á´á´É´ÉŞÉ´É˘, á´á´á´ á´Ęá´Ę, á´ĄĘɪɴɪɴɢ, á´Ęá´ÉŞęąÉŞÉ´É˘, ęąĘɪɢĘá´ á´
á´É˘Ęá´á´
ɪɴɢ, á´
Ęá´á´Ęɪɴɢ, á´ÉŞĘĘá´Ę á´á´ĘÉ´, á´É´á´Ęá´á´á´á´á´ ęąá´x, ęąá´Ąá´á´Ęɪɴɢ, á´xá´ĘÉŞá´ÉŞá´ á´á´É´á´á´É´á´, á´xá´á´ęąęąÉŞá´ á´ á´ęąá´ á´ę° É´ÉŞá´á´É´á´á´á´ęą. [Also, English is not my first language]
đšđđ¤đđ đ đ đĽđđđ¤ đđđđ đđĽđ đŁđŞ
á´Ąá´Ęá´
ęą: 4K
á´á´É˘ęą: @lunaleah
Things with Remmick kept changing. Slowly, of courseâlike frost retreating in spring, leaving patches of bare earth in the iceâbut they were changing.
You no longer slept with a vial of holy water under your pillow, nor did you roam the house pointing a rifle at him whenever he suddenly appeared behind you.
The tension had softened, and the sexâwell, that helped quite a bit.
Still, there was one barrier he hadnât crossed yet: the bed.
He still slept at your feet, like a loyal animal that didnât dare claim more than what heâd been given.
Technically, you hadnât set that boundary yourselfâbut youâd realized it. He was waiting for permission.
And you⌠you hadnât given it to him yet.
You found comfort in not yet sharing that level of closeness. For some strange reason, sleeping next to him felt deeply intimate. Yes, more intimate than the furious, casual sex you sometimes gave in to.
But your doubtsâwhile under analysisâwere the lesser evil.
There was a bigger problem in the house: your cat couldnât stand Remmick. A creature used to ruling the house, now forced to share its territory with a larger predator. Literally. And of course, Remmick returned the sentiment with equal intensity.
They growled at each other, hissed, traded glares like in a Western film before throwing themselves at one another.
More than once, you had to separate them. Youâd learned to read the moment just before it explodedâwhen your catâs fur stood up like a lit fuse.
You often had to lock the two in separate rooms. Like quarreling children. And you feared, just as often, that Remmick might lose control.
His teeth were always thereâbarely hidden behind his lips, sharp as razors. Ready.
One evening, after yet another incident, after scolding them both, your cat curled up on your stomach before Remmick could, almost like a further act of defiance.
And you absentmindedly stroked it, turning your focus back to the movie.
Remmick, on the other side of the couch, sulked. He didnât say anything. Not his usual annoying remarks during the most intense scenes.
That night, he didnât even climb to the end of the bed.
He left into the night, and the next morning, you found him already at the stove, making the usual breakfast.
For three days, he was distant. Not cold or rude, but⌠hurt.
As if youâd made a choice. Declared a preference.
On the fourth day, however, you pushed the cat off the couch and offered Remmick its spotâon your lap.
âDonât want it?â you asked, your eyes soft, knowing it would make his self-raised walls crumble.
Of course, he gave in almost instantly.
You stroked his hair, and he curled into it like a dog on his favorite blanket. You let him stay there even after turning off the TV, especially because he didnât seem eager to move.
This day, you were sitting at the living room table, the blue light of the computer casting onto your face as you scanned the dozens of rows and columns on the screen.
You were doing inventory.
Or at least, trying to.
The task wasnât new. You had a habit of logging the storeâs stock every two weeks so you could restock early.
It was a routine that made you feel in control. It reminded you who you were: methodical, precise, present.
Yet⌠something felt off today.
You scanned the page again, as if looking for an inconsistency, but when you realized the problem wasnât in the fileâit was in your homeâyou frowned.
There was silence. Too much silence.
Remmick wasnât talking, and that bothered you more than any provocation.
By now, the vampire wouldâve found some way to distract you. His voice echoed through even your busiest days: a whisper, an out-of-place question. âWhat d'ya reckon happens if ya mix powdered milk and blood?â âD'ya think yer cat hates me more or less than it hates dogs?" âWhy've ya got two citrus juicers when thereâs never a fruit 'round here and you live off takeaway from next door?â
Annoying. But predictable. And, in a way, familiar.
But today⌠nothing.
Not even a footstep, not a held breath, not even the muffled sound of his clawed hands tapping the doorframe in that cute, pathetic way.
Only the steady hum of the fan and the dull thud of your own heartbeat.
You closed the laptop and stood up. Your legs creaked slightly under the sudden movementâtoo abrupt after sitting still so long.
âRemmick?â you called.
No answer.
You sighed as you entered the hallway, walking slowly past the kitchen. The fridge was closed, lights off. Everything in place.
Your cat appeared from around the corner and brushed past your legs, heading back into the living room.
In the bathroom, the toothbrush cup was untouched. The utility closet door was closed.
Maybe heâd gone out to the garden? But it was still early. The light streamed in bright and steady, and Remmick only went out at duskâwhen the sky turned orange and the shadows stretched across the walls like fingers.
You rolled your neck with a soft exhale, then made your way toward your bedroom.
The door was ajarâand your breath caught in your throat when your eyes focused on the scene.
He was standing in front of the full-length mirror, backlit.
His figureâsolid and well-proportionedâwas still. His left arm raised and tense. He was shirtless. The pantsâthe ones he had you buy in three identical pairsâwere unbuttoned, revealing the curve of his hip. The suspenders hung down, abandoned along his thighs. His dark hair was messy as usual, giving him that desperate look.
But thatâs not what struck you. It was what he was holding.
Your dogâs old leather collar.
He had placed it around his neck. Not buckled yet, but resting on his skin.
The clasp nestled just below his throat, and with two fingers, he held the tag, watching its reflection in the mirror.
He stood completely still, his bearded face shadowed, eyes vacant.
The air hung, suspended.
You didnât say anything for a few seconds.
You stared at him.
As if the scene didnât belong to you. As if you were looking through frosted glass at something forbidden.
You couldnât take your eyes off the point where leather met his skin. Something, at that image, pulsed under your ribs. Not just by the strangeness of itâyou were used to strange by now with him. It was the tenderness, the almost ceremonial care with which he held the tag.
A part of youâthe part used to deflect things with sarcasmâtook over, stifling the desire.
You parted your lips, half-smiling. Your voice came out softer than youâd meant.
âI think I already told you not to snoop through my underwear drawers, didnât I?â
Remmick flinched slightly, as if heâd been too absorbed to hear you. All his supernatural predator senses drowned.
He dropped his gaze almost immediately with something like shame. Or arousal. Or both.
The hand holding the collar lowered slowly, almost reluctantly.
You saw the gold chain around his neck shimmer again in the LED light.
âI wasnât⌠snooping. Was only having a lookââ he stopped. Swallowed. âSpotted a wee box down at the bottom, closed up like. Got curious, so I thought it might be somethin' of yours.â
He said it like yours meant sacred.
You stepped away from the door and approached slowly. Held out a hand without speaking, and he, docile, handed you the collar.
His fingers brushed yoursâand for a moment, that was all: skin against skin, brief and intense. Like everything between you.
Then you took it.
The collar weighed little, but the moment you held it, you felt the worn leather flex in your handâas if it remembered.
You brought the tag closer, and the letters engraved in the metal etched into your heart.
Your dogâs name.
You closed your eyes. Something twisted in your stomach. A small, familiar ache. Sweet, like an old scar that flares up when the seasons change.
You saw yourself again, crouched in the driveway years ago, with that enthusiastic furball licking your face. You saw the runs in the park, his tail thumping against everything, his dusty paws on freshly cleaned floors.
A shaky breath filled your chest.
You felt Remmickâs eyes piercing your skull, like he was trying to follow your thoughts.
Trying to understand why you were aching so deeply.
You gently ran your thumb over the tag, then flipped it.
On the other sideâthe one Remmick had been reading in the mirrorâit said:
Owner.
And below it, your name. Yours.
You smiled. A crooked little smirk. Unexpected, as a thought crossed your mind.
The memory dissolved, and you felt amused. And something more.
You turned toward Remmick. Found him exactly as bidedâdeep grey eyes locked on you. His bare shoulders tensed. His pale skin catching the faint light through the side window.
No more shame on his face. Just desire. Pure and simple. But not the lust that used to consume you. This was deeper. Barer. As if he needed something that once belonged to someone else.
The collar still sat between your fingers.
âDo you want one too?â you asked softly.
Your voice wasnât teasing. It was real. Almost gentle.
Remmick opened his mouth. Then bit his lower lip. Held it. Swallowed. And said:
âYeah⌠I want somethin' that says Iâm yours. All of me.â His voice cracked on the last words.
It wasnât dramatic. It was honest. It was pathetic.
Beautifully pathetic.
You stepped behind him. Slowly.
Watched him in the mirror as you lifted the collar and slid it around his neckâmore resolute this time.
Remmick tilted his chin up, just slightly. Without being asked. Offered his throat like it was instinct.
He hardly breathed. Not that he needed to.
Your hand moved calmly. You brought one end of the collar around the back of his neck, following the curve of his throat. The leather slid over his smooth, taut skin like a promise spoken without words. The buckle was cold. The metal pricked your fingers. But you were careful. Precise. You slipped the other end through and began to tighten it.
Not too muchâbut not loose either.
You wanted him to feel it.
Remmick made a choked sound. His muscles tensed slightly again, his shoulders lowered, his throat fluttered with an almost imperceptible tremor.
In the mirror, you locked eyes with himâwatching the red glow pulse in his irises.
His canines peeked past his slightly parted lips.
The buckle snapped into place with a click. Firm. Final.
The tag dangled. You heard it clink against the other chain he already wore.
You had turned it to show only your name and your ownership of him.
You paused.
Your hands still at his collar, like you were weighing the meaning of it. Your fingers brushed the skin stretched under the strap.
His scent reached you: something metallic, cold, laced with soap and your fabric softener.
He had become part of your home. Without you even noticing.
âLook at yourself,â you said.
Remmick raised his eyes.
In the reflection, your eyes meet.
Your hands glide down along his collarbone, then lower â slow â tracing the lines of his chest. You feel him stiff against you when your nail grazes a nipple. But you donât stop. You keep descending, pressing your lips to the back of his shoulder while watching him in the mirror.
Heâs cold, as always. But it doesnât disturb you. On the contrary, it makes you want to set him on fire.
You reach the waistband of his pants, still loose, and slip your fingers underneath â unhurried. Youâre not rushing. You want him to savor the torment, just like he often made you.
A thin string of drool slips from his parted lips, and you smile against his skin.
And when your hand closes around his erection, his body folds slightly forward, as if the gesture had split him in two. A moan tears from his chest â thin, hoarse, like an involuntary plea.
âStand up straight for me, Remmick,â you whisper, gently pushing him back upright, your free hand pressing softly against his throat.
You hear him murmur your name as he tears his gaze away from the mirror, nuzzling his nose into your hair.
âY've no idea what y'do to me, darlin'âŚâ
Your hand slides down his shaft. He throbs, alive, almost warm in contrast to the rest of him. Your fingers outline the veins in small strokes until they reach the tip, where you collect the first sign of his desire, spreading it all around.
âMaâamâŚâ
The word leaves him broken â desperate â as you begin moving your hand up and down. You feel the drool mess your ear where he breathes, ragged, and a shiver runs down your spine.
âI like how that sounds,â you grin. âSay it again.â
âMaâam, I'm beggin' yaâŚplease don't stop...â His breath catches when you squeeze just at the base of his cock, near his balls, and he throws his head back onto your shoulder.
The mirror reflects his pitiful, desperate state. His cheeks are flushed, fangs visibly longer, forcing his mouth to remain open. Saliva slides down his throat, seeping beneath the collar.
His eyes are half-lidded but still looking, just as you told him to.
âYouâre such a mess. Drooling and leaking like a fucking dog,â you whisper, brushing your cheek against his temple. Your hand keeps its steady, slow rhythm â just enough to push him into despair â and you feel him push his hips forward, craving more.
âOh, you like that.â His cock twists beneath your palm, soaking his underwear with precum, and it almost makes you drool too. âYou like being my messy little mutt, donât you?â
He chokes out a little whimper when you sink your teeth into his neck, bent perfectly for your mouth.
âFuckin' hell⌠yes. Wouldn't want to be anythin' else for ya. Yer always so good to me, love. So kind.â
His eyes meet yours again â red, filled with barely restrained lust. But you feel it. His shoulders stiffen. His thighs press together.
Heâs close.
And youâre always generous with him. You wouldnât deny him this.
Your fingers wrap fully around him and your wrist picks up speed. His cock answers eagerly, growing harder, pulsing with need.
Remmick accidentally â or maybe not â scratches his lip, and a thick line of blood joins the drool staining his chin.
âAre you close, sweetheart?â you tease, fully satisfied when he nods, fast and wild. âYouâve been good. You can come.â
And he does. You feel him melt into your hand with a sob, head falling forward, body taut like a drawn bow. His hips lock as pleasure shoots through him like electricity.
âThank youâŚâ he whimpers, as his release soaks through his underwear. âThank you, thank you, thank youâŚâ
You smile gently and your hand pulls away. He lets out a quiet moan, like losing the last point of contact with the world. You start to turn away, ready to go clean yourself in the bathroom â but he grabs you, hard.
One arm wraps around your waist, the other seizes your wrist and raises it up.
His bare chest presses against your shirt-covered back, and you can hear the low, barely-there heartbeat that accelerates only for you.
You watch as he bends to your palm and licks â slowly â gathering his own release with his tongue. It runs between your fingers, over each joint, until youâre partially clean again.
You turn in his hold. The need to look into his eyes takes over.
Remmick returns your gaze. The red is gone, replaced with a human gray. Lust has vanished, but something deeper shines in its place.
Itâs not hunger. Itâs not craving.
Itâs something that lives in the space between his mouth and yours â which he closes in an instant.
The kiss is different than usual. Slower.
Thereâs no urgency. No devouring need.
Itâs a promise. A prayer.
He kisses you like heâs waited years for this.
Like thereâs nothing in the world heâd rather devour than your lips.
He takes your face between his hands â carefully, without claws. His fingers tremble just slightly, but theyâre firm the moment they touch your skin. He holds you like that as his mouth opens â just enough to welcome yours. Your tongues brush and curl into a rhythm of recognition.
You taste blood, his release, his desperation.
When he pulls back, his eyes remain locked on you.
âI reckon the reason I didnât die when I should've⌠is 'cause the world was waitin' on me to find you.â
His hands explore you with a slowness that surprises you â even now. Not like someone seeking a body, but someone seeking a home. He brushes along your arms, your ribs, the soft curve of your waist. His fingertips slip beneath layers of fabric, touch your bare stomach as though heâs tracing a secret poem along your skin.
You shiver beneath the attention, but donât pull away. You donât think you could even if you tried.
He takes your hand in his, silent, and guides you back to the bed. He doesnât undress you immediately. He lays you down on the sheets as if placing you on an altar.
In the meantime, he must have kicked away his boxers and pants â because when he settles between your thighs, heâs bare. Completely. All that remains is the collar, snug around his throat.
His cock presses against your stomach, hard again, demanding more. You silently thank whatever vampire magic grants him such rapid recovery. The hem of your shirt has risen just enough to let in the cold air of the room.
He stretches out on top of you â not to pin you down, but to cover you. Protect you. Envelope you.
Remmick kisses you again, deeper now, like his heart had climbed into his throat and wants to be devoured whole. His palms splay across your bare hips, rising higher, dragging the fabric up with them.
You realize he has no intention of unbuttoning your shirt â so you lift your arms, letting him peel it off over your head. When he pulls back to do it, he kisses every new inch of exposed skin as if heâs seeing you naked for the first time.
And maybe he is.
And maybe, thatâs exactly how you want to be seen. Every day. Forever.
When he gets to your underwear, he drags them slowly down your legs, and youâre sure heâs about to bury himself between your thighs again â his favorite place â but you stop him. Slide two fingers under the collar at his throat and pull upward, hard.
He gasps, a little guttural sound thatâs half protest, half delight. But when your thighs close tightly around his hips, his smile returns â crooked and satisfied.
Your fingers comb through his dark hair, playing with the small knots you find along the way, and it makes him hum â like a purring cat â the sound pulling your own smile out of hiding.
Youâd had sex before. Many times.
Remmick had always been hungry. Always physical. Always attentive. Heâd learned your rhythms, your sounds, even your silences.
Heâd always asked. Never taken. Heâd touched you with worship, eaten you like a rite, taken you like a gift.
But thisâŚÂ this had never happened.
Not like this.
Not this slow. Not this full. Not thisâŚÂ domestic.
He pushes inside you while your mind is still floating. Thereâs no warning, no fingers â but you donât need it. Youâre so wet and open, he slides in easily. That damp pressure between your thighs could only be your own arousal.
âRemâŚâ you sigh, your arms instinctively circling around his neck, pulling him close. You feel the cold of the medallion brushing your clavicles as he rolls his hips forward, mouth descending toward your neck, and thrusts into you again â deep, firm, sure.
âFuck, darlin'⌠I could live inside ya like this forever,â he stammers against your skin, his hands lifting your hips slightly to find that perfect spot you crave â and as always, he finds it.
Your eyes roll back as he hits it again. And again.
âYa feel unreal...so fuckin' good,â he groans, his pace faltering, the rhythm of his thrusts slipping into a stutter. You hear the tiny, familiar whimpers escape him â the ones youâve learned mean heâs close. âI canât even fucking think straightâ loveââ
He rotates his hips in a way that makes you see stars, your spine arching beneath him, your nails digging into his back like claws anchoring you to this world.
You feel the climax boiling in your stomach, rising fast, your legs trembling as you try to keep up â but he holds you. One hand supporting your lower back, the other gripping the underside of your thigh, keeping you spread wide around him.
âRemmickââ you gasp, gripping the collar again, yanking it. âIâm gonna comeââ
âLook at me,â he pleads, lifting his face from your neck, locking eyes with you. âI want to see ya. I want ya to look too. Look at what you're doin' to me...Come with me. Pleaseââ
Itâs hard to keep your eyes open when the knot inside you snaps. Your cunt clenches around him, pulling him deeper as you come, and he falls with you, the moment he feels it. He keeps moving, slower now, hips rocking through it, pumping the last of his cum deep into you, like heâs trying to mark your inside forever.
The blankets are tangled. Your skin is wet with sweat. Your back aches from the angle, but you feel full. Complete.
Remmick collapses on your chest, lips barely brushing your skin, still trembling through the aftershocks. Eyes closed â but you can feel it: heâs not asleep.
And then⌠he moves.
Carefully. Like someone who isnât used to staying.
He lifts himself slightly, eyes scanning for his pants on the floor. Reaching for them, as if to dress. To withdraw. To return to his place.
At your feet.
Far away.
As always.
But you donât want as always anymore. Not after this.
You reach out without lifting your head, and pull him back down by the collar, slow and firm. He drops back into the bed with a stunned look, and you roll onto your side, silent, guiding his arm around you until he holds you.
Not permitted.
Required.
Remmick stiffens at first.
Then something breaks.
A long breath. A quiet surrender. A deep, honest relief.
His body softens against yours, curling into you.
ââŚCan I stay, yeah?â he whispers, instantly regretful for asking aloud.
âI thought that was obvious,â you murmur, eyes closed.
Remmick smiles against your nape.
He kisses your shoulder. Once. Twice. A third time â soft and grateful.
His fingers caress your stomach, then your waist, then your hip, as though redrawing the boundaries of what heâs allowed to touch.
He pulls you closer. Nose buried in your hair.
Something moves outside the room, catching his attention.
A shadow glides past the half-open door. Light paws. A high tail. Indifferent.
Your cat.
Remmick opens one eye.
Sees him pass. The little animal doesnât stop â just a lazy glance. The usual feline disdain.
But the vampireâŚsmiles.
He throws the cat a look of triumph â not smug, just assured. âThis time, Iâm the one in bed. Next to her.â
The cat pauses. As if understanding. Then, with solemn dignity, walks away.
And with that, Remmick curls back around you and finally, peacefully â sleeps.
#remmick#sinners#remmick fanfic#jack o'connell#remmick x reader#sub!remmick#pathetic remmick#remmick smut#vampire#remmick x you
941 notes
¡
View notes
Text
Oh I love you so much for this. HANDS DOWN MY FAVORITE WRITER. Literally read all your work in a dayđ. You just donât know how much I needed this after a hard days workđĽšđ¤
When are all the writers on here gonna realize that Remmick is a touch starved lonely submissive loser? Like that man is dying to be let in and shown some love. I honestly think that he would fall to his knees if he was ever shown any kindness. He simply couldnât take it. Underneath that scary big bad wolf is a man that hasnât been shown love or kindness in a millennium and Iâm willing to bet that if you caressed his cheek and told him just how pretty he was heâd chub up bc heâs not used to it. I mean heâs been on his own for 1300+ years. I know for a fact that he isnât this demonic villainous devil that the movie portrayed him to be for the sake of an antagonist . Heâs actually a dog with separation anxiety thatâs blocking the door and full on whining for you not to leave him flipping on his back and barring his belly at you for a few quick pets hoping to make you forget just why you have to leave home in the first place.
The whole reason Iâm posting this is bc I have an addiction to powerful men being nurtured into submission by their significant others⌠and bc Iâm so totally addicted to everything Jack OâConnell . I NEED SUB!REMMICK X DOM FEM READER ASAP. Im GNAWING at the bars of my encloser SEND HELP
837 notes
¡
View notes
Text
Guys, Iâm not gonna lie I would absolutely love to see sinners in movie theaters, but I simply am too broke and too PO to be able to do so. And also, I donât know if I would be able to control myself in that theater whenever stack knocks the Mario coins out of Annie. I mean, watching that movie bootleg already had me convulsing in my bed. And girl whenever Remick exposes grace in front of her husbandâŚ. He wouldâve gotten my ass(actually the other way around). he begging to be let in now, baby heâs gonna be begging to be let out after heâs in the room with me lil horny freaky fuckđ. LET ME AT HIM NEOWWWWW. AND I MEAN HAVE THAT MAN CRYING, BEGGING, AND PLEADING. YES GAWDđ⌠someone put me out of my miseryđ i fear this movie shall be an obsession till mid year of next yearđ
Edit: this picture is literally me when I talk about any man that Iâve been obsessing over that easily has 10+ years over my 20 year old ass. What can I say a girls gotta rant about her new hyper fixation hottieđ
18 notes
¡
View notes
Text
When are all the writers on here gonna realize that Remmick is a touch starved lonely submissive loser? Like that man is dying to be let in and shown some love. I honestly think that he would fall to his knees if he was ever shown any kindness. He simply couldnât take it. Underneath that scary big bad wolf is a man that hasnât been shown love or kindness in a millennium and Iâm willing to bet that if you caressed his cheek and told him just how pretty he was heâd chub up bc heâs not used to it. I mean heâs been on his own for 1300+ years. I know for a fact that he isnât this demonic villainous devil that the movie portrayed him to be for the sake of an antagonist . Heâs actually a dog with separation anxiety thatâs blocking the door and full on whining for you not to leave him flipping on his back and barring his belly at you for a few quick pets hoping to make you forget just why you have to leave home in the first place.
The whole reason Iâm posting this is bc I have an addiction to powerful men being nurtured into submission by their significant others⌠and bc Iâm so totally addicted to everything Jack OâConnell . I NEED SUB!REMMICK X DOM FEM READER ASAP. Im GNAWING at the bars of my encloser SEND HELP
837 notes
¡
View notes