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risingoftime · 4 days ago

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WHERE HE WAITS | LOUSTACK |

I heard your hearts dancing ᝰ.ᐟ

synopsis: Stack Moore is the man standing between Louis and Lestat. Blood, business, and something far more dangerous than desire.

The smell of New Orleans was different than Chicago. It was sweet with rot and jasmine, steeped in music and magic. Stack didn’t like it at first. The way it made his cigarette smoke hang longer. But the city grew on him, like moss, like a wound you stopped minding.

Tonight was different from most nights for Stack; Mary had just left him, and he was on the hunt for the vampire responsible for the dent in the food supply. He was following blood. Not fresh blood, old blood. The kind that clung to walls long after the body was gone. He’d been in juke joints, card rooms, even back alleys behind brothels. But tonight, the trail led him to a narrow street with no name, where the gaslights flickered like they knew something was coming. And there he was.

All dressed in his Sunday's best, like mourning never left him. Candlelight spilled from an open window, catching on the edge of his cheekbone. He looked less like a man and more like a question with sharp teeth to Stack.

"You following me?" Louis asked, not turning his head. Just spoke it softly, like he already knew.

"I don’t follow. I hunt." Stack didn’t blink.

Louis let out a slow, bitter laugh. "You think I’m a meal?"

Stack stepped closer. "No. I think you’re what’s been leaving bodies all over the city. Just wanted to see if the bloodsucker wore silk."

"And if I am?" Louis turned then, his eyes were dark like the night sky.

Stack’s grin curled. "Then maybe I’ll let you teach me something." They stood there, the tension between them like a loaded gun. Louis stepped forward, hands behind his back like he didn’t need them to kill.

"You’re like us. The only way I was able to figure it out was now. I could feel your presence from a mile away," he said. It wasn’t a question.

Stack’s voice dropped an octave. "Well, I ain’t go flaunting it around like you do."

"Then you haven’t been paying attention."

And just like that, the street seemed quieter, waiting to see who would flinch first.

Louis’s eyes dragged over Stack slowly, like he was trying to read him, and his expression shifted between amusement and disdain. "I’ve heard of you, you know," Louis said, finally breaking the silence.

"Stack Moore. The man turning sweat and sound into gold. You manage that juke joint down the street."

Stack raised a brow, a bit taken aback by Louis's knowledge of you. "So you’ve been tunin’ to the gossip."

"Yeah, it seems my brothels are rather quiet these days. Yours, on the other hand…" Louis let his voice trail off, his gaze lazily roaming over Stack's imposing figure again with an interest he hadn't had in a while. The frustration building within him, courtesy of Lestat, needed an outlet. This moment felt like the perfect escape for the night.

He took another step forward, now chest to chest, close enough that Stack could smell whatever cologne Louis wore; it was undoubtedly rich and expensive.

"… is anything but."

Stack didn’t step back. “Business booms where people feel safe enough to do what they like to do in the dark.” Stack let out a small chuckle at the innuendo. "I’m just good at what I do. "

"I don’t doubt it," Louis said softly, "I’d like to continue this conversation somewhere less… uncovered."

Stack has heard of Louis de Pointe du Lac as well. It was a mouthful for him to recount his name, the Black people here were so pretentious 'bout shit like names. Where Stack came from, you just hoped that you would wake up to live another day. Stack leaned in slightly, testing the tension between them. "This is where you lure men into your lair, pretty boy? Talk numbers and slip in a little neck?"

Stack ran a hand into his pockets to grab a cigarette and a lighter. He lit it with ease, exhaling smoke from the corner of his mouth before continuing. "Just to let you know, I don’t usually take invitations from men in prettier shirts than mine."

"You think I’m trying to charm you?" Louis smiled, faintly at what Stack was hinting at.

"I know you are," Stack said, lips curling. "But let’s get one thing straight. I like pussy."

Louis walked deeper into the alleyway, his back turned as if Stack’s declaration didn’t bother him.

"And yet," Louis said, not looking at him, "you still stalk me!"

"Curiosity’s a hell of a thing." Stack laughed more to himself, as flashbacks of that night last year. The last time we could watch the sun, the last time he was with his brother. If only he hadn’t been so easily swayed by Mary.

"Temptation’s a hell of a thing too," Louis added. Stack was now trying to be in step with him; this wasn’t the point of his finding Louis. He was supposed to be telling him to get off his territory, not striking up a conversation.

"I live just a few blocks from here," he said without looking back. "One drink! You owe me for lost revenue."

"Just so we clear, I don’t owe you nothin’, not a damn thing." Stack hesitated momentarily, habitually brushing his thumb over his belt where his revolver was. "You always talk business this late?" he asked.

"Only the dangerous ones."

That got a grin out of Stack. "You think I’m dangerous?" Stack continued matching his pace, not because he was curious or cautious. But because Louis wasn't what he expected, and it's been a while since he ran into someone similar to him in more ways than most.

"I know you are," Louis murmured, stepping closer. "I can smell it on you. Violence, ambition… the kind of hunger that doesn’t die easily."

Stack’s jaw twitched. "You ain’t exactly soft yourself."

Stack hadn’t expected the vampire’s house to feel like this. The inside of Louis' house looked like a museum. Filled with decor that seemed as old as time itself. Velvet red drapes covered the windows, and the self-portraits of Lestat and Louis bore into Stack's soul with their inhuman stares. Their gazes followed them like hounds on a scent, sharp and unblinking. Candlelight flickered against skin, and the wineglasses glinted like blood.

Louis stood near the fireplace, his presence a strange blend of elegance and quiet threat. Stack swallowed hard. Something stirred behind his eyes, resentment maybe? Or was it desire, confusion, or interest? He looked at Louis, really looked. The way his mouth curled around danger, at the elegance wrapped around centuries of grief.

"…Fuck it," Stack muttered. "One drink."

Louis handed him the glass, their fingers brushing. "Good," he said. "Just one."

They both knew it was a lie.

taglist | @marley1773 @iheartamora @childishgambinaax @klssngss @sinnersappreciation @fadingbelieverexpert @carriemill @blankface333 @slugstarzz @king-cookiex @theelusivemidnighthoe @spicyscorpioo @xxx-aurora-swirls @riellarielle25 @z0mmba3 @remmickcherie @casarahsisland

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risingoftime · 6 days ago

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SANCTIFIED LIES | REMMICK X READER | PART TWO

synopsis: they say the devil drinks blood and hides in the woods just past the burned-down church. But you know better, the devil wears charm like cologne. The devil has hands that once pulled you from a fire. The devil kisses like he remembers every version of you and mourns each one. You should run. When he looks at you like you’re the last beautiful thing left in this godforsaken town, the hate dissolves on your tongue, and all you can taste is the ghost of his mouth sweet with lies.

18+ mdni, mentions of the KKK & racism, remmick has a saviour complex, explicit sexual content, blood play, predator & prey, vampirism, biting, rough sex, southern gothic erotica, reader is a hoodoo practitioner, slow burn, fire, manipulation, swearing, spit kink, dirty talk (remmick knows how to talk a girl through it), oral, face fucking.

The taste of blood filled your mouth as you pumped your legs to take you further than you had ever been before. Your lungs felt as if they would combust at any moment. Branches clawed at your arms like jealous hands, and the thick Delta heat clung to your skin, sticky. But you didn’t stop. You couldn’t stop. Behind you, something moved with unnatural grace, silent but sure as a living nightmare gliding through the trees. You didn’t know how long you’d been running. Time felt stretched, twisted. The trees had blurred into shadows, the firelight swallowed whole by distance. Only the woods remained, dark and strange. You could barely make out the trees in front of you, let alone your surroundings.

Though you didn’t dare look back, you’d seen enough. The bag at your wrist, the protective herbs inside, warning you that what chased you wasn’t made of this world. And it knew your name. Your foot caught on a root, and you hit the ground hard, the impact rattling your entire being and knocking the wind from your chest. Before you could scramble to your feet, you felt him close in. Fuck me, out of all nights he had to find me is when i haven’t ran since I was a youngin’.

"Run all you like, baby girl. Ain’t nowhere in this world you can go where I won’t find you." His voice echoed from above your head, and tears pricked in your eyes from frustration. It was too dark to see, and your last good nightgown was muddy and torn. You pushed yourself up on trembling arms, every muscle screaming in protest. But before you could move again, he was there, Remmick and his old boots crunched down beside your hand, as if he changed his mind at the last minute not to step on you.

"Look at you," he murmured, getting low so that his face hovered above yours. His eyes gleamed, pupils like pinpricks in the dark. "Still tryin’ to outrun what’s already in your blood." He reached out, dragging a claw-tipped finger down your jaw with terrifying tenderness, smearing the dirt and sweat on your cheek. You jerked away, but he only chuckled low in his throat, like thunder rolling over wet earth.

"One day," he said, voice dipped in lust and mockery, "you won’t be runnin’ from me. One day, that skin of yours, it’s gon’ thrum with joy when I touch it. Gonna sing for me. Beg me not to stop." His smile was wicked and wide enough to flash fangs. "And the worst part?" he whispered, leaning closer, breathing hot on your neck. "You’ll mean it."

You swung at him instinctively, but he easily caught your wrist, laughing like he had all the time in the world. “Feisty,�� he growled, licking a drop of blood from his thumb. “Just how I like ‘em.” Your wrist burned where he touched you, not from his grip, but from something beneath your skin, an ability that has been long asleep. Although you didn’t know how you slowed the burn of the fire back at your house, your blood remembered how to stave off his unwanted touch.

It started with sound. A low vibration in your ears, like a hymn sung by the earth, wordless and ancient. It wasn't yours, not entirely, but it lived in you. Rooted in the marrow, passed through the womb and will, carried down from every woman in your bloodline who had worked by moonlight and murmured to dirt.

As Remmick touched you, that drone grew louder, until it drowned out the pounding of your heart. Your body seized up in recognition. The mojo bag split on impact, spilling its contents into the soil, grains of salt, dirt from your grandmother’s grave, wood dust from the cabin, and a lock of hair braided. The ground hissed where it landed. The air shuddered. And then your skin lit from the inside, golden and smouldering through your veins like sunlight poured into cracks. Remmick’s hand jerked away as if burned, smoke rising from his palm. "Shit," he spat, stumbling back. "What the hell are you?" Your eyes rolled back, and the whites turned gold, glowing with the strength of ten thousand prayers whispered. Your feet dug into the earth, and the wind circled you violently, lifting your hair and snapping the hem of your nightdress like a flag.

A sound tore free from the base of your throat, a raw and guttural scream, part chant. The trees bowed in response to your vocals, crying out to the wild. Remmick fell to one knee, claw fingers twitching as he tried to rise. "They told me you were sleeping," he growled, eyes wild. "Didn’t say the whole goddamn Delta would rise with you."

He grinned, blood staining his teeth. "But I like this game even more now."

The power howled through you and cracked open inside your chest. Your fingers twitched in the dirt, still gritty with grave dust and salt, but the bag was gone, burned, broken beneath you. You could still hear the echo of your scream in your ears. You didn’t know what you had called, only that something had answered. Your legs trembled and your head throbbed as you swayed and felt your chest heaving, pulsing up through your soles like a second heartbeat. The power was retreating fast from you, like a wave pulled back to sea, but its imprint remained in your insides like the sand remembers the ripples of water.

Remmick rose slowly, unsteady, but not done yet. Smoke curled from his skin, and his pitch black eyes watched you with something sick and awed. "They always said your line was blessed," he murmured, wiping blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.

"I don’t want this," you said, more to yourself than to him. "I didn’t ask for any of this."

"But you were born for it," Remmick said, his voice low, almost admiring. "The Delta doesn’t care what you want. It only cares what you are."

You clenched your fists. "And what’s that?"

His grin widened, cruel and awestruck. "The last goddamn rootworker this land will ever need." Your breath hitched. Rootworker. The word rang through your being like a loud, undeniable bell struck at your birth, a weaver of thread, fate, blood, and bone.

You opened your mouth, but Remmick stepped forward, the waft of burnt flesh met your nose, and you scrunched up your face.

"Doesn’t matter if you meant to awaken or not," he said, voice dripping with hunger. "Power like yours doesn’t stay buried long. And technically…" He gave a little shrug, as if the whole damn thing amused him. "I’ve caught you."

"Caught me?" Your pulse jumped.

Remmick’s grin sharpened. "You screamed. You rose. You answered the call. And I was the one who drew it outta you. You’re tied to me now, girl."

"No," you said, backing away. "That ain’t how it works—"

"Ain’t it?" he cut in, stalking closer. "You think those charms kept me out? You think the salt and grave dust held me back? Baby, I let you think that. I needed you to believe you were safe. That way, when the fire touched your grandmama’s house, it’d wake what was sleeping. And oh, did it wake." The wind had calmed, but the air buzzed like static.

You could still feel your power coiled inside you, tense, ready, terrified. "I ain’t yours," you spat.

Remmick leaned in, close enough for you to smell smoke again. "Not yet. But the binding’s begun. You know it. I know it. Hell, even the dirt knows it." He touched the center of your chest, right above your sternum, with the tip of his nail. You flinched as a spark leapt from your skin to his. He grinned, "And when you come into your full self, when that golden light pours out of you like it did tonight, you’ll beg for someone who can hold it without burning completely. That ain’t gonna be some church boy with a cross on his chest."

You smacked his hand away, voice trembling with fury. "You don’t get to claim me."

He chuckled, stepping back into the dark like it was made for him. "I don’t have to. I just aim to be the one who survives you."

You didn’t see him move. One second, he was calmly standing in front of you. Next, his hand was on your throat, not tight, not choking, but forcing you into submission. His palm was still hot, as if the burn from earlier hadn’t fully cooled, but it had already healed.

"Time to go," Remmick whispered, his mouth at your ear, voice edged. "Nana’s house won’t protect you anymore. She’s served her purpose.” The kind of silence that follows finality. You struggled, legs kicking against the loose-packed soil, your voice caught behind clenched teeth. But it was no use. Remmick lifted you with impossible ease, cradling your body like you were something sacred and breakable. "Don’t fight me, girl," he muttered, almost tender. "You think you’re running from the devil, but the devil ain’t never looked at you like I do."

You punched at him, a wild swing, desperate. "Put me down! This is my home. My grandmother’s house—"

"Your grandmother ain’t here," he said, his voice harsh, cutting like a switch. "And she’d be the first to tell you. You've been living in the ghost of what once was. That house? It’s a grave! You keep digging up shit, trying to make them breathe again."

He turned toward the woods, toward the places where the map ends and the hushed stories from the elders begin. The places your family told you to never set foot in. He carried you into the thick dark where even the crickets held their breath.

Your scream broke free again, raw and furious, but the trees only echoed it back. And the Delta swallowed you whole. He carried you like a groom might, if the wedding was cursed and the bride was already halfway to damnation.

You writhed in his grip, breath hitching. "Put me down."

"I plan to," he said, "But not until I show you where you belong."

As he zipped past the untamed wild, the forest peeled open like a secret just for him, just for you. And there it was, his home, or should you say mansion. An old mansion, too perfect to be real. Vines clung to the railings like lovers unwilling to let go. The glass in the windows gleamed, catching every moonlight shimmer. It was grand, silent, too well-kept for something left alone in the Delta. At the moment, you weren’t sure what was worse, a house haunted by spirits, or one haunted by him. He pushed the door open with his foot and stepped inside. The place didn’t creak, and it didn’t groan like yours.

"You live here?" you asked, breath catching as your bare feet hit cool marble.

He finally set you down, his hand lingering at the small of your back. "What? Not what you pictured?" His voice curled with that accent, Irish, smooth as whiskey, all slow vowels. "Thought I’d be sleepin’ in the dirt somewhere, did ya?"

You hadn’t thought much about where he had been lurking all this time. But you wouldn’t have pictured him living somewhere luxurious if you had.

"This place belonged to no one when I found it. I kept it and fixed it up. Needed somewhere quiet." His hand trailed along the banister. You noted that Remmick didn’t ask for permission when he escorted you inside. His actions made it clear he was always going to bring you here. The door shut behind you, and it felt as if your fate was sealed. He didn’t lock it, cause there was nothing for him to fear; predators never worry about the cage. You stood barefoot on the cool marble floor, nightdress clinging damp to your body, breathing too loudly in the hush of the house.

"You drag all your food home," you muttered, forcing your voice steady, “or just the ones stupid enough to stand their ground?” He turned slowly, "just the ones who bare their teeth when they should run." He stepped toward you, and you stepped back. "That’s it. You feel it now, don’t you?"

"I feel your delusion," you said, even as your spine brushed the wall, heat coiling low in your stomach.

He laughed, low and dark. "That’s not what that is, love. That’s instinct. The kind your blood tries to ignore, but your body remembers."

"You don’t scare me." Your lips curled in disgust.

"No," he whispered. "I thrill you."

The word hit deeper than it should’ve. You hated how your breath hitched, how your knees felt loose. "I could take you right here," he murmured, eyes half-lidded. "But where’s the fun in that?"

He leaned in, mouth nearly brushing your ear. "It’s so much better when they beg for it."

And then, just like that, he stepped away, unbothered, unrushed, turning his back to you.

"Guest room’s down the hall," he said over his shoulder, voice already cooling. "If you want to play nice." A beat passed. "Or," he added, looking back with fire behind his eyes, "you can come upstairs, where I sleep."

Remmick wasted no time retreating to his quarters. It didn’t come as a surprise that he would take his time to give you a tour of his lair. You turned down the hall, heart pounding like you’d just run for your life. The guest room door creaked open under your hand, and the first thing you noticed was how clean everything was. Inside, you could find crisp sheets, a robe, a nightie, a candle lit and a glass of water waiting for you on the nightstand. He prepared for this, making your stomach turn because it reminded you how much you could still feel his presence. The weight of his stare. The brush of his fingers at your throat. The filthy, honest things he said without blinking.

"It’s so much better when they beg for it."

God help you. You hated how those words clung to your skin more than your dress.

You paced the room once, twice, trying to shake it off, but your body remembered. Your body didn’t want love or tenderness, just the raw violence of being seen and wanted back. You sat on the edge of the bed for what felt like forever, just breathing. Trying to piece together the hours, no, the weeks that led you here. You lifted the linen nightgown that was laid out beside you.

"Of course," you muttered, pulling it out with a bitter laugh. "Why wouldn’t he have a fresh gown in the exact size of the girl he kidnapped?" You peeled off your socks and gown and cringed at their state. There were two additional doors in the guest room, one probably leading to a bathroom, you hoped.

"He brings me out to the middle of nowhere, shoves me in his house like I’m some goddamn stray cat, then stares at me like he wants to take a bite outta me." You pulled the gown over your head. It smelled like cedar and cotton. What does he want?"

You caught your reflection in the mirror, and your hair pointed in every direction as you pulled twigs from your untamed curls. Your collarbone marked faintly where he’d touched you. It looked like heat was beneath your skin now; his presence lit a slow-burning fuse inside you.

"He says I burn. Says he likes it." You paused, scoffing. "What's that even mean?"

You moved to the small vanity in the corner and found a folded cloth you didn't trust but used to wipe your face anyway. "He talks like I’m already his. Like this place already knows me. Like I’m supposed to just… stay." You shook your head and leaned on the edge of the table. "Stay and what? Be a pet? Be a woman he can drag around when he’s bored?" You paused.

The words hit hard. You weren’t afraid of men. You weren’t afraid of devils. But you were scared of how he saw you, like he knew things about you that you didn’t know yet.

You turned back to the bed, slowly pulling the sheets down. The mattress dipped under your weight, but you didn’t get under the covers. Still sitting upright, arms wrapped around your knees, eyes trained on the closed door across the room. Unsure if you wanted it to stay closed… Or swing open.

part one | taglist | @marley1773 @iheartamora @childishgambinaax @klssngss @remmickcherie @sinnersappreciation @fadingbelieverexpert @carriemill @blankface333 @slugstarzz @king-cookiex @theelusivemidnighthoe @spicyscorpioo @xxx-aurora-swirls @riellarielle25 @z0mmba3 @emilia-the-artist @casarahsisland @avidreader73

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