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lefteagleblizzard · 1 day 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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