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taintandviolent · 3 days ago

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the flesh is weak ; Remmick x reader

summary: You had a happy, pretty life with your husband, living in your sweet lil' home in the Mississippi Delta. Everything was warm and sweet until it wasn't. Until your husband went missing. A few weeks later, a stranger appears at your door, claiming he knows an awful lot about your husband. And you. It's been so long since you've known the touch of a man...

word count & w a r n i n g s: 4.8K | female reader, smut, unprotected sex, brief religious themes, mentions of death/grief/mourning, mental/sexual coercion, manipulation (remmick preying on a mourning woman), monster fucking, vampires, vampire sex, vampire hive mind, shameless pussy eating (cos Remmick is a munch and we all know it), spit/salivia mention, spit kink, scent kink, biting, blood drinking, blood loss.

a/n: I'm not even going to try to explain myself, y'all know the drill by now. something something not immune to vampires something something obsessed with the vampire hive mind idea and Remmick eating pussy. not beta-read, we die like men. banner by @/saradika-graphics!

↓ fic under cut! ↓ / ao3 link here! / I don’t have a taglist anymore, but please turn on post notifications if you’d like to be notified of future fics!

You'd been happy, the two of you. You really had.

It was springtime, nearing summer, where the days felt like they grew hotter and longer, when the nights wouldn't cool off either. You had met Wade at the market. You both reached for the same can of corn and touched fingertips, an electric current passing through you two. The way he looked at you, and the way that you shyly, through thick lashes, looked back at him. Neither of you said a word for a good moment, until Wade finally introduced himself. Everyone and their mother talks about love at first sight, but no one dares talk about the fiery connection when you touch your lover for the first time. A connection built on physical touch, on lust, on want.

It was a whirlwind romance after that, and before you knew it, you were married, joined under the good Lord, and he'd bought you a house with a porch and a dog. A shepherd.

Warm summer days were spent in the Mississippi Delta, in your quaint little home, set about twenty-five minutes outside town. He'd treated you better than you'd ever imagined a man could, made you feel like an angel on Earth. But the way he fucked you… was anything but holy.

Your nights were spent in passion, bodies entangled together like the branches of the trees outside your window, swaying back and forth like dancing lovers. You explored every inch of him, and he, every inch of you. There wasn't a freckle on either body that the other didn't know about, and you'd never experienced such happiness in your life.

Then… one night, after a particularly heated coupling, he'd just left. Kissed your forehead before lumbering out the front door to smoke a cigarette. The dog had followed him outside. And they never came back. Ever. It had been two weeks.

You assumed the worst — Wade didn't love you. He was just lookin' for an escape, for a clean way out. The marriage had been a mistake — too quick maybe — and he took the first opportunity to leave. He could've at least said goodbye, given you that last scrap of dignigty. Instead, he kissed your forehead and said, "I'll be right back, sweetheart."

You never thought for a minute that something bad had happened to him. He was a grown man, always took care of himself. Nothin' bad woulda' happened to that man.

So, here you sit, in your empty little house. It's not a home anymore, only the bones remain — tall and lanky and changing with the shadows that dance across the walls, moonlight filtering in through your lace curtains. You're nursing a cup of black coffee even though the sun's just gone down. It's as bitter as you are, drowning in your own sorrows and loneliness. The damn dog hadn't even stayed. Never liked you as much as he did Wade, really. You let out a plaintive sigh, bringing the cup to your mouth.

Outside, the wood of your porch creaks under some undisclosed weight. You set the cup down and abruptly scoot your chair back, standing upright. With your house being out of the way, visitors were rare, unless they were explicitly invited. Your attention's on the door, and though it's closed, you can feel the presence behind it, burning through the wood like an iron pressed against the grain.

You hesitate, staring at the door like you can see through it.

"Hello?" As though they can hear you.

Another creak.

You take careful steps forward until you're hesitating in front of the door. Your fingers wrap 'round the knob, twist it and pull it towards you with a sharp motion. The warm, humid night air rushes in, settling heavy on your exposed skin like a sheet that hasn't quite dried yet. The sounds of nighttime fill the space between you and the stranger, and your breath catches in your throat.

At first glance, there's nothing unusual about him; he's dressed like any other man. Light blue cotton shirt, suspenders, dark slacks. Put together. He's standing at the bottom of your porch, one foot perched awkwardly on the first step.

"Can I help ya'?" Your voice is laced with expectancy.

"Ah, I been walkin' an awful long time. Yer' the first one to answer."

You find that odd; you didn't answer anything. He didn't knock.

"Can ya' find it in yer' heart to let me in n' spare a glass of water, ma'am?"

He has a chain round his neck. Reminds you strongly of the one that Wade used to wear. The one that used to sway in front of your face as he fucked you, the one that you'd reach up and wrap your finger around, careful not to break it, but just tight enough to yank him closer.

You blink, coming back to reality just as the forest seems to loom forward around the stranger, but in an eeriely inviting sort of way, like a pair of giant hands beckoning you to just step into them. Something settles in your stomach and your eyes flit to Wade's shotgun leaning up against the door frame. The man notices this and shakes his head once.

"Now, don't go an' do that. Ain't necessary, ma'am." He whispers your name like a prayer, so quiet that you almost don't catch it. Almost.

"How you know my name? Huh?"

"I'm Remmick."

You furrow your brows. You hadn't asked his name, and you didn't want to know it. "I asked you a question. How d'you know my name?"

This must amuse him because a smile splits his face. He lifts his hands, feigning innnocence, and zeroes his gaze in on your features. He scans over them, one by one, and nods slowly.

"Well, ain't you every bit as pretty as he said you'd be…?"

The look on his face told you that he intended it to be a compliment, but something about it landed oddly. Made your skin crawl. "I beg your pardon?"

"Wade," he responds, defending himself. "I was just sayin' how he —"

"Wade?" You perk up like a dog. The name derails your intensity, and your gaze drops just slightly. Your question is breathless, desperate and mournful. "You talk to him?"

"Ohhh… Wade and I go way back," he says, sliding his finger underneath the suspender at his shoulder, pulling it forward. He pauses a minute and allows it to snap softly back into place. "Real shame he ain't with us no more."

No. God have mercy on his soul. That was the last thing you wanted to hear from a stranger's mouth. You're so grief-stricken that you don't even think to ask why Wade never mentioned this man.

"He… what happened to him?"

The man's brows pinch together as though he's filled with sorrow over what he's about to say. "Messed with the wrong sort of folks."

Your heart seizes in your chest, a desperate pump of blood to remind you of your husband and how much you missed him. The closure you didn't want, the closure you never expected. You dip your chin to your chest, trying to hide your disappointment, the feelings of grief. It takes a moment, but you harden. You force healin' over all those searin' open wounds and straighten up, setting your shoulders. If there was one thing Wade would've wanted…

"Well, you may've known my Wade, but I don't know you and —"

"Oh, but I know you," he says low. "I know everything about you, darlin'."

You furrow your brows in disbelief, taking a step back from the door. "No you don't."

"Sure… sure, I do. I know everything that Wade knew."

Not missing a beat, he takes a step forward, and something lurches in your stomach. Something that moves like fear, but tastes like longing.

Your grip on the doorknob loosens, and a shudder, a chill runs down your spine like cool water. Given the heat of the night, it ain't exactly unpleasant. Or unwelcomed.

"I know how you like to be kissed, from yer' neck to between that beautiful chest uh' yours… those soft n' tender kisses behind yer' ear, whisperin' about how bad yer' wanted. That spot behind your knee that makes you whine like a banshee. How you like it when you finally get to it. Rough."

His accent hangs heavy on that last word, the 'R' pronounced harder than usual.

You snap to attention, looking the man in the eye. They're dark, and seem to catch the moonlight in an odd way that chills your very bones. He wasn't wrong, and that was all well and good, but Wade would never tell anyone that. Wade would never divulge anything 'bout his personal life to anyone, no matter how convincing they were. Wade was a private person, and he stood by his secrets. Your facial expression doesn't deter the man at all. He continues, taking a step up onto your porch.

"…how you like to be eaten. How good you taste when you're screamin'. So, why don't you let me in and I'll see if he's good on his word?"

That chill returns, but you promptly feel a betraying heat pooling between your legs, soaking into the cotton fibers of your panties.

"You gotta' lot nerve, Remmick." His name falls off your lips like an expletive, a stark difference to the way he whispered your name.

He just smiles. Nods. Takes another step up onto the porch.

"Just let me in, and I'll show you what else I got."

You're suddenly lingering at the threshold, leaning forward as though you're prepped to wrap your arms around him and pull him in for a kiss like a lover who had just returned from a long day's work. There's a pulling in your feet, your limbs seem to float towards him, as if he's willing them to him. Maybe he is.

I'm nothing if not strong, you think.

"I'm not… I won't."

"Sure you will. You ain't gotta' be afraid. I can make all that hurt go away. All that pain in yer' soul…"

There was pain. Lots of it. Plenty of it. You were lonely. Hungry. Desperate. And stood in front of you was a man that could smell it, and according to him, ease it. Something deep in your soul, rooted down like an old Cypress tree, told you that this was the closest thing to Wade you'd ever get again.

Remmick holds your gaze tight, coiling around you like a serpent — tighter and tighter as the seconds drag on. Something feels wrong, but something else feels right enough to make you forget the wrong thing. Your momma' woulda' warned you about men like this, if she was still with you.

You hadn't gone to church since Wade left, so you weren't in good graces, you knew that. Still, you bite your lip, clasping your hands at your breast as a last shot attempt at redemption, at some sort of understanding or forgiveness for the sins that slither in your mind. You lift your head to the heavens, and even though your lids snap closed, tears welling at the corners, you speak to the dark skies above in a hushed tone, barely above a whisper. "Watch and pray so that you will not fall into temptation. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak."

Remmick grins and takes yet another step, like a man who knows he's already won the game. He's standing at your doorway now, hands tucked in his pockets.

"Let me in, won'tcha'?"

You open your mouth to speak again, to protest with your new found courage from the heavens, but instead, all that comes out is a squeak of a breath.

"I'll beg if need be…" His tongue glides appentently across his bottom lip.

"Wade used to beg," you say, forlornly.

"I know it." Remmick says, nodding, his eyes sweeping over the curves of your body, memorizing them, tasting them with his gaze. "For a sweet thing like you? He had good reason, I reckon."

With that, he says your name over and over again, longing braided into his voice. "Please, baby… don't you tease me like this."

Just like Wade used to say. Just like Wade used to say when you'd playfully deny him what he wanted most; your sweet, glistening cunt. Just like Wade used to say when you'd swat him away and he'd fall to his knees, pressing his face in between yours. Nuzzling between your kneecaps, forcing them apart, the feeling of his stubble scratching at your soft, plush skin as he pushed his way towards his goal. You missed that. You missed the feeling of being wanted… needed.

"Gimmie' what I want, baby… c'mon."

Hot tears prick at your eyes and well up in the corners. "S-stop…"

"Sure sounds good, don't it?"

You inhale sharply at his question, and nod. You can't deny him that answer, even if your whole body is screaming at you to.

"When's the last time you had someone appreciate you, darlin'? Huh?"

Though it's unspoken, he knows the answer and so do you.

"Just—" he starts, hardly getting the word out before you're cutting him off.

"Come in."

The flesh is weak.

Your hands fall from your chest, shocked at your own feeble resolve. The failure stings like a mad hornet when Remmick closes in the distance between you two, leisurely. Like he's got all the time in the world. He wastes no time in getting close to you, though. Real close. Too close.

He smells like iron, dirt and lust — something cloyingly sweet that makes your knees buckle. You know damn well what you smell like; the impure fragrance of desire seeps from your pores with the sweat and that smell has his nostrils flaring as soon as he's next to you. You're like a ripe peach, hanging low in front of his mouth. He parts his lips, exhaling over them as he nears you, presses his body against your warm one. You can feel the planes of his body through his clothes, and you know he can feel your soft, supple body underneath your thin sundress.

He's taking you in lungfuls, savoring you like he knew he would. You didn't know it, but everything he'd gained from your now late husband drove him crazy. He'd become obsessed with you from memories alone, memories he longed to run his tongue over, slowly, ravenously. For two weeks, he'd craved you in ways he understood deeply. A craving that he had to sate.

Your wanton gaze falls to his lips and it's then that you notice he's drooling. Really drooling. Not just wet around the lips — a generous stream of thick saliva cascades steadily from the corner of his mouth. It frightens you, but not as much as the way you want to kiss him. That terrifies you. He sees you looking at the spit, but he doesn't bother to wipe it away. If he has his way, you'll be adding to it any second.

The feeling returns. The pulling feeling. It's deep, and tugs at your cunt in a pulsing grip. Remmick lifts his hand slowly, inching it towards you and you watch, wordlessly, as his fingertips near your feverish skin, tiny beads of sweat pooling up in the hollows of your collarbone. He runs those fingers delicately along your exposed skin, just underneath your neck. Your skin immediately flushes with heat in response, growing hot under his touch.

You shudder against the feeling of skin against skin. For someone who experienced the finer pleasures of the flesh on a daily basis, you were hungry, you'd been deprived for days and she longed to feel it again.

"He woulda' wanted you to be happy, y'know." As he speaks, his lips brush the delicately sensitive skin of your neck, trailing along it with chaste kisses. His tongue slips past his lips, dragging along the length of your neck.

The tiniest moan tumbles off your lips, hanging weighted in emptiness of your house. You feel her clench between your legs, leaking betrayal as your hand climbs to his shoulder, supporting some of the burdensome weight of your arousal.

He was so convincing when he spoke like that, playing to your worries and fears. Or maybe it was the way he was kissin' you. Maybe it didn't matter how he was talkin' or what he was sayin', maybe all that mattered was that he was touchin' you.

You tilt your head to the side, allowing him more room and his hands find your hips, taking fistfuls of your cotton dress in his hands. He starts kissing your neck in a way that almost overwhelms you; feverishly, hungrily, and quickly — kiss after kiss, smeared against the column of your neck. He continues his assault, but climbs towards your chin, then up to your mouth. He grips your jaw with his thumb and forefinger, pulling it down and opening your mouth. Without warning, he licks into your mouth and your lids flutter, tantalized by the sensation. His mouth is wet and inviting, and when he leans in, sealing his mouth with yours, you moan down his throat, making a fist in his shirt. You feel the sweat dripping down the length of your spine, feel the dampness of your dress as it absorbs it all.

Your tongue darts out to lap up the flow of saliva that coats his chin. A string of it stretches from your mouth to his as you pull back, just for a moment, just to breathe. There's something deeply sinister in his taste, something that you don't want to think too hard about. Something that leaves you breathless and wanting more. So you do. You lick at his bottom lip hungrily, and he catches your lip with his teeth, biting down just enough to cause pain. Any harder and he would've drawn blood.

Remmick's other hand winds around your back, holding you with a tight grip. It's the kind of grip that says you ain't gonna' make it to that front door. So you don't try. You aren't sure you even want to, because the way he's walking you backwards has your core muscles tightening in a way that you haven't felt in weeks. Anticipation.

"I wanna' taste that honey he talked so fondly of…"

You hit the wood of the table, and Remmick's urging you up onto it before you can protest. The half-empty coffee cup gets shoved off the edge and shatters, black liquid seeping into the floorboards like blood. Neither of you seem to notice.

Remmick continues talking, buttering you up and praising your body before he's even had the chance to taste it. It's working. You're slick and ready, wordlessly begging for him.

You prop yourself up on your elbows as you get comfortable, digging your heels into the surface of the table. The sound of your shallow, wanton breaths fills the small room, and Remmick presses his chest against your shins, reaching around your thighs to hitch your dress up around your hips. Greedy hands reach under the fabric, finding the hem of your underwear. With an esurient touch, he reaches between your legs and curls his fingers around the damp fabric, twisting it tight and tugging it down your legs. You hum at the quick brush of his knuckles against your swollen clit, bucking your hips forward. Remmick discards them, allowing them to fall lifelessly to the floor next to his feet.

His long, lithe fingers trail around your kneecap, and dip back, touching the sensitive flesh behind them. Your back arches, fingers clawing at the wood.

Without another thought, your legs drop open for him, revealing your aching, wet center. Having felt the movement, he raises a curious brow, looking between your bodies. "What's this now?"

He's looking at you, waiting. Waiting for you to explain yourself. Your chest heaves with breaths, but you don't answer; you ain't got nothing to say. You're done talking with your mouth. Your gaze bores into his, fiery and intense and filled with the desperation that your lips don't convey. His eyes widen, just for a moment, and you know he understands.

With one firm tug, he pulls you to the edge of the table — your back slides against the smoothed wood like butter. With his gaze locked on his target, Remmick lowers himself down between your legs one knee at a time, situating his face right in front of your cunt. The proximity has you reeling, writhing on the table like a cat in heat. You hear a low chuckle and feel the rush of his breath as he speaks, washing over your skin. "Well, ain't that just the prettiest thing I ever did see… you got yerself' worked up nice n' good."

It wasn't you. It was him.

You try to feel embarrassed, to feel shame, but the only thing that sizzles in your system is your pride. You're proud that he's about to do what he wants with you, proud that you're already wet for him.

You watch him between your legs as he looks at her, tilting his head to and fro, leaning in and inhaling your personal scent. He's clearly not keen on disguising his lust as his dark, glimmering eyes roll back in his head, jaw hanging slack. Another stream of drool. Fear bubbles up in your gut, but Remmick's fingers scratch it away as he grips the sides of your hips, kneading your flesh. Your head lolls back between your shoulders, heavy, as his tongue slips out to taste you, licking a slow stripe from your entrance to your clit. Your essence coats his tongue, pulling a low, gratified growl from his throat. Wade used to growl, but not like that. You ain't never heard a man growl like that.

You lift your gaze and your chest fills with air as Remmick presses his mouth into your cunt, lapping at it. Your next exhale comes out as a moan, and he digs in deeper, tongue stroking your clit, making your hips writhe unconsciously.

"Ah-ah, where you goin' now?" He asks, pulling you right back to the edge of the table. He knows better know, knows he can't leave that body unattended, so his hands, his fingers grip your hips tight, pressing them down into the wood. The table creaks underneath you, moans low like you do every time Remmick's dirty, hungry mouth seals to your cunt. The tip of his tongue encircles your clit, teasing it with single-minded precision. Pleasure. White, hot pleasure. The coil in your stomach winds tighter around itself, aching to snap. A few more passes of his tongue, and you'll be done for.

The curtain patterned moonlight stretches across your body, casting lacy shadows across your bare thighs, illuminating Remmick's fingers as they crawl around your skin like serpents, hunting for some unsuspecting prey.

The other starved beast, his tongue, delves further down into your slickened entrance, scooping back some of the nectar that wells up to meet it. You hear him swallow wetly, and close your eyes, digging your head into the table.

"Oooh, yer' close, I can taste it," he says between swallows. His voice is lower now, lubricated with his own tangible desire. You really were everything Wade had given him. Every thought rang true. "Sweeter than a summer peach…"

You whimper loudly, fighting against his grip. "Don't stop…. don't you stop…"

Remmick lets out a surprised chuckle before pressing his mouth back to you, tongue first. He slips inside you, humming in pleasure as you clench around the welcome intrusion. His tongue thrusts a few times, fucking into you with an unbridled hunger, before he swallows again and returns his efforts to your clit.

And suddenly, you're lost in a tidal wave of pleasure. Waves of euphoria crashing over you, drowning you. Your toes curl, muscles seize up. There's nothing but the feeling of his tongue as it laps at your throbbing cunt. A ribbon of sweat descends from your hairline, winding down to the hollow of your shoulder.

Your chest heaves long, shallow breaths, but your eyes pierce his with a sluttish intensity. You never were satisfied with just one orgasm. You longed to feel the searing, shivering pain of overstimulation.

"Fuck me," you plead as you stretch the suspenders over the curves of his shoulders. "Fuck me hard."

Remmick's head cocks to the side, as if to ask for confirmation. When you don't reply, he hurriedly pulls his shirts from his trousers, exposing his pale, toned stomach. It heaves with laboured, hungry breaths as he reaches for his belt, the button of his slacks. Nimble fingers make quick work of them both, and before you can blink, he's pushed his trousers down. You blink a few times, focusing on his face and realize… he's changed. His mouth looks bigger somehow and it hangs open like a hungry beast's. Sharp, jagged fangs have replace his pearly whites, and when he reaches up to wipe your slick from his chin, his fingers are even longer than before, lengthed by sharp claws.

The man you let in wasn't a man at all, but it was too late for you to care. Your cunt was too wet for you to worry, to protest now. This is it, you think. This is how I die.

"I love me a woman with a healthy appetite," he snarls.

His body folds over yours. His leaking cockhead nudges your entrance, like it, too, needs permission to enter and who are you to deny it? His gaze searches yours, and though it's laden with desire, there's a longing, a question, underneath it all. His hips jerk, pressing the velvet hot tip harder against you and Remmick lets out a whine, something that sounds like pleading. You grip his shirt at the collar, pulling him closer to you. There's a comforting familiarity in your grip and for a moment, you're latched onto the collar of your lover. You sigh.

It's all he needs. In a single thrust, Remmick bottoms out, sinking himself deep into your hot, slick walls. His rhythm, when he finds it, has intention. The force of his thrusts shake your body, your breasts move against your ribs with every drive forward. The wooden table creaks in a singsong melody beneath you, a sinful hymn of your coupled desire.

Your hands grapple furiously for his shoulders, finding comfort in the toned muscles that meet your grip. You wrap both arms around his neck, pulling yourself closer to him, and Remmick nuzzles into your scent, breathing heavy.

Still sensitive from his tongue, it doesn't take long for you to climb and fall from a second orgasm, clenching tightly around his dick. Your cries fill the house, staining the walls and your legs shake in his grip when he doesn't relent. Remmick whines again and leans forward, whispering something in a language you don't understand. He leans over you, looming above you and deepends his thrusts, bullying your cervix with each one. The gold chain sways in front of your face, and your lids flutter close.

Thoughts of your husband feel far away, because as hungry as he was and as much as he claimed your body, he never fucked you like this. Above you, Remmick leans back, his hips continuing to snap hard against yours.

He calls you girl, calls you sweet and withdraws himself to the head. Gazes down at your swollen, used cunt. With a sharp breath, he plunges himself back in. His release is imminent, and with a few more thrusts, he finds it.

Remmick's hand lifts, clawed fingers curling around your soft jaw to pull it to the side. He leans forward again, presses his lips against the nape of your neck, smearing them against the sweaty skin. You can feel your pulse thudding, visible against the delicate flesh, and know he can too. You don't scream when his mouth opens against your skin, tongue lashing out to taste the succulent flesh one final time. A sickening, squelching sound of flesh tearing fills your ears, followed by a wet swallow. You wince hard as his fangs dig into your flesh, but ease into the sensation of Remmick's mouth as it suckles around the mangled, torn skin, drinking your blood down in gulps as your arteries pump it out. You feel the blood as it cascades down your back, warm. There's so much pain — white, hot fire — that your body begins to quiver. But just for a moment. A single moment.

Your head lolls first before the rest of your body goes slack. Fingers fall from his shoulder, twitching involtunarily. Remmick doesn't let you go, though, if anything — he holds you tighter. Closer. Sucking you down and draining you of your lifeblood.

As your lids flutter heavily, the last image burned into them is his monstrous visage, and the last sensation is the gentle feeling of clawed cupping your face, stroking your sweaty cheek with his thumb.

"That's it," he insists. "Rest a while, darlin'."

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