#Remmick Stack Mary and Bo Chow on the other hand...

[moonlitrapture]

Selling souls for dollars? 4/30?

Warnings : Smut,Gore , Murder , Black mail , Stalking , Manipulation & obsession, Mentions of substance use. Dark themes , Angst , Emotional abuse, Dub con.

A/n: 🥲 sorry for being absent for a lil, getting ready for prom next week .

————-

The club pulsed low with tension. The usual rhythm of clinks, laughter, and grinding bass was off-beat — like the building itself could sense that something was wrong.

You stood behind the bar with Annie, quietly rinsing out glasses neither of you planned to serve. Every now and then, you’d both glance toward the back — where Bo Chow, Stack, and Smoke had set up what was starting to feel less like a staff meeting and more like a war room.

Bo’s voice was hushed but sharp. “Somebody knew the drop schedule. Somebody fed that to Remmick.”

Stack slammed his hand down on the table. “We don’t got a mole,” he snapped. “We got a fuckin’ ghost.”

Smoke didn’t look up. He was quiet, jaw tight, fingers drumming on the table like he was trying to keep himself from punching through it.

“No,” he said finally. “Ain’t no ghost. This was surgical. Someone on the outside, yeah — but they were watching. Studying us. Every move. Every shift.”

Mary walked by slowly, eyes narrowing at the sound of Remmick’s name. You saw the way she paused behind the curtain, the way her hand protectively drifted to her stomach — quiet and defensive. Stack glanced at her, just for a second, then looked away fast.

Bo Chow exhaled sharply. “Doesn’t matter who it was right now. What matters is they’re still out there. And we’re bleeding.”

Delta Slim appeared in the hallway, wiping powdered sugar off his hands from a box of donuts no one remembered ordering.

He tripped over a damn floor mat, arms flailing like a cartoon, and fell flat on his back.

Everyone stared.

“I swear to God,” he wheezed, from the ground, “I’m too old for hoes, ghosts, and mystery raids. Just give me a boat and a diabetic stripper and let me retire in peace.”

There was a beat.

And despite everything — despite the fear, the doubt, the cracked trust — you and Annie couldn’t help but laugh. Even Bo cracked a grin.

But that warmth disappeared as fast as it came when Smoke stood up.

“This ain’t funny,” he muttered. “It’s a message.”

You looked at him, brows furrowed.

“What kind of message?”

Smoke met your eyes.

“Remmick’s not done.”

—————

The beat dropped heavy — all bass, no mercy.

You hit the stage like you owned it, eyes low, hips liquid. The crowd faded into background static. This wasn’t for them.

This was for control.

A slow, deliberate split — your thighs snapping open, gliding down like velvet soaked in gasoline. Every damn muscle sang.

The lights caught the glint of sweat along your spine. You didn’t have to look to know they were watching.

Smoke, off to the right near the bar, his jaw tense, lips wrapped around the rim of a glass he hadn’t touched in minutes.

Stack, leaned against the far wall, arms folded, but his stare was devouring.

And Annie? Annie danced up beside you, her laugh sugary and wicked. She bent low, mirrored your move, her hand brushing your thigh. It looked like part of the act — but it wasn’t just for the crowd.

It was for them.

Stack’s eyes narrowed.

Smoke’s grip on the glass tightened.

The music slowed for a beat. The two of you rose, Annie brushing against you, whispering in your ear loud enough for the twins to hear:

“Guess we both like playing with fire.”

You smirked. “Only way to keep warm in a place like this.”

Back near the bar, Stack muttered under his breath, voice sharp.

“What the fuck is she doing?”

Smoke didn’t answer. His eyes never left you.

Annie leaned in again, this time slower, her lips ghosting your shoulder.

Behind you, cheers rose from the stage floor, the other girls hyping you both. But that didn’t matter. None of them mattered.

This moment was electric — the twins frozen, watching the woman they both burned for, watching her choose not to choose.

And when the track ended, and you walked off stage — glitter sticking to your legs, your mouth curved into a silent dare — you didn’t look back.

You didn’t have to.

They’d be right behind you.

———-

Back then, the only powder they touched was chalk from busted lockers and cheap vending machine donuts.

It was after school — one of those sticky afternoons where the air buzzed with heat and low-level trouble. The twins were posted up behind the gym, legs sprawled out on cracked concrete, a half-eaten bag of chips between them.

Stack tossed a pebble at Smoke’s shoe. “You ever think about what we’d be if we weren’t, y’know… us?”

Smoke smirked, mouth full. “You mean if Ma didn’t bounce and Pops wasn’t in county for boosting church tithes?”

“Yeah,” Stack chuckled. “Like, I dunno… a lawyer.”

Smoke snorted so hard he almost choked. “You? A fuckin’ lawyer?”

“Why not?”

“Bro, you’d object just to object. Judge would ban your ass out the courtroom in a week.”

Stack grinned wide. “Better than you. You’d be a doctor but only for the prescription pad.”

“I’d be one of those rich-ass Beverly Hills surgeons. Walk in with designer scrubs, cufflinks and a Rolex stethoscope.”

“You’d probably botch someone’s nose job and still charge ‘em double.”

They both laughed then, loud and easy — the kind of laugh that came from kids who still believed they had time to change. Who hadn’t yet learned that the world had claws.

Smoke leaned back against the graffiti-tagged wall, looking up at the sky like it held answers.

“You think we’ll get outta here?”

Stack didn’t answer for a moment.

“I think we’ll end up rich or dead.”

Smoke looked over. “What about happy?”

Stack laughed. “Don’t get greedy.”

That memory flickered through Smoke’s head like a scratchy film reel as he watched you and Annie disappear behind the curtain — the crowd’s applause chasing after you like smoke.

He was quiet now, a drink in his hand, a thousand miles behind his eyes.

And all he could think was

We didn’t end up lawyers or doctors.

Just wolves in silk.

And the hunt wasn’t over.

———

Stack leaned against the sound booth, nursing a glass of Henny that was more melted ice than liquor at this point. His eyes kept trailing toward the back hallway — where you and Annie had disappeared minutes ago. His shoulders were tense, lips set in that I-don’t-give-a-fuck smirk he only wore when he cared too much.

Then Holly a veteran stripper , she was known around the way , strutted up, hips swinging like temptation had a sound.

“Damn, you always look this good when you brooding, or is tonight special?”

He looked over, eyebrows cocked. “You stalking me, girl?”

She giggled, leaning on the bar beside him, her short platinum wig clinging to her sweaty skin. Glitter dusted the curve of her collarbone like cosmic fallout.

“Only when you’re too fine to ignore,” she purred, tracing the rim of her drink with a manicured nail. “You still mad about earlier?”

Stack blinked. “Mad?”

“That thing with Smoke,” she said casually, voice dipping. “And your girl on stage… lookin’ like a sin and a half.”

Stack looked away, jaw twitching. “Ain’t my girl.”

Holly leaned in. “Coulda fooled me. You were lookin’ at her like she owed you prayers.”

He chuckled dryly, then turned toward her, eyes glinting. “And what, you here to preach?”

She smirked. “Nah, baby. I’m the sermon.”

There was a pause. A heavy beat thumped. Her hand slipped up his arm, fingers light.

“I get off in twenty,” she whispered, lips close enough he could smell the strawberry gum she always chewed between songs. “You ever get tired of waiting on a girl who keeps choosing both of you? I’m not that complicated.”

Stack tilted his head, watching her — not quite cold, not quite warm.

“You always offer yourself to tired men?” he asked.

She grinned. “Only the dangerous ones.”

He let the tension rest for a beat… then tipped his glass back and finished it in one swallow.

“You’re bad for business, Holly.”

“And you love bad business,” she winked.

As she sauntered away, hips still spelling trouble, Stack leaned back and sighed.

She wasn’t wrong.

But she wasn’t you.

And that was the problem.

——-

Stack didn’t chase after Holly.

He never did.

He stayed frozen in place, one foot in lust and the other ankle-deep in regret, letting the throb of bass shake against his ribs like a warning.

Then his phone buzzed.

Not the usual line — the one hidden under his waistband, the dirty one.

A message.

“Burn mark on the second floor. Check the girl.”

His blood ran cold.

He pocketed the phone and started moving — cutting through the club’s back hallway like a shadow. Smoke saw him and followed without a word, instinct. They both knew this kind of message. Encrypted. Ugly. Too many years in the game for it to be anything good.

They reached the dancer’s dressing room.

And there — on one of the cracked vanity mirrors — was the mark.

A black lipstick smear shaped like a flame, smudged just enough to say: someone was here who wasn’t supposed to be.

Annie stood frozen by the door, wide-eyed, phone in hand. “She just left,” she whispered.

“Who?” Stack asked.

“Holly. She came back for her bag. But… she wasn’t alone.”

The silence between the twins felt like a vacuum.

Smoke stepped in. “You think she flipped?”

Stack looked at the mirror.

“Not flipped.”

He touched the smear with his thumb.

“Used.”

Then a crash echoed from the back loading dock — heavy, metal, real.

Stack pulled his piece.

Smoke was already moving.

They ran toward the sound — past neon, past shaking walls, past music that didn’t know the night had turned lethal.

Outside, they found one of their runners.

Blood smeared along his jaw. Limp. Trying to breathe.

He choked out the name:

“Delta Slim.”

The alley behind the club was slick with oil and shadows.

Smoke and Stack stepped into the open—guns drawn, senses dialed in. They followed the sound: coughing, grunting, something dragging behind the dumpster like wounded pride.

“Slim, you better not be dying in piss water, bro,” Smoke muttered, sweeping his aim across the alley.

A groan.

“Over here, you tight-ass bastards,” came a familiar raspy voice. “Goddamn… this concrete’s colder than my last divorce.”

There he was—Delta Slim, half-slumped against a trash bin, blood streaked across his scalp, holding a busted piece of wood like it meant something.

Stack knelt beside him. “What the fuck happened?”

Slim spat out something red that wasn’t gum.

“I was tryna be helpful,” he wheezed. “Saw Holly outside meetin’ with someone in a car. Real nice one. All blacked-out windows. Looked too clean for this street.”

“Did you see who it was?” Smoke snapped.

“Nah. Just a voice. Cold. Called her ‘Cherry Drop.’ Paid her somethin’. Then I stepped closer and—whack. Next thing I know, I’m gettin’ laid out like a retirement plan.”

Stack cursed under his breath.

Cherry Drop. That was Holly’s old street name. Nobody should’ve known it. Not unless they knew her before she danced.

Before she was theirs.

“Did they say anything else?” Smoke asked.

Slim wheezed. “Yeah. Said ‘tell the kings of concrete the prince is back.’ Then laughed like he owned death.”

Stack went still. “Fuck.”

Smoke’s eyes flicked up.

“Remmick.”

Slim gave a ragged little laugh. “Guess I’m important again, huh? Got jumped for information I didn’t even know.”

“Or maybe you knew more than you think,” Stack muttered.

Suddenly Slim sat up straighter, eyes wide. “Wait! He dropped this—”

From his jacket pocket, he pulled a small, bloodstained card. Black foil. No writing.

Until Stack tilted it in the light.

A single word glowed red across the front.

“Reclaim.”

Smoke’s mouth tightened.

Stack crushed the card in his hand.

Delta Slim, despite the blood on his lip and the bruise blooming on his cheekbone, let out a wheezy chuckle.

“Y’all got ghosts now. Told you this life’s too much for old bones. I should’ve stuck to bootlegging dvds .”

the twins couldn’t help but crack a grin, just for a moment.

Then reality settled in.

Remmick wasn’t playing anymore.

He was declaring war.

——-

Back inside the club, everything looked almost normal.

Almost.

Music still thumped from the speakers. The crowd hadn’t thinned yet, high off bodies and booze. Girls still danced, some oblivious, others watching the back door with growing unease. But behind the curtain — the mood was shifting.

You stood near the hallway with Annie, both of you mid-laugh from a joke about one of your high roller clients when Stack burst in, blood on his shirt and his jaw locked so tight it looked painful.

“Get Bo. Now.”

Smoke came in behind him, gripping a phone to his ear, already barking into it. “We need a ride. Nearest trauma center, fast. Yeah. Bleeding, head trauma. He’s still conscious but fading.”

Your laughter died instantly.

“Wait, who’s hurt?” you asked.

Stack didn’t look at you.

Didn’t have to.

“Delta.” was all he said.

You and Annie exchanged a look—shock, confusion, and that rising heat of fear when the streets send back blood instead of a message.

Bo Chow appeared from the far end of the hall, eyes narrowed, his usual calm replaced with rare urgency.

“Back alley?” Bo asked.

Stack nodded. “Yeah. Remmick sent someone. Left a mark. Left a message.”

Bo whistled low, grabbed his coat. “This shit just escalated.”

Delta was wheeled out minutes later, slumped against Stack’s side as Bo guided the club’s old emergency van around back. Slim was still trying to crack jokes through a split lip.

“Tell the nurses I want morphine and models. And someone to hold my damn hand—I’m fragile now.”

Smoke barked a short laugh, half in grief. “Man, you ain’t fragile. You’re a cockroach with a pension.”

As the van peeled away, Stack finally looked at you — and something broke behind his eyes.

Not quite fear.

Not quite rage.

But something ancient.

He walked past you without a word, headed straight for the basement.

Smoke lingered a little longer, eyes scanning your face like he was searching for an answer you hadn’t given yet.

“Be careful tonight,” he muttered. “And don’t trust no one, not even the ones already paid for.”

Then he was gone too.

You and Annie stood in the silence.

“…What the hell is happening?” she asked softly.

You didn’t answer right away.

Instead, your gaze drifted toward the glitter-covered stage, where just an hour ago you’d been dancing, playful and free.

And now?

Now the war had entered the building.

———-

The Basement – 12:47 AM

Stack lit a cigarette even though the basement reeked of sweat and mildew. The old records room under the club had turned into their unofficial war room — cracked concrete, cheap folding chairs, and a map of the city marked up with gang routes and pawned safehouses.

Smoke paced like a panther.

“Remmick ain’t just flexing. He’s got intel. The mark, the name drop, the message—he’s in our house.”

Stack blew out smoke through his nose. “Delta said Holly was with him.”

“Yeah, but Holly’s not stupid. She wouldn’t flip unless someone gave her a reason. Money. Leverage. Fear.”

“Or maybe…” Stack said slowly, “she ain’t flipped at all. Maybe Remmick’s using her without her knowing. That’s worse.”

Smoke stopped pacing.

“You think we got someone feeding him info?”

Stack nodded toward the map. “We’ve been too loud. Too comfortable. He knows shit only an insider would know.”

Silence.

Then, in a voice low and bitter:

“Mary?” Smoke asked.

Stack shook his head. “No. Not her.”

“But you hesitated,” Smoke said.

“I hesitate with everyone now.”

They looked at each other. Years of trust swaying under a single, flickering bulb.

————-

Westside General Hospital – 1:12 AM

Delta Slim lay in a stiff white bed, a bandage on his head, his left arm hooked to a drip that beeped in tired rhythm.

He stared at the ceiling like it owed him money.

Bo Chow leaned in the doorway, chewing on a toothpick, arms crossed.

“They drug you?” he asked.

Delta sighed. “Yeah. I’m high as hell. Got titties in my dreams already.”

Bo grunted a half-laugh.

“Focus, Slim.”

Delta turned his head. “Alright. That voice—Remmick’s guy. He said reclaim. Like it meant somethin’. But it ain’t just a message. It’s a crew. Or… was.”

Bo stepped forward. “You serious?”

“Back when Remmick first came up, there was a whisper of a crew from over east called ‘Reclaim the Crown.’ Real militant shit. Red leathers. Chains for belts. They disappeared after a turf war. Everyone thought Remmick killed ’em off.”

Bo narrowed his eyes. “Or took their name.”

Delta nodded.

“And if he’s using it again… it ain’t a message. It’s a revival.”

——

Back at the club, the twins emerged from the basement, and you were waiting at the top of the stairs, arms crossed, tension radiating off you like heat from a flame.

Stack looked at you, tired and hard all at once.

“You still wanna be in this?” he asked.

You smirked. “Baby, I am this.”

The three of you walked down the hallway together — the walls shaking from bass, the crowd still grinding upstairs, clueless.

[chowdergal]

When the vampire gang is allowed in...

[nothanksofficer]

0.2 we are all sinners (cont'd imagine)

starring: you, remmick, and bo

pairing: bo chow/reader and remmick/reader/bo

warnings: nsfw, more smut, open-at-your-own-risk, dark romance, vampirism, corruption, moral and literal seduction, temptation, sharing is caring(?), reverse harem(ish), hive-mind, manipulation, vampire dreams. THIS IS A SEQUEL, PLEASE REFER TO LIST BELOW.

summary: in this world, there is no grace chow. only y/n chow. and boy, does that have consequences. concept ver: 0.1 0.2 story ver: 1.0

Continues right after where 1.0 left off.

You're hyperventilating as Smoke and Sammie try to block the way so that the vampires outside don't see you anymore.

“Well, ain’t that just rude,” Remmick snarks. “You get away from her, you monster.” “What’s wrong? Can’t a man just talk to his wife?” Bo smirks.

Before you can collapse onto the floor, a familiar pair of hands grab you. Annie’s. 

“Don’t let him get to you, Y/N. That ain’t Bo anymore.” “You can’t trust him, you hear me?”

But despite what the rest of the group might think, trust is the very last thing racing in your mind as Remmick and Bo stare you down like you’re their next meal.  

“You’re the devil,” you hear Sammie say. “And you’re the one who called me,” Remmick replies eagerly. “I sensed you, you know. You and your music.” Remmick takes a step forward, quick to put his hands up when Smoke aims the gun at him. “I want to see my people again. Regain the community that was taken from me. I might be trapped here, but with your gifts, you can bring them back.”  “Don’t listen to him, Sammie. He’s evil,” Annie warns. She’s still holding onto you, her grip the only thing keeping you grounded at this point. “Am I? I’m just trying to bring everyone together. To create the family this world never let you have. And look!” Remmick rests his hand on Bo’s shoulder. “I’m already halfway there.”  Bo winks at you once more, and you can see a slight trail of drool on the corner of his mouth. You flinch, but you can’t tear your eyes away, even as Remmick licks his lips at you hungrily. “Isn't that right, darling?” “You can’t keep us apart forever,” Bo hums, staring at you like he already knows what you’re thinking. “Sammie belongs with us...Y/N belongs to us.”  “No. You can’t have ‘em. Either of them.”  “That’s a shame. Because we ain’t leaving until we do."

You don’t hear the rest of the conversation, ears ringing. You barely make out bits and pieces. Of the clan and their plans for all of you. Of Mary trying to convince Annie, too. It’s not until Stack joins in that Delta and Sammie move to close the door. But by then, there was no unhearing the tempting words of the devil. 

“Because we’re not leaving without y’all. We family. Ain’t that right?” “This is the way. Together. Forever. And I ain’t doing this shit without you. There is no me without you.”

In another world, it would’ve been you who let the vampires in. You, who fell to your desperation to protect the only family you had left. But in this world, you don’t have any other family to protect. Not anymore. 

But every part of you is desperately wishing otherwise. You want to pretend it’s still Bo waiting outside the window. That it’s your Bo out there sending you that slow flying kiss.

But that thought immediately disappears when you see Remmick take your husband’s side, staring after you, too.

“She’s scared of us now. Scared of me.” “She won’t be. Not for long.”

Everyone decides to gameplan and just try to survive until sunrise.

“At least one of us stays awake at all times. If anything happens, if anything so much as flinches, you alert everyone. Got it?”

You don’t know how it happens, but you end up dozing off by the bar. Annie hushes Sammie, telling him to let you rest. In the hopes that your dreams might offer you some comfort. What none of them know is that…you dream…weird.

“You still with me, baby?" You groan as you feel a familiar pair of shoulders between your legs, and your hands raised above your head. Bo chuckles, tells you to keep ‘em there unless you want him to stop. You can barely see him past your bunched up skirt as he digs into you like it's his last meal. "You taste divine." "I could just die between these thighs, if you'd let me." "Louder. Let the whole world hear how good I make you feel." You nearly break after he teases you for too long, hands climbing down to grip his hair. Only, the memory suddenly shifts and you suddenly feel hands forcing your wrists above your head. Your eyes open and leaning over you is…Bo?  “Just like that, baby. You’re doing so good. Such a good girl for us.” You cry out in fear and pleasure when you finally feel the one eating you out rise from beneath your skirts. Chin slick, eyes red, and grinning at you like he just found heaven in your taste. Nothing scares you more than seeing those damn familiar teeth.  “No one can escape me, darling. Not even you."

You’re suddenly woken up by Sammie’s shaking and someone’s screaming. It’s only when you fully get up you realize, the screaming is yours.

a/n: i tried my best and i wasnt sure how to feel abt this addition. ill see what people think before turning it into something more. anyway, notes or ideas on how to proceed would be much appreciated. that, and the gif of bo blowing a kiss...