#vampire scripture

[vampire-scripture]

Lestat, Louis and Armand complaining about each other's books

This is not an exhaustive list, if you find any others and are willing to share, I'd be eternally grateful ^^.

I read [Interview with the Vampire] over and over. And then in a moment of contemptible anger, I shredded it to bits. - Lestat, The Vampire Lestat

As for the lies [Louis] told, the mistakes he made, well, I forgive him his excess of imagination, his bitterness, and his vanity, which was, after all, never very great - Lestat, The Vampire Lestat

"That's Louis's language," Armand said patiently. "Please don't quote that book to me" - Queen of the Damned

Interview with the Vampire, of all preposterous titles! – Lestat, The Tale of the Body Thief

"Weep. I'd like to see you weep. I've read a great deal about your weeping in the pages of your books but I've never seen you weep with my own eyes." "Ah, that makes you out to be a perfect liar," [Lestat] said furiously. "You described my weeping in your miserable memoir in a scene which we both know did not take place!" - Lestat and Louis, The Tale of the Body Thief

That's why [Louis] described me so vividly yet poorly in his book over and over again – Lestat, The Tale of the Body Thief

I insulted [Louis's] writing all the time. That was a joke. Well, sort of a joke – Lestat, The Tale of the Body Thief

Louis had poured out his story, published under the absurd title Interview with the Vampire – Armand, The Vampire Armand

But it's the way [Lestat] describes things that happen to him that maddens me, the way that he connects one incident to another as though all these random and grisly occurrences were in fact links in some significant chain. They are not. They are capers. And he knows it. But he must make a gutter theatrical out of stubbing his toe - Armand, The Vampire Armand

And it was Louis’s outrageous lies about me, intentional and unintentional (some people should not be granted a poetic license) - Lestat, Blood Communion

Bonus:

Louis's testament: "Behold, the void." And Lestat's history: "And this and this and this, and it means nothing." - Khayman, Queen of the Damned

She'd tried to read the Vampire Lestat's book - the whole history of Dead guys back to ancient times and all but there were just too many big words and konk, she was asleep. (...) and the first one, the one with the title she could never get straight, something like "conversations with the vampire," or "talking with the vampire," or "getting to meet the vampire," or something like that. Davis would read out loud from that one sometimes, but Baby Jenks couldn't take it in, snore! (...) the book was full of stuff about banana leaves and iron railings and Spanish moss. - Baby Jenks, Queen of the Damned

[dubblebubbleibuprofen]

sorry to all

[goneatlas]

i have an incognito window open on my laptop with four tabs of scripture on it, and it feels like i'm doing something forbidden but no it's because i wanted to quote a verse or two in my fic. which is highly normal

[gifti3]

....sooo

Whats the situation between sol asmo and mc?

Im conducting an investigation

[feastofcadavers]

“Vampire. You can’t be sleeping on my work notes every time you finish eating!” The bitter voice of Alchemist made Vampire grimace as it covered up the sound of peaceful violin music being played over a nearby radio. He’d yawn, picking himself up from the spot that would be too small for him if he hadn’t stuck to bat form. He wouldn’t budge, instead rolling away from his sibling before being picked up and getting multiple squeaks out of him as he flailed around. “Get off! I’m trying to fix the both of us here!” Even if it was a bit harsh, Alch at least had the courtesy not to throw Vampire at the wall, and rather just dropped him on the floor. The red-headed sibling would groan, shifting out of bat form to shake off the fall. 

“Sis… you’re so stressed over this… We’re gonna eat people still even if you do find something to fix this…” Vamp would sigh, flopping over to lay on the floor. “Besides, you’re gonna get in trouble… Y’know how that bastard loves overly excessive punishments…” Even with his warnings, and the warnings of the head of the manor, Alchemist would continue fussing about with research papers and whatever ingredients she could find from the outside.  Tattered wings flittering with irritation, the shorter of the siblings would take care not to step on Vamp as she walked by to her cauldron. “This is about more than us.” She’d snip, taking a stepping stool up to get over the top of one of the only things she took with her. “There’s only two of us, and how many are out there? Approximately fifty or so?” Vamp thought there was a lot more, but it’s not like he’d count. “At an exponential rate of growth, this world will be eaten away at in mere decades!” 

“A decade… Isn’t that a long time…?” The redhead would smile like a doofus when his sister looked back at him with scorn. “I’m just sayin’, I’d rather have someone else do what you’re doin’. There’s that Aloe person, maybe they could do it?”

“They are busy with their own difficulties.” Alch retorted, “If no one else can do it, I will. I don’t care if it risks my life if it means others don’t have to deal with the bullshit we do.” The swear made Vampire perk up, giving a small laugh, “Lil sis, you’re not supposed to say bad words!” “I’m in my twenties, batty, shut up.”  “Fine, fiiiine…”

…

Vampire would sigh, looking over to the very radio he had listened to what felt to be forever ago. Batteries were dead, unable to make another peep. He remembers the music too clearly, it being one of Mint’s many songs being played at the time. He would be lying if he said that the music didn’t hold a special place in his heart for both him and his sister… Though that didn’t matter too much now. There wouldn’t be any more music from Mint considering the physical state he was in. 

The drunkard took in a deep breath, exhaling as he laid back on the bed he’d been contemplatively staring at for who knows how long. Though as an irritating interruption to the relaxation he just started, there was a stir from across the room. Gaze falling to the singular chair of the room, Caramel was slowly coming to. Unfortunate, he was kind of hoping that he wouldn’t have to actually take care of anyone. 

Picking himself up and striding over, Vamp would give the weak one a pat on the cheek. “Heeeeey buddy, wake uuup.” Thankfully, the groan that the drunk received was a good enough response to prove he was alive and fine. “Where-...” The white-haired individual would slur, unable to fully see or process anything around him. “Huh…”  “Don’t worry tooooo much about what’s goin’ on, alriiiight?” Vamp would smile, trying to be at least a little polite. “Jus’ keeeeep resting, and I’m suuuure you’ll be fiiiine…” Even so, Vampire would be asked questions. Where are they? Who is he? Who am I? These would go answered, but barely. Short, few-word answers for the sake of brevity. Besides, there was something else on Vampire’s mind that kept him distracted. 

“I don’t feeeel… all that hungry…” He’d murmur to himself, ignoring the confused look Caramel gave him. Indeed, his stomach didn’t feel as empty as it normally would. The cravings that normally were in the back of his mind were dulled. He felt… lighter, in a way. Did those two truly do it…? That lightness in his body quickly became tense. Something didn’t sit right about this. 

Furrowing his brow, the drunkard took Caramel by the shoulders and slung him over his shoulders. The squeal and surprise that came from the apparent amnesiac was ignored as Vampire would practically run out of the room. “Where are we going?!” Cara would yelp, only to get the unsatisfactory answer of: “Somewhere verrrrry important. I neeeeed to check on someone suuuuuper important.” 

…

They’re not here. 

They’re not here. 

Where are they? 

Vampire searched with an uncharacteristically tireless energy through the room that smelt even more like rotten flesh and blood than usual. What was once pulsing and squishing beneath one’s feet was now hard and dry- with three distinct lumps of dried flesh of concerningly large size catching the redhead’s attention. He’d set Caramel down- who was rightfully horrified by whatever the sweet Hell was going on around here- and with reckless abandon, tried to claw at the mounds of flesh.

Even if he was leaving scratch marks on the surface, there was very little progress being made. Despite this, Vampire would continue to try digging into the dead flesh again and again. There wasn’t any telling if this was even the right thing to do- if Mint, and Aloe as an afterthought, would be in these. What else was he to do? There was nothing else here? 

“Uh… sir?” Caramel would whimper, “S-sir, above you…” Vampire would finally be pulled from his frantic scraping and look above the mounds. A bright red figure with little black horns standing atop of the dead skin was not the sight he expected to see. There was a startled scoff as he pulled back, bumping and knocking Caramel over without much care. “Who are you?!” He’d growl, immediately on guard as the figure just laughed at him. 

“The Devil.” They’d reply, snickering at the other’s fear. “I’m sure you don’t know that, though! It’s not like everyone thinks of The Devil as some big, horrible monster and not… me! Just a little thing!” “I don’t care what you are…” Vampire’s wings flared open. “What did you do to the ones that came down here? What did you do to Mint?” The idle humming that the redhead received was all the more irritating to hear. The shrug he received wasn’t anything better. “It’s more like what they did to themselves! What, do you think I made them kill themselves?” “THEY WHAT!?” Vampire darted forward, trying and failing to grab the little scoundrel who just flew out of his way. He would have flown, too, if it weren’t for the fact he wouldn’t be able to focus enough to actually catch them. “You’re spouting lies! There’s no way they’d-... They wouldn’t do that!”

“Oh, reaaaaally?” The Devil flew back down, getting right against Vampire’s face with the biggest, most shit-eating grin. “You’re saying they’re both too selfish to sacrifice themselves for the world? One life for the benefit of so many others?” 

“No, I’m not-! I’m-” Vampire would pause, taking just a moment to process what he’s been told as The Devil flew circles around him. “This is about more than us,” his sister’s voice echoed in his head, “I don’t care if it risks my life if it means others don’t have to deal with the bullshit we do.” Heart beating out of his chest, Vampire would find his will breaking down. Not him, too… Selfless sacrifice… What is wrong with them?!

Falling to his knees, the drunkard would attempt to stifle sobs, only to have that dam burst too easily. Screaming and wailing, Vampire would fall forward, punching against the dead flooring beneath him. “Not again!” He’d cry, “I don’t want to lose someone again! I can’t fucking take this!” Heartbroken, will broken, and with nothing else to lose… Vampire would press his head into the floor, and then begin bashing it in. “Why couldn’t I have been the one?! Not her,” his head hurt, “not him,” his heart hurt, “not either of them!” He felt as though he could fall apart at this moment, as if he hadn’t already. 

Heaving with the skin on his forehead broken open enough to bleed, Vampire would inevitably pick himself back up. Not to a stand, but to a kneel. “Devil.” He’d speak flatly, devoid of care. To his surprise, the little red runt would leave their little bit of picking on Caramel to fly in front of Vampire’s sight. “Yeaaa?”  “I’d like to make a deal.”  “Ooh, classic! We love deals with The Devil!” The snickering would be interrupted as Vampire would take the little thing by the neck, squeezing and bringing them close. “I want those precious to me back. I don’t care what it takes.”

“Well-” The Devil coughed, turning a bit more purple than red thanks to being choked. “Usually I need something precious- like a person or whatever-” Easily granted. Vampire would use his other hand and pull out the charm of his sweet, late sister. “Done.” Even so, the struggling creature in his hand didn’t take it. “Actually, I-I need a blood sacrifice! Yea! Like a person, a precious person-” The Devil was promptly slammed into the mound that still had lingering claw marks on its surface. “I don’t HAVE those because they’re already DEAD!!” Tears dripped from Vampire’s chin at the admittance. It was true, yes, but it was even harder to say. “Then-” The little thing struggled, but wasn’t given mercy. “-then I can’t do it!” “YES YOU CAN, YOU BASTARD.” Did this demon have bones? From the creaking sounds Vamp heard, it certainly seemed like it. “GIVE ME MY FAMILY BACK- GIVE ME MY LOVE BACK-” “He doesn’t e-even love you that much-” “SHUT UP! SHUT UP, SHUT UP!” He’d take The Devil by both hands, raising them up and slamming them onto the floor, getting the miscreant to hoarsely scream in pain as their bones cracked against the hardened flesh beneath them. 

“If you won’t give them back… Then I’ll- I’ll just-...” Vampire bared his fangs, looking down at the feeble excuse for a demon in his hands. They were trembling, as if they were somehow powerless despite being The Devil. For something that seemed to be able to do so much, they certainly were doing so little. “I’ll take them back mysssself.” Throwing his head forward, the vampire would dig his teeth deep into The Devil’s flesh. It felt fizzy. Delicious. The taste nearly made him feel dizzy as he tore away the skin at The Devil’s neck. Uncaring for the spewing fluid that stained his face and his clothes, the vampire would continue to chomp and rend flesh from bone. There was a small touch to his shoulder, prompting the redhead to look behind him and hiss, the action splattering blood onto poor Caramel. With that amnesic annoyance too scared to do much else other than an attempt to run out- not that the bloodsucker would care- the feasting upon The Devil would continue. 

The Vampire’s skin felt hot as the blood that felt strangely carbonated would be lapped up and swallowed. No part of this creature’s body would be left unscathed. Knawing on bone, chewing through cartilage, devouring red meat with all the fervor of a starved animal. Biting was used as a method to dig deep into the newly stilled corpse- Tearing away innards and consuming whatever was haphazardly deemed edible. No muscle left untorn, no piece of bone left unbroken…  “This is… my ssstory…” The Vampire would speak breathlessly, having barely taken the time to inhale between severing organs with its mouth alone. “I’ll make thissss my… ending…” 

When the feeding was finally over, The Vampire would wobbly lift itself from the corpse it had created, looking around the room with a sharp gaze. “What will it take… for me to have you both back…?” It would murmur, eyes affixed on the dead flesh. “What ssssacrifice do I need to make…?” It took a deep breath, looking down at its bloodied hands, and its sister’s charm. “Do I need to ssstart it all over? Isss that what… will ssssave you?”

The cold, putrid-smelling air would become still as The Vampire stood. Swaying in place, contemplating. The compulsion of yearning, the obsession of hunger… Without that, where was it? “No devil to deal with… then, perhapsss…” The lost one would kneel in front of the mounds of flesh, finding it far too easy to tear them open. Wrong on two tries, and puzzled as to why there was an unrecognizable golden-colored corpse here, it would eventually find the half-eaten away body of what was one of its sole motivators for so long. “I’ll make a deal with myssself…” 

Dragging the green and white haired body out of the mound, The Vampire didn’t bat an eye at the exposed nerves and bones that were left to open air from the flesh that hadn’t yet devoured him fully. “You need a proper sssacrifice,” it told itself, “what will you do with the dead?” Such a question brought a laugh from itself as it knelt down and gave a gentle kiss to the partially decayed forehead of the violinist’s cold, unmoving body. 

“Until I can ssssave what belongssss to me…” Hands steady, the redhead would gently take a portion of Mint’s hair and tie it in a very awkward-looking ponytail with its sister’s charm. It… looked nice, all things considered. “I will treat this world as my rightful feasssst… for the cadaverssss of those I love… I will create as many more bodiesss as I need to have them back.” The Vampire would reach its hands gently beneath the body of the half-consumed, picking him up with all the gentle nature of a widow.

“I’ll ressstart thisss Hell if I have to. But until then…” Looking down at the mangled mess that was Mint’s body, it would breathe a small sigh of relief. “At least I have ssssomething to hold on to…”

[justsomecreature97]

No, I'm just uncomfortable entering spaces without being explicitly invited in... because I'm autistic... Not because I'm a vampire... definitely not that... because I'm not a vampire...

[bills-bible-basics]

DRACULA, NOSFERATU, TWILIGHT: THE VAMPIRE FAD -- a Bill's Bible Basics Article #Christian #BibleStudy #Jesus This Bill’s Bible Basics article by Bill Kochman can be read at: https://www.billkochman.com/Articles/dracula1.html https://www.billkochman.com/Blog/index.php/dracula-nosferatu-twilight-the-vampire-fad-a-bills-bible-basics-article/?DRACULA%2C%20NOSFERATU%2C%20TWILIGHT%3A%20THE%20VAMPIRE%20FAD%20--%20a%20Bill%27s%20Bible%20Basics%20Article

[scribeofmorpheus]

Chapters: 2/2 Fandom: Castlevania (Cartoon 2017-2021), Castlevania: Nocturne (Cartoon), Christian Bible (Old Testament) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Characters: Carmilla (Castlevania), Lenore (Castlevania), Striga (Castlevania), Morana (Castlevania), Dracula Vlad Tepes | Mathias Cronqvist, Alucard | Adrian Tepes | Arikado Genya, Trevor Belmont, Sypha Belnades, Hector (Castlevania), Isaac Laforeze, Isaac (Castlevania Cartoon 2017-2021) Additional Tags: Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Propaganda, Biblical Scripture References (Abrahamic Religions) Series: Part 2 of La Morte Amoureuse Summary:

TRANSMOGRIFIED TEXT OF “S. JOHN IN PATMOS” BY REV. R.W. DIXON FOR "AND ALL THE ANGELS WEPT": A CASTLEVANIA FANFICTION.

 This "Writ" is a fictional transformation of an actual text: "S. JOHN IN PATMOS." It serves as lore and backstory to the Battle on the Vale of Chamouni; a historic incident mythicised into Vampyre religious propaganda used by the Ushers in the fictional canon of "And All the Angels Wept". The "Writ" should simply be read as fiction; as how texts can be repurposed into propaganda to serve a new autocracy and their age of hegemony. Here, the Vampyr is an analogy for empiricism.

[mill3rd]

LIGHT OF THE LORD

synopsis. a woman of divine beauty, grace and fairness has plagued remmick’s mind and being. no matter where he goes, what time he’s in—you’ve been around every corner. he cannot escape your watchful eye. he knows you aren’t human but you are no vampire like him. and while he finds everything about his situation frustrating, he finds you quite intriguing.

tags and warnings. remmicks pov, hes pining unknowingly, mythical ambiguity for the most part, temporal ambiguity so lots of time skips, readers race isnt specified or specific to the story, know-it-all gf vs quickly humbled bf, fluffy, bit angsty, some discriptions of feeding

wc. 10k

© MILL3RD 2025 — all rights reserved. mature content. please do not steal my works

1,385 years. one thousand, three hundred and eighty-five long, excruciating years in which remmick had no choice but to endure your presence—your seraphic presence. seraphic, not in beauty, but in that maddening way you carried righteousness like armor, wisdom like a curse. your face, ageless and untouched by time, only deepened his resentment. the more he was forced to see it—those eternal, untarnished features—the more unbearable you became. there was nothing soft or lovely about it anymore. your immortality was a wound that never healed, and he bled quietly beside you for centuries.

you came to him first in the rawness of your glory—nude, your flesh supple and unnervingly perfect, like something carved from the dreams of old gods. it was only weeks after the catholics had spilled into ireland, clinging to their bibles and breathing scripture like smoke. remmick, newly turned and still trembling in the dark, didn’t yet understand what he was. he thought he had died from the wounds carved into him by war and man, and he sobbed like a child beneath the stars when he saw you approaching—not through the river, but on it. your bare feet pressed the water’s skin as if it were solid, each step leaving behind a shimmer like fireflies or some underwater bloom. the stream itself was dull, lifeless. it had never glowed before. it never glowed again. only when you walked toward him like it was the most ordinary thing in the world did it come alive with light.

“the lord does not encourage such violence,” was all you said. or perhaps not to him at all—your voice was distant, almost drifting, as if carried on mist. it felt less like a warning and more like a half-forgotten thought, spoken aloud without meaning to. weightless, airy, like you were reminding yourself of some rule you no longer believed in, repeating it out of habit more than conviction. the words hung in the air, delicate and hollow, and remmick wasn’t sure if they were meant for him or the sky above.

your words unsettled him. the lord. even hearing the name turned his stomach. after everything he’d suffered—everything he’d lost—invoking the man upstairs felt like a cruel joke. it was tone-deaf, sanctimonious. so when you opened your arms, all light and grace, offering some divine comfort, he recoiled like you were poison.

“stay away from me!” he snapped, stumbling backward. “i ain't interested in walking with god’s so-called vessel.”

his voice cracked, thick with fury and something raw beneath it—betrayal, maybe. or grief.

you merely frown and watch as he scrambles off deeper into the trees.

remmick wandered deep into the woodlands, far enough that the moon vanished behind the thick weave of branches overhead. the air grew colder there, denser, and the only light came in faint silver slivers where the canopy broke. he let the owls guide him, their low, rhythmic hoots echoing like warnings through the underbrush. every step tangled him deeper in roots and bramble, the trees growing close and ancient around him, as if they were watching.

then—a sound. sharp, low, guttural. a growl, too deliberate to be the wind. it came from ahead, thick in the dark. his eyes adjusted, and he saw them: teeth gleaming like shards of polished bone, bared in a snarl that pulsed with threat. a wolf. broad-shouldered, fur rippling like smoke in the moonless dark. remmick froze.

good, he thought. maybe now, finally, it would all end.

but something inside him stirred—deep, primal, and hungry. not fear. not relief. hunger. sharp and sudden, like a spike to the gut. his throat burned. his limbs ached to move. and before he understood what he was doing, he stepped forward, slow and silent, toward the wolf.

it blinked, muscles tense, and backed away—eyes locked on him, more confused than afraid. it knew something was wrong. it sensed something unnatural.

remmick kept moving, drawn not by instinct to survive, but by something darker, something ancient coiled now inside him.

before he could even think to lunge, a light broke open behind him—blinding, radiant, pure white. it wasn’t overwhelming. no, it was no different to the faint light of a flame. it was just unnatural underneath the shade of the canopy. the wolf didn’t wait. it bolted, tail low and body vanishing into the underbrush with a panicked rustle.

remmick turned, breath sharp, pupils blown wide as his eyes locked onto the source.

you.

you, this insufferable, god-touched creature, glowing as if the stars themselves bent to your will. no flame, no torch—just you, radiating light as effortlessly as a flower bleeds scent. it was unnatural. it was maddening.

remmick let out a low, guttural growl. his body trembled with hunger, pain pulsing in his torn flesh like a second heartbeat. he was wounded, starving, half-mad—and there you stood, pristine, untouched, a walking symbol of everything he’d come to loathe.

he squinted at you through the harsh light, eyes narrowed, seething with anger and exhaustion. “wha’dyou want?” he snapped, voice rough like gravel. “i thought i told you to stay away.”

you didn’t answer. instead, your gaze drifted lazily to his face, head tilting slightly, eyes calm—almost amused.

“you are drooling,” you said, voice soft and unbothered.

remmick wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, scowling as he turned away. “can’t blame a man for being hungry,” he muttered, bitterness coating each word like tar.

you only smiled, a slow, knowing curve of your lips, and without a word, followed him—silent, steady, undeterred by his resentment. his anger rolled off you like water on stone.

“you will have to learn how to control that hunger,” you said, voice light, almost distant, like the words weren’t really meant for him alone, “you are not the man you used to be. not anymore.”

there was a quiet finality to it, as if the truth had already settled in the soil around you, waiting for him to catch up.

“what am i then?” remmick asked, voice rough and brittle, like dried bark about to snap. there was a weight behind it, something choked and bruised, the kind of heaviness that clung to a man who’d wept alone through too many sunless nights—because the sun, once warm and welcoming, had turned its back on him completely.

your expression didn’t shift. your voice was steady, almost cold.

“inhuman.”

“an’ what about you?” remmick’s voice cut through the air, a mix of frustration and suspicion. “you look human, but you ain’t one.”

you nodded slowly, your gaze steady, almost serene, as if every word you spoke was steeped in something far beyond him.

“a keen observation, remmick,” you replied, your voice soft yet filled with an ancient grace. “i am not human, nor have i ever been. i merely wear this face, this form, for as long as my time among mortals endures.”

remmick jumped at the sound of his name, the echo of it like a whisper from a past he hadn't invited. he never told you his name. never gave you the right to know it. yet, there it was, hanging between you like a thread woven from the air itself.

the world around him swayed, and it wasn’t from too many drinks of ale or beer. it was something far heavier.

“how did ya know my name?” he demanded, voice tight with disbelief, as his hand shot out, gripping your shoulder with an urgency that bordered on panic. “what even are ya? there’s something... unorthodox about you. nobody radiates light like that! and absolutely nobody galavants around naked, óinseach!”

you regarded him with an almost sorrowful expression, lips pressing together in a faint frown.

“i apologize,” you murmured, your tone gentle but laced with something ancient. “i can tone down my appearance if it frightens you.”

remmick froze, his pulse stuttering in his chest. then, before his very eyes, you shifted—your form bending, stretching, warping, as if reality itself could no longer hold the weight of your true essence. a blur of faces spun before him—his younger sister, laughing beneath the sun; his mother, her tired eyes soft with love; his wife, her smile warm, full of memories that felt like a dream; his older brothers, strong and brash, voices echoing through the corridors of his past; and his daughter, her innocent eyes full of questions, a life he’d lost forever.

each face flickered in and out of your shifting form, leaving a trail of aching familiarity in their wake, and remmick’s breath caught as the weight of it all settled over him.

a terrified yell ripped through remmick’s throat, his body jolting with a surge of panic as he stumbled backward, scrambling away from you. his legs carried him without thought, driven by instinct, his heart pounding in his chest like a drum of war.

he didn’t dare to look back. the images—the faces—clung to him like a curse, and the sight of them twisted something deep inside him.

this time, you didn’t follow.

you stood still, an immovable figure in the shifting darkness, watching him retreat with quiet understanding. your gaze lingered on the space where he had been, serene yet filled with a sorrow that was not yours to bear.

that was his first encounter with you and now he wears you like a burden. you didn’t show up for days after that and remmick began to believe you were a fever dream. something he made up due to delirium.

but then, just as suddenly, you appeared—the sound of waves washing softly on the shore marking your arrival. your natural glow was the only light beside the pale moon, soft and unearthly, illuminating the world around you in quiet brilliance.

remmick groaned in frustration upon seeing you, his shoulders sagging in resignation. “i thought ya’d have written me off by now. labelled me a lost cause.”

you shook your head, the motion slow and graceful, your presence like a steadying breath in the chaos of his mind.

“no,” was all you said, the simplicity of it carrying a weight beyond words.

without waiting for him to respond, you sat down beside him, where the sand darkened with the lingering traces of water’s touch. the cool salt air swept over you, and the ocean’s rhythm seemed to pulse in time with your being. the salty water kissed your skin, as though it had been waiting for you to arrive.

“i found some clothes so i would not stand out,” you chirped, your voice light and carefree as though nothing had transpired between you. remmick didn’t want any part of this conversation, but you were relentless.

he nodded, barely looking at you, pulling his head closer to his knee. “good on ya.”

“i wanted to give you space after our last conversation,” you continued, tone softening. “i realize i was... insensitive. and for that, i want to apologize.”

remmick raised an eyebrow, the bitterness in his voice sharper now. “if i accept it, will ya leave me alone?”

you laughed—a sound so unexpected and pure that it caught him off guard. the first time he’d heard it, and it was like a breath of wind through still air. “not forever, no. but for now, will that suffice?”

he sighed, letting go of the tension in his shoulders for a moment. “i forgive ya then.”

and just like that, you were gone. not with a quiet fade or a dramatic burst of smoke, but simply—gone. one second, remmick could hear the steady beat of your pulse, the rush of blood flowing beneath your skin, and the next, the world was empty, save for the sound of waves and the distant echo of his own heartbeat.

he waited in silence, the stillness of it pressing in on him, until his hunger clawed at him again, and he turned his focus to the water, waiting for a fish’s heartbeat to break the quiet.

it took remmick a long time to understand what he had become: a vampire. it wasn’t until he encountered others like himself that the true weight of his transformation hit him. in their eyes, he saw only the reflection of something monstrous—unnatural, evil. but remmick wasn’t evil. his life had been stolen from him, ripped away in a moment of violence, and now he was left to survive on instinct, just like any creature would.

that wasn’t evil. it was simply the harsh truth of nature’s cold hand. survival, stripped down to its most primal form. natural selection.

they taught him what it truly meant to feed, the raw satisfaction that came with fully indulging his hunger. feeding on humans—it felt strange, yes, but it also felt right, as if his body had been designed for this purpose and nothing else. there was no one to tell him there were other ways, no gentle voice reminding him of the choices he still had.

in truth, he hadn’t seen you in a long while. he hadn’t felt the comforting warmth of your light, nor the unsettling pull of your golden blood since that brief encounter at the beach. he had told you to leave him be, and you had listened—something he hadn’t expected but couldn’t help but feel grateful for.

still, as time passed, something gnawed at him. it was subtle, like a missing note in a melody, a strange emptiness in the quiet that followed your departure. part of him was glad you were gone, but there was another part—a part he couldn't ignore—that felt... unsettled.

when you finally appeared, remmick was nestled at the edge of an ancient castle ruin, tucked into the jagged rocks and rubble. the moonlight filtered through a gaping hole in the stone wall, casting silver beams across his form, and he lay there, eyes closed in quiet stillness. moonbathing, he called it. though, when you approached, he shot you a disgruntled look, clearly annoyed by the interruption.

“moonbathing?” you asked, your head tilting in quiet curiosity, “i understand that the sun darkens the skin, but why would you try to tan in the moonlight?”

remmick shrugged, not bothering to lift his gaze. “ha'fta keep my pale complexion up to date," he muttered with a dry smirk, clearly unbothered by your confusion.

“so you have no intention of tanning?” you ask, still standing in the frame of the hole in the wall. remmick shakes his head, “if i tried to tan, i’d get a little more than sunburn.”

you nodded slowly, a thoughtful motion, but before you could speak, remmick waved a hand and grunted, “move outta the way. you’re blocking the moon.”

he hadn’t exactly told you to leave, so you quietly stepped over the rubble, your movements as fluid as mist, and settled down beside him, folding your body against the cool stone as if it belonged there.

“do you know about constellations?” you asked after a pause, turning your head to face him, your voice gentle, like a breeze trying not to wake the earth.

remmick kept his eyes closed, but he could feel your gaze on him, steady and curious.

“no,” he muttered, “ya gonna give me a random fact o’ the day?”

you smiled faintly and nodded, undeterred by his sarcasm.

“many constellations are tied to the zodiacs,” you began, your voice slipping into that melodic cadence you often carried when speaking of old things. “twelve of them form a path the sun appears to follow throughout the year. the ancients charted them to navigate the seas, tell time, even predict their fates. and if you look just there—” you lifted a hand, pointing skyward “—you can see libra, the scales. it is faint, but present. balance, even in darkness.”

your words trailed off into the night, soft and steady, like starlight dripping into silence.

remmick grunted, finally cracking one eye open to glance at you. “fascinating,” he muttered dryly, “write a book about all that and they’ll string you up as a witch.”

“no one knows i exist,” you replied, calm and matter-of-fact, as if discussing the weather.

remmick sighed and let his head fall back against the stone. “iontach. so i’m the lunatic talking to the ghost nobody else can see.”

“i am not a ghost either,” you said with a soft smile, the kind that barely touched your lips but somehow warmed the space between you. “i am sure you have figured out what i am by now.”

remmick let out a dry chuckle, the sound low and a little hollow. “my best guess?” he said, eyes fixed on the sky. “i’m seein’ things. you’re not real—just something my mind cooked up to keep me company when the silence gets too loud.”

“if that is what you believe,” you replied, your tone quiet, unreadable—neither confirming nor denying, as steady as still water.

then, without another word, you rose, movements fluid and precise. you stepped lightly across the scattered bricks, your figure momentarily silhouetted in the moonlight as you reached the jagged hole in the wall.

“until next time, remmick,” you said over your shoulder, voice echoing just slightly, like it belonged to the night itself.

remmick watches as you disappear but he swears your hand lingers on the brick for a second longer. he’s left in silence now until your words echo, until next time. he groans, what about never?

he does see you. again and again and again. your visits get more frequent until you’re both caught unexpectedly in war. the eleventh century. remmick thought he had escaped your watchful eye and found himself hitching rides with strangers in their carts, hiding under thick velvet rugs until nightfall where he bid his goodbyes and wandered off. he should’ve known you’d find him.

remmick stood at the edge of the treeline, deliberately keeping himself in the shadows, avoiding the last vestiges of sunlight that hung stubbornly in the sky. his eyes scanned the valley below, where the battle raged fiercely, men clashing in a frenzy of steel and blood. the air was thick with the sounds of war—shouting, the clang of weapons, the stampede of hooves. it was chaos, but he was content to watch from afar, detached from the madness.

and then, as if summoned by some unseen force, you appeared. he didn’t need to see you fully to know—it was the light that gave you away. a soft, golden glow that seemed to push back against the fading daylight. it clung to you, hovering just at the edges of your presence, and for a brief moment, it felt like the world itself dimmed just to make room for you.

“ain’t bored o’ me yet?” remmick muttered, his voice laced with annoyance and something else—something he refused to acknowledge.

you didn’t answer immediately. instead, there was a slight rustle in the air, a shift in the atmosphere as you moved closer. when you did speak, your voice was serene, effortless. “not at all.”

he couldn’t see it, but he could feel the subtle shake of your head, the shift in the air that told him you were amused. you always were, always so certain and unbothered by his disdain.

he huffed, rolling his eyes and returning his focus to the battle below. you were like a persistent, unavoidable breeze—always there, no matter how much he tried to ignore you.

its silent between you two as you both experience the rage of the battle of hastings below, the cries of men filling the air as blood stains the earth beneath. the dying light of the sun casts long shadows across the field, and the sky is a mixture of fading reds and purples. you stand at the edge of the treeline, your presence almost otherworldly, that strange divine glow surrounding you like a halo. it's the kind of light that would make anyone believe you're something holy, untouchable, perfect. but remmick doesn't care about any of that.

he stands next to you, his arms crossed, eyes bored as they track the chaos below. his face is hard, indifferent—he's seen enough of human suffering to not bat an eye at it. to him, they're all just ants. he turns his attention to you, though, the faintest hint of annoyance crossing his features. it’s the same thing every time. you show up, radiating light, acting like you’ve got a hand in this world’s fate. he’s sick of it.

you speak, your voice a soft, almost ethereal whisper. “do you ever wonder if they know what they are fighting for?”

remmick scoffs, the sarcasm dripping from his words. “i’m sure they’re all very aware of their ‘noble causes,’” he mutters. “but it don’t matter, do it? they’ll die anyway.”

you give him a sidelong glance, those piercing eyes of yours studying him like you always do. “do you think death is all they’re meant for?”

“i think most of them wan’ it,” he responds flippantly, his gaze flicking over to the chaos below. “or maybe they're just too stupid to know when to stop fighting.”

you shake your head, a quiet sigh escaping your lips, your tone almost sad. “you’re so jaded, remmick.”

he looks at you then, an eyebrow raised. “and you’re so holy.” he leans against a tree, crossing his arms tighter. “if you think they’re all so deserving of your pity, why don’t ya help ‘em out?”

you ignore his question, your gaze fixed on the battle once more. it’s almost as if you can’t help yourself—you have to watch, to be present. but then something catches his attention. the flicker of an arrow in the last rays of sunlight. it's a fleeting thing, but remmick notices it.

before he can react, the arrow strikes you.

it’s quick. too quick for him to fully process. he hears you gasp, and then you stumble slightly, your hand clutching at your side. the arrow, so perfectly aimed, has found its mark in the divine part of you, piercing through the space where your beauty and immortality should be untouched.

he doesn’t react immediately. instead, his gaze lingers on you, observing the way your breath hitches as the golden blood begins to seep through your fingers. his mouth curls into something that might have been a smile, but there’s no warmth in it. there’s nothing but quiet satisfaction in the knowledge that he’s right.

you’re not as untouchable as you think.

“oh, look at that,” he murmurs, the words coated in a kind of cruel humor, “a little scratch. guess you ain’t as perfect as everyone thinks.”

he watches for a moment longer as you stand there, your form still glowing faintly even as blood drips from you. you’re not the same now. you’re broken. you’ve been touched by the same death that touches everyone, and for some reason, that gives him a sense of relief.

you look at him, and there’s a flicker of something in your eyes—concern, maybe. or maybe just a question. but remmick isn’t interested. he’s never been interested in your divine presence. he’s only been stuck with you because you follow him, despite the fact that he wants nothing to do with you.

he takes a step back, turning his gaze away from you. “well, i’ve seen enough,” he says flatly, his voice devoid of any emotion, “you’ll be fine. immortals like you don’t just die from an arrow.”

he called you immortal because he didn’t know what else you were.

and with that, he turns, disappearing into the trees, leaving you there. blood staining the ground, your divine light flickering weakly.

he doesn’t care if you survive. in fact, a part of him hopes you don’t.

he leaves you there, under the dying light of the sunset, and walks away without a second thought. the darkness of night soon envelops him, and for the first time, he feels a strange sense of relief. maybe this is what he wanted all along—an escape from your presence, from your light, from the divine pressure of your existence.

he doesn’t look back. he doesn’t even think about it. he’s long gone, disappearing into the night.

remmick hadn’t seen you in over five hundred years. for a while, he thought the peace would last. the solitude had been... bearable. a century of living on his own terms, without your relentless light or your judgmental eyes, was a relief. he wandered through europe, a ghost in the shadows of history. he watched the rise of new dynasties, the endless wars of vikings, the decline of the roman empire, and the brutal reign of genghis khan. centuries passed, each one feeling like a whisper in time, and he thought he had finally outrun you.

but the renaissance? that was the point where it all fell apart. it was the 16th century in france, and somehow, against all logic, he had managed to convince the royal family that he, too, was royalty—a lost prince from some forgotten kingdom. he was skilled in deception, after all, and no one really questioned an enigmatic figure like him. they believed his stories, and the royal family, desperate to flaunt their connection to ancient lineages, eagerly threw a ball in his honor.

“to celebrate the visit of prince remmick i,” they announced, and the court was abuzz. everyone was charmed by the mysterious foreigner, the one whose origins were as hazy as the fog that rolled across the french countryside.

as the night stretched on, lit by shimmering chandeliers and the glittering eyes of aristocrats, remmick found himself drifting through the crowd, always watching, always smiling with that knowing smirk.

he should have known. he should have known that your light would pierce through the shadows of his false life. and yet, he didn’t hear your footsteps, didn’t see your radiance until you were already standing before him, like a vision from another time, another world.

"ain’t bored o’ me yet?" remmick asked, half-amused, half-resigned. he starts the greeting the same way he started the last one you had.

you smiled softly, as if you'd never left, "not at all," you replied, your voice soft as always, yet carrying a weight he could never ignore. you seem to remember too how he greeted you.

remmick’s fingers curled into his palm, nails digging into the flesh. how long had he really been free? how long could he ever escape your watchful eyes?

the music swirled through the air, soft and alluring, as the orchestra in the corner of the ballroom played their delicate tune. the sound of strings filled the grand hall, echoing off the gold-trimmed walls. remmick held you close, his hand firm on your waist as he led you in the dance, effortlessly twirling you through the sea of guests. each step felt like a rhythm he had known forever, like he'd danced this dance with you a thousand times, even though it was only now that he realized you were real—more than just a haunting image from his mind.

you moved with an ethereal grace, laughter bubbling from your lips like a song he couldn’t help but chase. when he spun you, the light caught in your hair, and for a brief moment, it almost felt like the entire room faded away—just the two of you, floating through time. his chest tightened as you laughed, that soft, knowing sound, and he couldn’t help but notice how your presence filled the space around him. he’d never let himself feel this before, not for someone like you.

but before he could think on it too long, the dance shifted. your hand slipped from his and suddenly, you were in the arms of another man—an older figure, no doubt a noble, with a grasp on your waist that was far too close, intimate. you laughed again, a bright, airy sound that made remmick's stomach twist and churn.

this is the moment remmick realises you have a physical manifestation and you truly weren’t apart of his imagination.

he stood still for a moment, watching as you moved away, the warmth of your hand no longer in his, replaced by the weight of something heavy that clawed at his insides. his eyes narrowed instinctively as you, effortlessly, slipped into another’s embrace. the man held you close, spinning you with a tenderness that made remmick’s skin prickle.

it shouldn’t matter, but it did.

he swallowed down the odd bitterness that had risen in his throat. it was absurd. he wasn’t allowed to feel this way—this possessive ache. but still, he couldn’t help himself, watching the way you laughed in his arms, the way your eyes shone so brightly for someone else.

remmick shook his head, forcing himself back into the present. the princess he had been dancing with swirled into his arms, but his gaze never wavered from you. he couldn’t look away. it was as if the room had ceased to exist around him—there were no voices, just the sound of your laughter and the light that shimmered around you.

he knew it was futile to hold on to any of it, but for as long as he could, he would keep you in his line of sight, hoping you wouldn’t slip away again, like you always did.

as the music reached its final notes, remmick's gaze never left you. he watched as you slipped gracefully from the arms of your partner, your presence like a flicker of light lost among the throngs of well-dressed nobles. the man—his face now blurred by the growing distance between them—seemed unaware of the way you had subtly detached yourself, drifting into the crowd of silks and velvets, where the shadows danced just as intricately as the guests.

remmick felt an inexplicable urgency seize him. his fingers grazed the princess’s hand, and with a smooth smile, he pressed his lips to her delicate knuckles in a gesture that seemed far more rehearsed than genuine. “my apologies, princess,” he murmured, the words slow and languid, “but i’ve promised myself a moment alone. something about cutting the cake, you know? a royal tradition, i suppose.”

she blinked, clearly satisfied by the excuse, her smile warm and unsuspecting. “of course, prince remmick. go enjoy your cake.”

and with that, she was lost to the crowd of swirling dancers, her attention already diverted. remmick didn’t waste a second more. he gave her a lazy bow and watched her retreat into the gilded glamour of the ballroom. then, with a fluid, practiced motion, he slipped into the labyrinth of bodies around him, the rich fabric of coats and gowns folding into a soft blur of color.

he didn’t care about the cake. he didn’t care about any of it. all that mattered was finding you again before you vanished into the shadows once more. his heart pounded as his feet carried him swiftly through the crowd, his eyes darting over the sea of faces, seeking that unmistakable glow that had haunted him for centuries.

there. between the columns of the balcony, under the flickering candlelight. your silhouette, radiant even in the midst of so many others, a beacon amidst the chaos. remmick’s pulse quickened, a feeling—half desire, half something darker—stirring deep in his chest.

“long time, no see…” you breathe, your voice soft as you stand at the edge of the courtyard, staring out into the cool night. the moonlight catches the edge of your dress, making it shimmer in a way that feels almost too ethereal. “remmick.”

he swallows, his throat dry, and his eyes track the curve of your silhouette in the dim light. there’s something about the way the dress clings to you tonight—it suits you better than anything he’s seen you wear before. he can’t help but notice, even in the midst of everything else, how striking you are, even when you're so distant.

“yeah…” he hums, his voice rougher than he intends. “how long’s it been?”

you don’t turn to face him, but he knows you’re listening. “ah, five hundred years. it was quite the break from your presence,” he adds, with a hint of bitterness that slips from his lips before he can stop it.

you give a small nod, the movement subtle, but it feels like you’re acknowledging something deeper, something unsaid. your gaze doesn’t waver from the distant horizon, the city lights far below barely flickering. “it was quite the goodbye. if i remember correctly, you left me to die.”

remmick laughs, a hollow, cold sound that doesn’t reach his eyes. “you remember correct. i’m quite fond of that memory, actually.” the words fall out like a joke, but the edge to his tone betrays him. there’s something about it that feels unfinished, unsaid.

you remain silent for a moment, your eyes still lost in the night. then, slowly, your head falls into your hand, your fingers pressing lightly against your temple as if to hold back something that could break through. remmick watches you, his smile fading, the silence stretching between them.

he doesn’t say anything more, because he knows—no words would make this any less complicated.

so, he let’s you speak first.

“why did you leave me like that?” your voice is quiet, but it cuts clean through the space between you. you still don’t turn to face him, your figure leaning into the cold stone railing like it might offer some kind of answer he won’t give. the moonlight brushes your skin like a veil, softening the tension in your shoulders, but remmick can still see it—the weight you carry.

“i got quite the scolding after that,” you add, almost like an afterthought. “that was your… one hundred and fifty-sixth second chance.”

the number hangs heavy in the air. remmick shifts behind you, a half-sigh caught in his throat. he wasn’t keeping count—but of course you were. of course you would remember every time he failed to live up to whatever cosmic expectation you held over him.

you don’t sound angry. not really. just… tired. like the years haven’t worn you down, but his choices have.

“glad to know someone’s keeping count,” remmick mutters, easing in beside you. the stone railing presses into his spine as he leans back, angling his body just enough to catch a glimpse of your face in the moonlight.

your eyes drift to his—slow, reluctant—and for a moment, something catches in his chest. if he still breathed, it would’ve hitched, tight and sharp. you weren’t supposed to look like this.

he’d seen your face in every imaginable light: serene, righteous, unreadable. you always wore that same celestial calm like armor. but now… now you just look exhausted. not weary in the way mortals age and sag with time—but a deeper sadness, old and quiet, like the fading echo of a hymn long forgotten.

remmick isn’t sure what unsettles him more: the silence between you, or the way you won’t quite meet his gaze.

he swallows when you don’t respond, the silence stretching longer than he expects. so he tries again, voice lower this time, almost unsure, “if i’m on my one hundred and fifty-seventh chance… why didn’t you give up ages ago?”

you still don’t answer, and that unsettles him more than any sharp retort would have.

he shifts beside you, the corner of his mouth twitching in a crooked attempt at a smile. “seriously. you should probably reevaluate your standards after that.”

it’s meant to be a joke, light enough to pull you from whatever place your mind’s wandered to—but it lands heavy, as if even he knows it doesn’t quite cover the question he’s really asking.

after a long, deathly silence, you finally lift your head and meet his eyes. there’s no lightness in your expression—just that same quiet, ancient sorrow that’s lingered beneath your skin for centuries.

“do you want to know what i am?” you ask, voice soft but unwavering. “i am sure you have been wondering for a while.”

remmick lets out a dry chuckle, one corner of his mouth curling up. “you’re right about that,” he says, eyes scanning your face like he’s searching for the answer there.

“i am an angel of the lord,” you say, finally standing upright, your voice calm, absolute. “i was sent down to watch you—because god knew you would be trouble. that you would walk on both sides of the line between chaos and order.”

remmick stares at you like you’ve grown a second head. his eyes narrow, brows knit in disbelief, but somewhere beneath the confusion, it starts to make a horrible sort of sense.

“an angel?” he mutters, almost to himself. “an actual angel’s been breathing down my neck this whole time?”

he lets out a bitter laugh, scrubbing a hand down his face. “no wonder i couldn’t stand you.”

“you say that in past tense,” you note, stepping toward him, “it could not be that you havee grown fond of me, could it?”

remmick smirks, “it could be.”

“you are angry. i have seen it,” you say quietly, stepping down from the balcony into the courtyard, your voice almost drowned by the hush of the wind through the hedges. you gesture for him to follow, and after a beat, he does—reluctantly, hands in his coat pockets, expression unreadable.

you walk side by side beneath the open sky, your glow washing over the stone path, brighter than the moonlight itself.

“when everything first happened—when the celts came, preaching christianity,” you begin, eyes forward, “it was not meant to be violent. but vikings... they are unpredictable, as you know. they brought fire to what should have been light.”

remmick stays quiet, glancing sidelong at you.

“god wanted someone to keep a close eye on you,” you continue. “he saw your heart. the way you could bend the world. not out of malice—but defiance. if left to your own instincts, you would unravel the threads of his design.”

you look at him then, calm, steady. “so, he sent me.”

remmick stops in his tracks, brow furrowed. “i’m sensing a but,” he mutters, voice dry. “there’s always a but.”

“but,” you say, and the word hangs in the air like judgment, “after a while, he realized you could not be saved. not in the way he intended. salvation was never going to come easy for you.”

remmick stiffens under your gaze, caught in the weight of your eyes—ancient, unwavering. he doesn’t need you to say it. he knows exactly when that shift happened. the moment everything inside him twisted beyond repair.

you step closer, your voice softer now, though no less resolute. “it took me five hundred years to convince him to let me walk the earth again… to stay in your shadow. because even if you could not be redeemed, you still needed watching. without guidance, you would leave only wreckage behind.”

remmick clenches his jaw, but doesn’t look away.

“i thought,” you add, quieter, more human somehow, “if i told you the truth this time… maybe you would finally be open. maybe you would stop running long enough to let something reach you.”

the silence that follows is thick with everything unsaid.

“you seriously believe i can change?” remmick asks, his voice low, edged with disbelief.

you don’t nod. instead, you shake your head slowly and keep walking, the gravel beneath your feet crunching softly beneath your light steps.

“no,” you say. “you cannot change what you are. that isn’t the point.”

your voice is calm, measured, not cruel—just certain.

“what drives you is not redemption,” you continue, “it is motive. it has always been motive. family… yes? connection. people who see you. who understand you. who can stand to be near you without fear.”

you glance at him, eyes catching the dim moonlight. “that is what keeps you from falling completely.”

your voice fades as you round the edge of a hedge, soft as mist, leaving remmick behind for a moment in the quiet. he blinks, then stumbles forward, hurrying to catch up, boots crunching against the earth. there’s something in the way you move—slow, graceful, unbothered—that makes him wonder if you see him more clearly than he’s ever let on.

he walks beside you in silence for a beat, eyes narrowed in thought. then, low and uncertain, he asks,

“why’ve i been given another chance?”

the words feel foreign in his mouth, like they don’t quite belong to him.

“partly because i begged for it,” you admit, “but also because the fates favour you.”

remmick raises a brow, “favour me?”

you nod, slow and deliberate.

“they do,” you say, voice like distant thunder softened by the night. “you have been offered two paths. one carved from selfishness, where every step takes you closer to your own undoing. and the other…”

your eyes lift to the stars, catching their faint shimmer.

“the other is compassion. it asks more of you, but it gives something in return—quiet, contentment, maybe even joy. and one day, if you choose it, you might find yourself watching the sunrise not with dread, but with purpose.”

“so you know how i go out?” remmick asks and you nod, confirming his assumption. he wants to bombard you with questions but you hold your hand up, “we should head back.”

he listens without a protest.

before you part with him at the balcony entrance, you offer him some words of advice, “do not take my words lightly, think about your actions and do not rely on me to tell you what to do.”

remmick watches you as you glide through the crowd, mingling effortlessly with the nobility, your light drawing them in like moths to a flame. it’s a scene so far removed from him—so foreign—that the ache he had felt earlier surges back, tight and gnawing at his insides. it pulls at him, twisting his stomach in ways that leave him feeling hollow, desperate.

he tries to shake it off, but the hunger claws at him, demanding attention. he stumbles away from his place, moving quickly through the high, echoing halls of the palace. the walls, steeped in rich history, stretch endlessly before him, their reflection of his shadow twisted and distorted as he moves through them, a ghost within his own skin.

the overwhelming scent of life all around him hits like a wave, drowning his senses. the guests, oblivious, stand in clusters, their warmth and the steady pulse of their blood flooding his senses. it's all he can focus on now. the desire to feed is primal, insistent. there’s no escaping it, no distraction from it. not when the banquet is brimming with potential prey.

at the end of the hall, a figure catches his eye. the princess, the one he danced with earlier, stands alone for a moment, separated from the throngs. the hunger takes over before he can stop himself, and he jogs toward her, the rhythm of his steps faster than he intends.

“your highness,” he greets, bowing low, his voice smooth, almost too smooth. she smiles, a demure expression. she asks him about the cake, her voice light and innocent. he tells her, with a playful tone, how divine it was—how it tasted like nothing he had ever known.

she seems to believe him, her eyes sparkling with curiosity, but her guard is down, naive to the danger she’s unwittingly stepped into. with the fluid ease of someone accustomed to getting what he wants, remmick guides her away from the crowd, leading her into a quiet, dimly lit chamber.

the door closes softly behind them.

he doesn’t waste time. with a practiced movement, he presses her against the cold wall, his fangs sinking deep into her neck. the warmth of her blood fills his senses, and the ache, that terrible, gnawing ache, begins to fade with each drawn breath. he feeds greedily, thirstily, until there’s nothing left to take.

when it’s over, the room is silent, save for the faint echo of his own breath. her body slumps in his arms, lifeless, pale. he lets her fall to the floor, her blood staining the carpet beneath her.

remmick stands over her for a moment, his chest rising and falling as he surveys the damage. a small flicker of something—guilt, maybe? regret?—crosses his mind, but it’s fleeting.

he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his hunger sated, but the emptiness inside remains. the cycle repeats. it always does.

he’s not going to change.

not long after that night, remmick fled paris—your footsteps trailing his despite his growing resentment. he never lingered anywhere for long, slipping through cities like smoke through fingers. yet, somehow, you always followed. unwillingly bound or stubbornly tethered, you were there.

he dragged you through the winding streets of spain, the frostbitten stretches of russia, the misty peaks of the balkans. he even wandered through the dense, humming cities of asia for a time, lost in a sea of languages and lanternlight.

but no matter how far he roamed, his footsteps always led him back to ireland. something about the damp green hills, the crash of waves against the cliffs, the ache of memory in the stone—his heart answered to it like a song half-remembered. it was the one place that still felt like his. or at least, where the ghosts felt familiar.

you’d washed up on the english channel in 1888, clothes heavy with salt and divinity, and drifted through london’s smoke-stained streets before finally making your way toward ireland. but your journey was delayed—four months, to be exact—by a detour you hadn’t planned.

a pitstop, as remmick called it.

he confessed with a twisted grin that he’d developed a taste for the blood of london’s street women. easy prey, he said. no one missed them, and no one looked too hard when they vanished. they came willingly, and their fear made their blood taste as sweet as it was tangy, he added, and left quietly.

you spoke to him as you always did—with the calm patience of eternity. you reminded him of light, of the path laid by the divine, of mercy, and restraint. you quoted scripture, invoked parables, and offered him alternatives. but he only scoffed, sharp-eyed and smirking.

“nothing beats an easy target,” he muttered once, licking the blood from his fingers as if it were honey.

and that was when you realized: some pitstops aren’t delays. they’re tests.

remmick came home that final night drenched in blood, the crimson soaking through his shirt and shining beneath your glow like oil on water. you didn’t ask where he’d been. you already knew. he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and flung the bloodied fabric into a dark corner of the hostel you’d both occupied for months. you didn’t meet his eyes. instead, you recited, quiet and firm,

“violence shall no more be heard in your land, devastation or destruction within your borders; you shall call your walls salvation, and your gates praise.”

remmick snarled at the sound of scripture, his lip curling as if the words burned him, “i told you to quit spewing that holy bullshit around me, angel.”

he said your title like a curse, like something he’d spit into the dirt.

still, you smiled—an expression that almost reached your eyes, though it never truly did.

“you live in a world built from devastation and oppression,” you said gently, stepping closer, “but the real prison, vampire, is the one in your own mind.”

remmick, in a sudden fury, swept a plate of fine china off the rickety wooden table. it sailed past you and shattered against the headboard of your borrowed bed, shards of porcelain raining down like splinters of his frustration.

“ain’t nothin’ wrong with my mind,” he barked, chest heaving. “i’m livin’ off what i know. what i am!”

your frown deepened. the glow around you dimmed, like a flame shying from wind.

“rough night?” you asked softly.

he groaned, dragging a hand down his face, smearing blood across his jaw.

“nearly got caught,” he muttered. “some fella interrupted my meal.”

you nodded slowly, walking toward the mess he’d made, stepping carefully over broken china.

“you have built quite the reputation for yourself,” you said. “jack the ripper, they are calling you now.”

remmick scoffed, holding up a hand as if to physically reject the accusation.

“that ain’t me,” he said. “there’s a difference. he—he guts ‘em. rips ‘em open like game. i just puncture the neck, nice and neat. drain ’em sideways, clean as i can. i got some standards.”

your eyes narrowed. “do you?”

“for my kind, i do,” remmick mutters, casting you a sidelong glance as he sinks onto the edge of the bed. the frame creaks beneath his weight.

he feels it again—that phantom pump, the ghost of a heartbeat that only stirs when you’re near. if blood still moved through his veins, it might’ve rushed to his face, warmed his skin. instead, he remains pale, a static figure carved in cold ash and shadow.

you don’t move. you stand there, still as a monument, graceful and ethereal. divine. everything about you—your poise, your silence, even the way the light bends to wrap around you—makes his chest ache with something unfamiliar. something like longing.

your glow brushes his skin like the edge of sunlight, and in that moment, he swears he can feel your heart. or maybe it’s his own, trying to remember how to beat. he shakes his head, breaking the moment like glass.

“i’m leaving tonight,” he says, voice flat. final.

you just watch him—silent, as always—as he picks up his old acoustic guitar. it fits in his hands like it was always meant to be there, an extension of him. he’s always had a gift for music. even in the earliest years, before he knew what he was, he’d whistle back at the birds when they sang at sunrise, tap rhythms into the bones of tables, the sides of carriages, the hollow of his own chest. it was instinct. but once he found the guitar, it all came together.

remmick doesn’t look at you as he starts to play, but you can see his shoulders ease. his fingers move fluidly over the strings, coaxing out a tune that feels older than this life. you pull out a chair and sit, the wood creaking softly beneath you. no words pass between you. for once, there’s no biting sarcasm or divine reprimands. just the melody, soft and unhurried.

he plays like it’s the only honest language he’s fluent in. and you listen, like it’s the only time you truly hear him. it's brief, but in that moment, there’s peace.

remmick knows it, you know it. you’ll follow him wherever he goes.

remmick stayed in ireland for three decades, tucked away in green hills and rain-soaked stone villages. of course, you were there—always there. disappearing for weeks, months even, only to reappear when he least expected it, glowing like a bad omen he couldn’t shake.

then came 1921. something called to him—a sound, delicate and haunting. a woman playing an instrument so beautiful it made his dead heart ache. he boarded a ship of irish immigrants bound for boston, chasing the echo of her melody. he claimed he wanted to reconnect with his roots, to find the family he’d left behind. the truth was more selfish.

the voyage was a disaster.

desperate to reclaim what he thought he’d lost—music, love, belonging—remmick tried to turn them all. everyone on board: children, parents, the elderly. but vampirism is no gift, and none of them survived the transformation. blood ran like wine below deck, and the woman with the gifted hands? lost to the chaos. he never even learned her name.

when the ship docked three days later, reeking of death and silence, he slipped off unnoticed. another new instrument slung over his shoulder like a trophy. the only thing he managed to save.

but you? you were gone.

no glow in the shadows.

no soft footsteps trailing behind him.

for once, he was truly alone.

the last time he saw you—really saw you—was at a juke joint deep in the mississippi delta, about twenty years later.

he’d been lingering just outside the shack, half-shrouded in trees and night, the thrum of blues rolling out of the open door like the sweet aroma of pie out a window. his mouth was wet, glistening—thick ropes of blood and spit clung to his lips, soaked into the collar of his shirt, cooling on his skin.

he was a mess. a predator fresh from the hunt.

but even in that haze, he felt it. that pull. that warmth.

you.

your light slipped through the trees before you did, soft and steady, brighter than the porch lamps and louder than the music.

he didn’t need to feel warmth anymore to know it was you.

he’d always know.

"i should be more surprised that you’re here," remmick groaned, not bothering to turn around. he didn’t need to see your face to know what expression you wore—he could picture it perfectly: the sharp furrow of your brow, the disappointment etched into every line.

he leaned against a tree, dragging a bloodied sleeve across his mouth.

"why now?" he muttered. "gonna try and talk me down again? throw a bible verse at me like it’s some kind of holy water? think i’m gonna suddenly grow a conscience 'cause you showed up glowing?"

his voice was tired, bitter.

"you always show up when i’m at my worst. like clockwork."

“you are straying from your righteous path,” you say, your face unreadable but your voice heavy with sorrow. “are you sure you want to do this?”

remmick waves a dismissive hand, “i’m sure.”

you shake your head slowly. “you did not heed my warning.”

he arches a brow, a smirk tugging at his lips. “you warn me all the time. how’m i s’pposed to know which one?”

he knows exactly which warning you mean. but remmick aims not just for the best—he strives for something beyond that. his selfish path feels carved into stone, unchangeable. you’ve spoken of another way, a second path meant to offer hope. but he never entertained that hope. not once.

“i know what you think i do not know,” you begin, your voice steady, eyes fixed on the back of his head, “there is more for you, if only you listen to my age-old warning.”

remmick clicks his tongue in frustration, something sharp and bitter rising in his chest.

you continue, voice gentle but firm,

“life is beautiful, remmick—whether you see it or not. and i know you are unable to, not anymore. you have grown bitter, i have watched it happen, piece by piece. but it does not have to stay that way.”

your eyes focus on his form, steady and unwavering.

“you still have time. you can make peace with them, with yourself. you can reclaim what you have lost. not everything is beyond reach.”

you pause, searching for something in his body language—anything.

“do not do this. do not spill the blood of good people just because you have forgotten what goodness looks like.”

your calmness feels like mockery. he snaps—like a wire pulled too tight—spinning around so fast it startles you.

“you can’t seriously expect me to listen to anything you have to say,” he growls, eyes burning, “not after you vanished for twenty damn years just because you finally saw what i was capable of! how are you supposed to be my guardian angel when you’re so unbelievably shit at your job?”

you think your heart breaks—and remmick thinks he hears it. not a dramatic crack, but something quieter, crueler. like dry glass splintering under pressure.

his eyes flash a deep, dangerous red. for a moment, it looks like he’s considering it—really considering tearing into something holy.

he’d been cruel before, callous beyond belief. but something about tonight lands differently.

you don’t shout, you don’t plead, you don’t fall apart.

instead, just a few tears slide down your cheeks, slow and soundless.

and that’s what gets him.

he never thought he’d see the day an angel would cry. from what he knew, you were carved from calm, built to endure without cracking.

but now, standing under the weak light of a crooked moon, he sees it. sees you.

not a symbol, not a mission. just someone deeply, utterly tired.

you don’t let him linger in your sorrow. as soon as you feel the tears, you turn away—too proud to let him see what he’s done. too divine to shatter completely in front of him.

your wings unfurl—slow, deliberate, and unlike anything he’s ever seen. vast and radiant, feathers pure as untouched snow, glowing faintly with a divinity that makes the dark around him feel smaller, weaker. they catch the breeze like sails on a departing ship.

remmick freezes. not because he’s scared, but because he understands.

this is it.

you’re leaving.

and this time, you won’t come back.

a part of him, the part still clinging to something human, wants to call out. wants to say don’t.

but he doesn’t.

he stays silent, hands clenched at his sides, jaw tight as he watches with empty eyes.

you offer him one last verse—your final tether, a hope you quietly beg he'll remember.

“judge not, that ye be not judged. for with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again.”

your voice echoes long after your wings do.

with a single, mighty flap, the earth stirs beneath you. dust kicks up, grass bends, and then—

you’re gone.

all that remains is the soft imprint of your departure, a shallow crater in the earth where heaven once touched down.

his heart no longer beats in faux rhythm.

and when the sun finally rises, catching him where the shadows fail, remmick doesn’t flinch. doesn’t snarl or thrash or claw at the light like some cornered beast. he doesn’t beg, doesn’t run.

he just stares.

the light crawls across his skin, golden and relentless, and for the first time in one thousand, three hundred and eighty-five years, he lets it. he watches the sunrise not with fear or hatred, but with something else—something closer to awe.

his inhuman eyes brim with tears, not from pain, but from peace.

he knows you’re near. he can feel it. after all this time, he can still sense the pull of your presence like gravity. maybe you’re watching the same sunrise from some rooftop or ruin, silently praying for what’s left of him.

and maybe—just maybe—he’s praying too.

he imagines his ancestors waiting for him, the ones he lost to time and blood and tragedy, their arms open and music playing. but more than anything, he hopes you're there too.

and as the fire takes him, a slow, searing bloom that begins at his chest and spreads outward like a star going nova, he closes his eyes.

not in fear.

but in surrender.

in peace.

and he smiles.

you stand over the scorch-marked earth where remmick had burned. there’s no trace left of him—no body, no ash, just the faint smell of smoke clinging to the morning air and a body of water that moved indifferently as if remmick was never there.

you do not cry.

you knew this ending. had seen it coming centuries ago.

but still, your chest aches in a way that feels foreign. not divine. not righteous. just… human.

quietly, you kneel by the edge of a shallow stream, its waters catching the soft gold of the rising sun. your hand, steady and sacred, slips beneath the surface. it doesn’t take long. the chain finds you, just like he always did.

you pull it from the water—his gold chain, warm despite the cold stream, still whole.

your fingers trace its pattern, each link familiar, worn from centuries of wear.

you smile. not wide. not bright. but soft. pained. knowing.

“goodbye, old friend,” you whisper.

the wind stirs the trees behind you, and the morning continues.

you would not see his soul in the holy place.

not because he was born into darkness—he wasn’t. not because he was forced to live as he did—though that part was true.

but because remmick’s choices stretched far beyond instinct, beyond what was natural. he had time. he had chances. and every time, he chose wrong. knowingly, willfully.

and heaven does not make room for those who choose to burn.

[triangletoothedlockpick]

I have played three trrpg characters in my FitD games and all of them either are openly, or struggle with being, impulsive I wonder where that is coming from.

[vampire-scripture]

I had an idea of Lestat as the man of action, the man that could do things that I never could, the man who could make decisions that I’d never had the nerve to make, and the person who could go through life joyfully in spite of the questions that torment me, the doubts that torment me, the horror of death that torments me. (...) [Lestat] never really absorbs a tragic definition of himself for very long. He always comes back laughing at everything and just rebounding. It may take him a few years, but he always does it. I really wanted to explore a personality different from my own. - Anne Rice (source)

[chaoryn]

𓏲 ʚ +18 pick a pile: your s/o's late night fantasies about you ɞ

disclaimer: this reading is for entertainment purposes ONLY so take it all with a grain of salt.

take a deep breath and choose the picture that catches your eye the most or that your intuition tells you to.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ masterlist | paid readings | tips

୨ ⏜ ︵ · • ᨦ ♡ ᨩ • · ︵ ⏜ ୧

˙ ᩠୨ ⌢ ⁺ pile one ੭୧ ₊ ⌢ ୧ ᩠ ˙

you have your s/o utterly obsessed. not just attracted, enchanted. to them, you're a walking fantasy. the hottest, most magnetic being to ever walk this earth. they dream about you every night, and when their thoughts turn spicy? oh, it gets dark.

they imagine themselves loving you like no one else ever could. not just good sex, they want to fuck you so hard, so right, so completely, that you never forget their name. they want to leave fingerprints on your skin, bruises on your thighs, scratches on their back. they want to make you cry from pleasure. they picture you breathless, fucked out, and all because of them.

in their fantasies, they’re the one in charge. dominant, in control. they want to hear you beg, not because you have to, but because you need them. you’re on your knees, moaning their name like it’s a prayer, and every movement they make turns you into a mess. they adore that power, how easily they can ruin you with just a whisper, a glance, a single touch.

a lot of them fantasize about being called “mommy” or “daddy,” not just for the kink, but because it makes them feel needed. craved. worshipped. and in return, they worship you. they want to kiss every inch of your skin, praise your moans, look into your eyes while you cum and tell you how good you are for them. how perfect, how you make them lose their mind.

but they’re not just about roughness. no. they also imagine taking their time, savoring you, fucking you slowly and deeply until your legs shake. they want to know every part of you. where you’re most sensitive. what makes you gasp. what makes you scream. they want to learn your body like it’s holy scripture and memorize every detail.

some of them dream about tying you up. silk ropes, handcuffs, blindfolds. others imagine roleplay: being your doctor, your teacher, your vampire lover who’s waited centuries just to taste you. their creativity in bed? limitless. they fantasize about fucking you against a wall, on the kitchen table, in the shower, in a car... anywhere, as long as it’s you.

and the oral? god. they imagine licking you until you lose your voice. until you're trembling and gasping and clawing at the sheets. they want to hear you sing with pleasure. and if you haven’t had sex yet or have fears about intimacy? they honor that. they want to protect you, guide you, prove that with them, you are safe. and wanted. and free to be everything you are: soft, wild, vulnerable, dirty.

they don’t just want your body, they want your soul too. they want to see the face you make when you fall apart. they want to hold you afterwards, kiss your sweaty skin, brush your hair back and whisper, "you’re mine." they fantasize about worshipping your insecurities, touching the parts you hide, making you love yourself through their eyes.

they want to fuck you senseless and then feed you strawberries. run you a bath, hold you. because to them, you’re not just someone they want to ruin, you’re someone they want to keep forever.

୨ ⏜ ︵ · • ᨦ ♡ ᨩ • · ︵ ⏜ ୧

˙ ᩠୨ ⌢ ⁺ pile two ੭୧ ₊ ⌢ ୧ ᩠ ˙

the s/os from this pile? oh, they’re nasty. their late night thoughts are red hot, filthy, and dangerously obsessive. in their eyes, you’re not just sexy. your body, your energy, the way you move, the way you sound. everything about you drives them wild, and when they fantasize, it always starts the same: with you beneath them, moaning, begging, breaking.

they fantasize about hurting you. not to harm, but to worship you in the filthiest ways. spanking your ass until it stings, pulling your hair to hear you gasp, using a whip just enough to make you tremble. they want to turn pain into pleasure so deeply that you crave it. they want to take you right to the edge, over and over, until you’re shaking and dripping and unable to think straight. and they’ll be the one in control the entire time.

just like pile one, domination is at the core of their fantasies, but there’s a twist. they don’t just want you to obey… they want to train you. make you hold back your orgasm until you're sobbing, tease you until you're begging, edge you with just their words. “can you handle what I’m about to do to you?” they love saying shit like that, watching you squirm under their gaze while they smirk, untouched and in control.

but don’t be fooled, even the filthiest doms here have a secret: they fantasize about you taking control too. not just a little. they want you to flip the script and ruin them. ride them, use them, make them whimper and beg. make them your toy. and that’s the thing. they wouldn’t do this for just anyone. it’s only you. you’re the exception. you’re the one that gets to see them on their knees, desperate, aching for your touch.

they’re obsessed with your body. that ass? perfect. they want to spank it, fuck it, watch it bounce. your chest (whether it’s breasts or pecs) makes their mouth water. and the idea of you riding them? oh god, they’ve thought about it way too many times. even if you haven’t touched each other yet, they’ve imagined what it would feel like. and it’s always you in control, taking what you want, making them lose their mind.

they want to please you. they want to devour you. breakfast, lunch, dinner. you are the meal lol. one of their favorite fantasies is you sitting on their face, moaning above them, while they lose themselves in your taste. they want you to cum in their mouth and praise them for it. and if you’re the shy type? oh, they live for that. they want to bring out your inner beast.

some of them even fantasize about licking cream off your body because your skin, your taste, your scent… it’s all addicting. they want to ruin you and be ruined by you. they want to be the best you’ve ever had. better than anyone before, better than anyone after. they want their touch to haunt your body, their moans to echo in your memory, their name to be the one you whisper when you’re alone.

they want to fuck you until your body gives out, until you’re shaking, sweating, unable to move. they want you breathless in their arms. and then, they want to pull you close and kiss you like you’re the only thing in the universe – because you are.

୨ ⏜ ︵ · • ᨦ ♡ ᨩ • · ︵ ⏜ ୧

˙ ᩠୨ ⌢ ⁺ pile three ੭୧ ₊ ⌢ ୧ ᩠ ˙

at night, when everything is quiet and the world slows down, your s/o’s mind? it’s loud. loud with desire. loud with the need to have you. loud with the image of your body trembling beneath theirs. in their fantasies, you're not just a lover. you're their addiction, their muse, their sweetest sin.

they can’t stop thinking about the way you move. the way your body bends, the way you look when you stretch, how your lips part when you're focused, it drives them insane. they imagine you walking across the room and suddenly needing to be inside you. right there. no patience. no mercy. they imagine ripping your clothes off just to taste every inch of you, to see you blush and beg and fall apart.

they think about your mouth a lot. what it would feel like to have you go down on them, slowly, like you’re savoring it. they think your mouth was made to ruin them. and if they have a dick? they’re absolutely obsessed with the idea of you choking on it, your eyes watery and shining, hands gripping their thighs, and they’d moan your name like a prayer.

they imagine fucking you in positions that let them see everything, especially 69, where they can watch you fall apart while they devour you. if your dr involves being apart, they’ve thought about video calls where you both get off together, or even making a sex tape just for your eyes only. they want to be remembered. they want your body to crave them even when they’re not there.

if you wear heels (especially red ones) they’re done for. they want to fuck you while you still have them on. they fantasize about grabbing your waist, pulling you back onto them, heels scraping the floor as you moan like you're losing your mind. they want to mark you. claim you. make you theirs.

but don’t get it twisted, some of these s/os secretly want to be owned by you too. they want to be on their knees, obeying your every word, moaning as you degrade them. they imagine you in leather, stepping on their pride, reminding them who they belong to. they won’t say it out loud, not at first. but they want it. badly.

some of them want to watch you. touch yourself. beg. others want to see you get fucked by someone else (just once) to see how good you look when you’re lost in pleasure, so they can take you right after and remind you that no one else compares.

if you're still a virgin, they want to be your first. slowly. lovingly. but also thoroughly. they want to teach you, guide you, show you how good it can be. and if you’ve done it before? they still want to be the best. they want to make you ride them, over and over, until you can’t take it anymore. they love the way you move, and when you ride them? they're speechless, moaning.

they're impatient, yes, but they also love the tease. they want to undress you slowly, drag it out, make you wait. they want the tension. the build-up. the look in your eyes when you realize what's about to happen. and then they want to ruin you.

just like pile two, they also dream of being dominated. of giving up control, of being used. they want you to whisper filthy things in their ear while they beg for more. they want to be humiliated. praised. broken. and only you get to do that to them.

and finally, they want to make love to you. the soft, slow kind. the kind that makes you cry. the kind that feels like a promise. they want to kiss you in the shower, on the balcony, in the kitchen, in the car, wherever. they want your moans echoing off the walls. they want to be your fantasy too. because every night, when they close their eyes, you are theirs.

─ © 2025 chaoryn ⛧

[spencersmopbucket]

With the Devil | Remmick

Pairing: Remmick x Reader Summary: Mama and Daddy had always taught you not to let evil into your mind — but they'd never taught you how not to fall in love with the devil.

Themes & Warnings: corruption, smut, oral (fem receiving), mentions of religion, vampire:))))))

IDC REMMICK IS SO HOT

You were perfect. That's what Mama always told you — you'd had it ingrained into your mind since you were just a baby. You were beautiful, you were kind, you were faithful.

Your Mama was a medicine woman. Your daddy was the town preacher. And you, their little girl, were the most eligible bachelorette in the town of Clarksdale. Your wild, curly hair was always pinned back, nails always painted, lips always glossed. You dressed cleanly and modestly. Your dark, unmarred skin was luminous and moisturized, allowing you a glow that was incomparable to any other girl your age.

You were never late to school. You never spent too much time talking to the boys. You prayed every night, stocking-clad knees on the wood floor, whispering softly.

You always imagined, with the help of your parents, a husband. Firm and kind, with a straight white smile and clean hands. A businessman, maybe. A man that frequented church. Nothing like them dogs every other woman raved about.

The thought of them made you scoff.

When you thought of marriage, you thought of what your Mama and Daddy had coached you.

Until you met him.

Your undoing. Your downfall. Your sin.

You saw him first on a Thursday. The air was heavy with summer and sin — one of those Mississippi nights that made the cotton stick to your skin and the devil’s whisper easier to hear. The juke was loud, pulsing with laughter and music you weren’t allowed to dance to. But you stood just outside it, waiting for your older friend to finish flirting with the barkeep, your Bible clutched to your chest like armor.

That’s when you felt it. Not saw — felt. A presence. Ancient. Unholy. Beautiful. Dangerous, above all else.

He was leaning against the fence, dressed like a man who had nowhere to be and no one to answer to. A shirt too fine for the Delta heat. Eyes that glowed red beneath the brim of a black hat. And a grin — slow and sharp — like he knew exactly how you’d taste when you broke.

He didn’t belong in Clarksdale — not with the dust of this town on his boots, not with the way his eyes burned like coals under moonlight. And yet, he leaned there like he’d been born of the very land, like the shadows curled around his boots to rest.

His gaze slid to you. Slow. Deliberate.

“Evenin’, dove,” he said, his voice warm and rough, touched by that unmistakable lilt — like poetry slurred in whiskey. “Bit far from the chapel, aren’t ya?”

You clutched your Bible tighter, the leather cover slick against your palms. You were taught to fear the devil. No one told you he’d look at you like that. Like you were temptation.

“I’m waiting on someone,” you managed, your voice barely audible.

He smiled at that — not kindly. No. It was indulgent. Knowing.

“Oh, I can see that,” he said, pushing off the fence with the kind of lazy grace that made the air tighten. “Tell me, do all the good girls carry scripture like a shield?”

Your throat went dry. You opened your mouth — to quote something, maybe, to say something about God’s protection, or how you weren’t interested — but the words stuck. Because he was close now, and the scent of him was thick with smoke and cedar and something sweet beneath it all. Not perfume. Not cologne. Something unnatural. Something wrong.

“Relax,” he murmured, eyes trailing across your face like a caress. “Ain’t come to hurt you.”

You didn’t believe him. But you wanted to.

“Who are you?” you asked, breathless.

He touched the brim of his hat, the red in his eyes glowing faintly in the dark.

“Remmick.”

The name hit the air like a curse.

Your stomach sank. You’d heard it before. Old wives whispered it over boiling pots and under their breath in the graveyard. They said Remmick had danced with witches and kissed the mouths of holy women. Said he’d killed everyone in the Smokestack juke joint in 1932 and made an army of the dead. You'd always thought he was just a scary story, just a wives tale. He didn't exist. He couldn't.

Vampires weren't real.

Your mama once told you never to say his name aloud. That if you said it, he’d know. But you hadn’t said it. He had. And still — he looked at you like he’d known you your whole life.

Like he’d been waiting.

His smirk curled around his lips, like a snake up a vine.

"We'll see each other again, lovely dove. I swear it. Get home safe now." He said, his Irish brogue evident.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. Your feet were rooted to the ground like the Magnolia trees your mama prayed under. The juke's laughter turned to static in your ears, the cicadas buzzed too loud, and the warm wind brushed past your dress like a warning.

Remmick tipped his hat a little lower, and just like that — he was gone.

Not walked away. Not turned and faded. Gone.

The air rushed back into your lungs, sharp and stinging, like it had been waiting too long to fill you. You looked around — no sign of him. Just the night, heavy and wet with the scent of honeysuckle and trouble.

Your older friend reappeared a few minutes later, giggling and smelling like bourbon, none the wiser. “You alright, sugar?” she asked, fanning herself. “You look like you seen a ghost.”

You shook your head. “N-no. I’m fine.” But you weren’t.

Because you walked home clutching that Bible like it could still save you — but your fingers trembled, and your mind reeled, and somewhere deep in your chest, your heart had started to ache.

And worse than that… A part of you hoped he really would come back.

You knew you were done for, just like you'd heard in all of the wives tales. Once Remmick chose you, it crept in like a secret, hushed words in the back of your mind. He slowly ate you alive until all that was left was sin.

The nights after that first meeting grew darker, heavier. You tried to hold onto what Mama and Daddy taught you — faith, purity, the promise of salvation — but every shadow seemed to whisper his name. Every breeze carried the ghost of his voice, low and honeyed, calling you closer.

You found yourself drawn to places you never would’ve dared before: the cracked sidewalks under flickering streetlamps, the edges of the cotton fields where the cicadas sang their mournful song. And always, there was that ache — a hunger that wasn’t just physical, but something deeper, darker.

Remmick’s presence slithered through your thoughts like a poison and a balm all at once. You were afraid, but you were enthralled. His sin was infectious, but it felt like home.

You didn’t want to admit it. But you were already his.

And with every secret moment stolen beneath the moon’s watchful gaze, the old you slipped away, unraveling like a thread in a worn quilt.

Mama’s prayers echoed in your mind, fragile and fading, as you whispered into the night:

“Lord, save me…” But even as the words left your lips, you knew.

You were lost. And loving every breath of it.

The next time you saw Remmick, you were lying in bed. This night was worse than the others — you couldn't sleep. It evaded you. You sweat into your sheets, twisted around your legs as you tossed and turned.

You could feel him. Inside of you. In your chest, in your head, calling out to you.

Your heart hammered like a drumbeat in the quiet dark, matching the rhythm of the whisper curling through your thoughts. You dared not speak his name aloud — Mama’s warning still burned in your memory— but the pull was undeniable, a silent siren song that rooted you to the bed, torn between fear and craving.

Then, as if summoned by your unspoken plea, a shadow slipped through the cracked window, sliding across your room like liquid smoke. Remmick.

His eyes, red embers glowing softly in the moonlight, fixed on you with a hunger that was both fierce and gentle, like he was seeing through to the very soul you fought to protect.

“Restless, dove?” He smirked in amusement. You straightened, your muscles tense under his gaze. You were scared, yes. But you couldn’t ignore the creeping satisfaction under your skin.

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

He stepped closer to the bed, ancient hands running along your cotton sheets. You watched, biting your lip.

“Strugglin’ so hard to sleep. Because of me. Yet you won’t so much as whisper my name.” He said, his voice honey soaked. He was designed to be alluring. It’s how he caught his prey, how he claimed all those lives decades ago.

He leaned in closer, his frame casting a long shadow over your bed, his fingers ghosting over the sheets like he was memorizing the shape of your restlessness. The scent of him —earthy, metallic, something older than blood and fire — curled in your nose and made your breath hitch.

“You’re afraid that sayin’ it will make this real,” he murmured, voice low enough to pass for a dream. “But you know better, dove. This was real the moment I saw you. The moment you looked back.”

Your throat was dry, your heart pounding like a trapped bird inside your chest. You could still feel the weight of your Mama’s cross necklace at your collarbone, tucked beneath the lace of your nightdress. But even that holy pressure couldn’t stop the heat curling in your belly at his nearness.

Remmick’s lips quirked higher at your silence, his gaze dark with something ancient, possessive. “You keep prayin’,” he said, brushing the edge of your pillow, “but deep down, you don’t want to be saved.”

You flinched at the truth of it.

He laughed, soft and slow, like he’d just caught a fish on the line.

“There it is,” he whispered, kneeling beside your bed, his face inches from yours now. “That feeling in your guts… That’s not fear, is it?”

Your squeezed your eyes closed, laying back.

“Leave, devil.” You whispered back, holding onto the last few bits of restraint you had.

Remmick didn’t move.

He hovered there beside your bed, his breath brushing your cheek like the breeze before a storm, thick with static and promise.

“Now why would I do that,” he said softly, voice curling around the edges of your will, “when you called me here?”

Your eyes flew open.

“I didn’t—”

“Oh, but you did,” he interrupted, with a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. “Every night you twist in those sheets, whispering into the dark. Every time you dream of fire and teeth and touch. That’s a prayer too. Just not the kind your mama taught you.”

You turned your face away, jaw clenched, but your body betrayed you — heat rising, breath catching.

He leaned in closer, his voice a sinful hymn against your ear.

“Say my name,” he coaxed. “Just once. Let it taste your tongue. You’ll feel better. I promise.”

The devil’s hand rested just beside your head, not quite touching you — but you swore you could feel the chill of it down to your bones.

And God help you…

You wanted to.

His voice was velvet-drenched sin, a low murmur that made the air around you hum.

“Come on, baby,” he whispered again, and this time, there was something darker in it — not just coaxing, but claiming. His fingers finally brushed your cheek, light as a ghost, burning like a brand. “Let me in. Say my name, hm?”

You should’ve screamed. You should’ve prayed.

Instead, you turned your head back toward him, lips parted, breath trembling. Your soul stood on the edge of something vast and terrible — but it didn’t want to step back.

“Remmick,” you breathed, soft as a confession.

The effect was immediate.

His smile deepened into something hungry, almost reverent. Like he’d waited a century just to hear your voice say it.

“There’s my girl,” he murmured, dragging the pad of his thumb over your bottom lip. “Took you long enough.”

And with that, the last of your restraint crumbled — and the devil stepped through the door you’d just opened.

Before you could second-guess yourself, his lips crashed against yours.

It wasn’t gentle.

It was desperate, searing, like a man starved of something he’d been craving for far too long. His hand slid into your hair, fingers curling tight as he pulled you closer, devouring every soft sound that left your throat. His mouth tasted like smoke and blood and something impossibly sweet. Something addictive.

Your body arched before you even realized it, your hands clinging to the front of his shirt, as if you could tether yourself to the storm he brought with him.

He groaned into the kiss, a low, guttural sound that rumbled from his chest, and the bed creaked beneath his weight as he pushed closer. His other hand found your waist, dragging you against him like he had every right to.

“Good, good girl,” he rasped, voice thick with satisfaction as his thumb brushed the corner of your kiss-swollen mouth. His eyes burned like embers in the dark. “Mine now.”

His grip on your waist tightened, possessive, unyielding — not cruel, but claiming. Worshipful in a way that felt far more dangerous than hate ever could.

“No god can take you back.”

The words slithered into your soul, final and eternal. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t pray. You didn’t run.

Because in that moment — half-wrapped in cotton sheets and sin, heart thudding in time with the devil’s touch — you knew he was right.

You belonged to him.

And you didn’t want to be saved.

His hand quickly found your nightgown, and before you knew it:

Riiiip.

You wore nothing underneath. Your body was exposed to him completely, glistening with the sweat of a sleepless night, the slight fear he induced, the anticipation. His eyes traced your body predatorily, his tongue swiping his lip.

He hovered above you, gaze searing as it drank in every inch of bare skin, your breath shallow beneath him. The heat between you was suffocating — not just from the summer air, but from the charged silence, the pull of something ancient and forbidden threading itself through every heartbeat.

“Look at you,” Remmick murmured, voice low and reverent, almost mocking in its tenderness. “Waitin’ for me. Not a prayer in that pretty little head. What would Mama and Daddy think? Hm?”

He grinned as he said it, knowing the answer didn’t matter. His fingers ghosted over your collarbone, then lower, savoring the way you trembled — not just from fear, but from surrender.

“You were their pride,” he went on, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Now look at you… Writhin’ in sin for the devil himself.”

Your breath hitched, shame and desire tangling somewhere deep in your chest. His name nearly slipped from your lips again, and he heard it — felt it — in the way your body arched, in the pulse pounding at your throat.

Remmick chuckled darkly. “Good girl.”

His voice was velvet, soaked in smoke.

“‘S alright. I’m gonna make it all better now,” Remmick purred, his accent curling around the words like smoke.

His hand slid behind your neck, tilting your head gently, like you were something delicate — precious, even. His touch was warm, reverent, wicked. Everything about him was temptation draped in silk and shadow.

His mouth was hot — too hot — like the kiss of summer lightning right before a storm breaks. Wet, slow, deliberate. He mouthed at the base of your throat, then dragged his lips to your pulse, leaving kisses that were more like claims than affection. Another. Then another. Each one messier, hungrier, until your skin buzzed beneath the heat of him, your breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a whimper.

“What a pretty noise, baby. Keep ’em comin’,” Remmick murmured, his voice curling around your ear like smoke, smug and sinful.

His mouth never left your skin and he chased every sound you made like it was his favorite hymn, each whimper and gasp a confession. His fingers gripped your hips with just enough pressure to remind you who was in control, and his teeth scraped lightly at your throat, not biting — not yet — just warning.

“Don’t hold back on me now,” he rasped, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I want all of it. Every sound you’ve been too good to make. Every little song you swallowed when it was just you and your fingers at night.”

Your breath hitched, caught between the need to resist and the desperate want to surrender. His words wrapped around you like a dark lullaby, drawing out every hidden desire you thought you’d buried deep.

“Remmick..” you moaned.

His smile deepened, sharp and possessive. “That’s it, baby. Say my name like you mean it.”

His fingers traveled towards where you burned the brightest, where his attention was most needed. You whimpered, your hips bucking involuntarily, exposing all the sinful thoughts that hid themselves so far back in your mind.

His thumb traced the wet folds. You gasped.

“There, there. I’ve gotcha.”

You could’ve cried as he sunk down on the bed, pulling your sticky thighs apart. He licked his lips, looking at the glistening scene between your legs.

“Gonna ruin you. And yer gonna thank me, sweet girl.”

You shivered under his touch, every nerve in your body accepting its fate. You no longer wanted to resist. There wasn’t an inkling of it. The devil had claimed you.

And you were already his willing captive.

His tongue met your pussy, licking a warm, wet stripe onto the center. You mewled, your legs involuntarily closing, but he forced them back open with a dark, warning look.

He leaned back in again, wrapping his lips around your needy bud, lapping it with his tongue and then sucking. You moaned, your hand on autopilot, coming down to wrap each finger into his thick, messy hair.

“Remmick!”

You felt him literally grin into your cunt, releasing a lewd sound as he slurped another firm suck, making you twitch.

His tongue worked wonders, exploring every fold, tracing every contour. Your eyes rolled back into your head as he worked, lewd, wet sounds filling your room.

He came back off, his mouth glistening.

“Where’s your God now? This pretty pussy has never belonged to anyone but Remmick. It always has.”

With that, he gathered spit into his mouth, dropping it onto your drenched cunt. Using his tongue, he spread the warm substance around, painting your pussy with saliva.

Then, he delivered the crushing blow.

One more suck on your clit, giving you just enough pressure.

Your back arched, stars filled your vision, and you let out a languid moan. He chuckled into your cunt, letting you ride his face all the way through your orgasm.

When he was done, he pulled away. A string of spit and cum pulled away with him. He wiped it with his hand, sucking it from his fingers in a sinful show.

You laid, exhausted, chest heaving. You’d never experienced something like that before. You’d cum, yes, the only thing about your life you’d hidden from your parents. But it was never like that. Never that electric. And for once, you didn’t even feel guilty.

Remmick was growing on you.

Sensing your exhaustion, he hummed. “I haven’t much time ‘til sunrise, dove. But I’ll let ya get a peaceful sleep for a moment.”

He laid down next to you. You froze at first, confusion written on your face. But as if he had calming powers, you eased almost immediately, his scent filling your nose and his presence melting your fear away. This wasn’t normal. This was adjustment to sin. Adjustment to the devil. But you couldn’t much care right now.

Remmick shifted closer, his hand sliding beneath the sheets to rest just above your hip, possessive and protective all at once. You shouldn’t have felt safe — not in the arms of something whispered about in church warnings and graveyard stories — but you did. Terrifyingly so.

His chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm, and you let yourself match it. He wasn’t human. He wasn’t righteous. He wasn’t even good.

But he was yours now.

His words dripped like warm molasses in your ear, thick and saccharine, laced with something darker.

“Waited for ya for ages. Decades,” Remmick whispered, curling around you like smoke, his fingers tracing invisible promises along your spine. “A beautiful bride, you’ll make.”

You shivered, not from fear — not anymore — but from something ancient stirring in your bones. Something that recognized him. Something that belonged to him.

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

But you didn’t pull away.

“Sleep. I won’t be here when ya wake, but.. when night falls, you can always call my name.”

[hatethysinner]

Saw your requests are open and I’ve been thinking about OC from Let the Wrong One In being fascinated by Remmick’s fangs once he finally reveals himself as a vampire to her and admiring his other vampiric features (claws, those Bambi-from-hell eyes). In all his 1,000+ yrs Remmick is shocked he inspires awe not fear for once

ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱʜᴀᴅᴏᴡꜱ

a/n: YES YES YES YES YES I LOVE YOU FOR REQUESTING THIS! originally i wanted to just do a small domestic fluff fic but i got carried away bc this theme was so good so i knew i needed to format this at least semi-right 😭. regardless, it was such a needed break for me from writing the current behemoth i'm working on now. i played with the vampire lore a little bit, don't hate me </3. hope y'all enjoy! this will be an add-on to let the wrong one in, but there's no need to read it before this one (though i do highly recommend it).

wc: 4.3k

You’d always known there was something off about him.

Not wrong, exactly. Just… other.

It wasn’t just the way he’d limped through your threshold that first day, smoking at the skin like meat on a spit. Or how he never cast a reflection in the window behind the stove, even though the lamp always burned bright. You’d chalked it up to trauma at first. Sickness. Strange blood and painful burns.

But now, a week on, with the worst of the wounds healed and the swelling down to faint scars, there were things you couldn’t unsee.

He didn’t breathe when he slept.

Or if he did, it was shallow and irregular, more a mimic of habit than need. He'd go so still that you'd catch yourself leaning close to check his chest, just to make sure he was still there. Still real. Still resting in the quilt you’d laid out for him, curled at the edge of the hearth like a dog that didn’t believe it had earned the bed yet.

And he never left the house during the day. Not once. Whatever needed doing, he found a way to do it inside. Tinkering with the old radio, rearranging the pantry by scent alone, folding your laundry into neat, obsessive little squares though you never asked. He swept the floors more often than they needed it, flipped through your recipe book like it was scripture. Quiet, always. Careful, always. And secretly, it was your favorite time. The hush of morning light creeping through the curtains, the gentle rustle of him moving from place to place, like he couldn’t bear to sit still unless you asked him to.

But some nights, never on a pattern, never with warning, he’d vanish. You’d wake to cold sheets and the door left just barely ajar, hinges greased silent, latch clicked shut behind him. He always returned before sunrise, soaked in swamp water and silence. His boots left damp prints on the porch, and you’d hear him at the basin, cloth slapping water, breath low and quick like he was trying not to wake you. Sometimes he’d hum, something ancient and broken, as if to stitch himself back together before you saw him again.

And then there were the teeth.

He didn’t hide them anymore. Not the way he did the first night, lips tight and showing just enough to leave space for reasonable doubt. Now he let them rest where they were. Jagged and perfect, sharper than they had any right to be, glinting white in the oil lamp’s glow. You’d see them when he smiled, when he got too pleased with himself over something simple, like organizing your jars alphabetically or stacking your firewood into perfectly symmetrical towers. That grin would slip out before he could tuck it back. Not sheepish. Just… exposed.

And his eyes, God, his eyes.

They were still that endless, brilliant blue. But sometimes, when the light caught them just right, they glinted red. Not bright. Not obvious. Just a shimmer beneath the surface, like an ember curled deep in a log, waiting to be stoked. They never glowed, but you saw the way they shimmered in the dark. Watching you. Always watching.

He didn't try to hide it anymore. Not fully.

And you weren’t scared.

You told yourself that a lot lately. You weren’t scared. Curious, maybe. Studious. Alert in the way you were when you spotted a new plant blooming near the edge of the yard. Not afraid, just aware. You’d lived with strange things before. Nature never asked permission to be unknowable. Neither, it seemed, did Remmick.

He’d taken to helping you make tea.

He said he liked the smell. Said it reminded him of places he didn’t quite remember. The way he said it made your skin prickle. Like the memory was too old, or too far, or not quite his anymore.

You watched him now, standing at your counter, sorting dried chamomile and rose hips into little cloth sachets. He moved slowly, precisely. His hands were always gentle, careful not to bruise the petals. But the way his claws, because that’s what they were, now, no denying it, clicked faintly against the mason jars told you he was fighting to keep them sheathed.

They weren’t long. Not monstrous. But they were sharp, curved, and wickedly clean. Manicured like talons.

You didn’t ask about them.

You didn’t ask why his hands trembled when he held the lavender. Or why he never touched the garlic strung above the door. Or why he flinched, just barely, when you kissed his temple the night before.

You didn’t ask.

You just watched. Waited.

He hadn’t told you what he was.

But your body already knew.

And the strangest part? He looked peaceful like this.

Not natural. But calm. Almost happy.

You’d caught him humming again. Not always. Just at night, when he thought you were asleep. Soft, tuneless melodies, like lullabies spoken in a language you didn’t recognize. You could feel them in your bones more than your ears. They made your garden bloom early. They made the wind hush.

Remmick glanced over his shoulder now, catching you watching him from your seat near the hearth. His face split into a shy smile, fangs peeking through.

“Ain’t mean to wake ya,” he said.

“You didn’t,” you replied.

He nodded, eyes dropping, fingers twitching over the herbs. “Just… couldn’t rest. Thought I’d help.”

You rose, walking slowly toward him, bare feet padding against the warm wooden floor.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t step back. But you saw it anyway. The way his breath hitched. The way his fingers went still.

You stood beside him.

Close.

Close enough to see the red shimmer in his eyes under the lamplight.

Close enough to see the way his pupils dilated, wide and searching.

Close enough to know.

You reached for a bundle of chamomile, brushing his hand as you did.

It wasn’t cold.

Not anymore.

Still, his eyes flicked to yours.

Waiting.

Wondering.

Bracing for what you’d say next.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t need to.

Tomorrow, he’d slip up again. He’d reveal something.

And you’d be ready.

Your gut was always right.

It didn’t matter what others called it. Instinct, a gift, women’s intuition. You’d never been wrong when your stomach twisted. Not once. It wasn’t loud or flashy. Just a slow tug behind your navel, a soft unease like a sour note in a favorite song. Sometimes it whispered hours before the storm clouds rolled in. Other times, it waited until the quiet part of the day, when the air felt too still, and the cicadas had gone silent.

Today had started off just like the others.

You rose early, the way you always did. Dawn was still stretching itself over the trees when your feet touched the floor, and Remmick was already awake.

He didn’t say much when he greeted you. He rarely did. Just looked at you in that quiet, reverential way of his and passed you your robe without a word.

Together, you stepped out into the garden.

He followed your lead, of course. Always did.

Remmick didn’t crouch or dig or weed unless you asked him to. But he hovered just close enough to watch, close enough to learn. His eyes never left your hands. Not when you teased a beetle off your basil, not when you pinched the browning leaves off your peppermint, not when you leaned in close to whisper to your echinacea like it was an old friend that needed gentle coaxing.

And the thing was, he never laughed.

Never made a joke about it. Never offered some flippant remark about talking to plants or casting spells or needing company bad enough to speak to the dirt. No, he watched like you were a priestess at work. Like the words you offered your roots and petals meant something holy. He never repeated them back, never tried to mimic your tone. But sometimes, you’d find him murmuring to the lemon balm when he thought you weren’t listening.

By midday, the sun had grown fat in the sky.

Remmick had long excused himself, as he always did when the heat crested too high. You didn't press him. You never did. He slipped into the house, eyes soft, smile lingering, and left you to your tending.

Later, when you came in smelling of rosemary and sun, the house was cleaner than you'd left it.

The rug had been beaten and shaken. The wood near the back door had been re-nailed. Quietly, expertly. The kettle had been scrubbed until it shone, and your dish rack was full of hand-washed mugs. Your comb, the wide-toothed one, had been repaired, and placed carefully beside your brush, as if he knew it needed fixing and didn’t want you to see it in pieces.

He didn’t say a word about it.

You thanked him. He looked bashful. Tried to shrug it off.

That evening, he read for a while beside you. His head tilted, those sharp eyes scanning every page like they had something to prove. The glow of the oil lamp caught in his lashes, his jaw resting in one palm as he sat curled in the rocking chair across from yours. He didn't speak unless you did.

Then the hour turned late. The light faded.

And your stomach twisted.

He stood up like he always did. Slow, quiet. Said he was going for a walk. That he’d be back before the rooster stirred.

You’d heard it before. And just like every other time, you nodded.

But you didn’t sleep.

Not tonight.

You made tea, soft and floral, and sat in the quiet, letting the warmth from the mug seep into your hands. You didn’t read. Didn’t rock. You just listened.

The wind shifted sometime after two.

You felt it before you heard it.

The trees stopped swaying. The air went still. The kettle, empty and forgotten on the stove, creaked slightly as it cooled.

And then, you heard him.

Not at the door.

Outside.

Past the edge of the house.

Your ears sharpened, straining in the dark as bare branches scratched against the siding. There was a hush of steps moving low and slow along the rear of the house. Too careful for a man just coming home from a midnight stroll. You moved to the window with the light still off, lifting the corner of the curtain only enough to see.

There he was.

Remmick.

Not coming up the porch like a man who belonged.

No. He was skulking, body half-crouched, moving just beyond the reach of the moonlight as he crept toward the back edge of the yard. The swamp.

He was soaked.

Not rain. No rain had fallen.

This was thicker. Darker.

Even from the distance, you could see the smear of it.

Blood.

Not dried. Not old.

Fresh.

You watched as he reached the edge of the water, dropped to his knees, and plunged his hands into the shallows. He scrubbed. Hard. Rough. Like it offended him. Like it burned to wear. His shirt stuck to his back in deep red patches. His arms, even under the dim light, glistened with it.

Still, not his.

Not a wound on him.

His face was twisted in concentration, in something close to shame. Or rage. You couldn’t tell which. And then, like always, he slipped into the water. Up to his elbows, then his shoulders. Rinsed himself in silence.

You didn’t call out.

Didn’t step onto the porch.

Just watched.

When he finished, he stood slow, wrung the water from his shirt with both fists, and turned back toward the house.

And for the first time, you let him catch you watching.

He had already barreled himself through the back door before you could even turn around.

The creak of the hinge hadn’t finished groaning before he was inside, water still dripping from his sleeves, boot soles darkening the kitchen floor plank by plank. The air came in with him. Wet and wild and thick with swamp breath, smelling of bark and iron and something you weren’t quite ready to name.

And yet.

He stood tall.

Not frantic, not pitiful. Not the mess he looked like from the window. He didn’t stumble or stammer, didn’t make excuses or throw himself to your feet.

He just... paused.

Straightened his spine, wet hair falling back from his face, and fixed his eyes on you like a man walking into judgment.

And maybe he was.

He didn’t speak. Not right away.

He waited for you to look at him fully. Your back was still turned, hand resting on the doorframe between kitchen and parlor. He didn’t dare call your name. Just stood in the silence like he’d been preparing for this moment since the first time he appeared, no, threw himself on your humble little porch.

When you finally turned, his whole body seemed to brace.

Not in fear. In readiness.

Like he’d accept whatever came next. Even if it was banishment.

But you didn’t say anything. Not yet.

Your gaze traveled slow. From his soaked boots, caked faintly in the dried silt of the creekbed, up to the hem of his shirt, still clinging damp and dark to his torso, streaked faintly in places with something not-quite mud.

Then to his hands.

They were clean now, scrubbed raw. Red at the knuckles, scraped slightly where bark or stone had resisted him. And still he kept them at his sides, fingers relaxed, not clenched. No trembling.

His composure was deliberate.

He wanted you to see it.

And then, his eyes.

You’d always known his eyes weren’t right. Not fully.

Blue, yes. Deeper than any human blue ought to be. Not clear like the sky or shallow like lakewater. His were darker. Silted and strange. There was a depth in them, a heaviness behind the hue, like they were holding onto something old. None of this was new to you.

But tonight, they gleamed.

A red had bloomed there. No longer just a thread, but a slow-spreading stain beneath the iris, curling and pulsing like something alive. It throbbed with rhythm, like a heartbeat made visible, overtaking the soft blue with something hotter, hungrier. It wasn’t rimmed around the edge. It moved, filling the center outward, pushing into the color like ink dropped in water, stubborn and seeping. It didn’t look human. It didn’t try to. But it didn’t frighten you either.

You’d never seen eyes try so hard to stay soft.

He saw your gaze catch on it.

Didn’t blink. Didn’t hide.

Instead, he smiled.

Soft. A little strained. But real.

“Was hopin’ you were sleepin’.”

His voice still had that low, careful lull to it. Familiar. Full of the same patience he used when helping you dry rosemary or stirring your teas so they wouldn’t scorch. But underneath, it frayed. Just slightly. Like he was trying not to fray with it.

You didn’t smile back.

You stepped aside and let him pass.

Remmick took it as the invitation it was.

He walked past you without brushing your arm, though his body ached to. You could see it in the way his shoulder nearly tilted toward you, then pulled itself back like a tide fighting gravity. He stopped just shy of the kitchen, not daring to sit.

You followed.

The silence dragged.

He stood near the hearth where no fire had been lit, hands clasped lightly in front of him like he was visiting someone’s grandmother’s house, unsure where to step.

You took your time.

Watched the beads of water sliding from his shirt’s hem, down the inside of his thighs, pooling gently at his boots.

“Ain’t mean to track it in,” he said, glancing down at the muddied trail behind him.

You raised a brow.

“You’ll clean it.”

That made his throat twitch, like he wanted to apologize but knew better than to say sorry again. Knew it wouldn’t fix a thing.

So he did something else instead.

A pivot. Gentle. Strategic.

“Ya look real pretty in this light.”

His voice had dropped, syrup-smooth, the way it always did when he was trying to charm his way into something you hadn’t decided to give. But there was nothing slick behind it. No real expectation.

Just... admiration.

You didn’t thank him. You didn’t look away.

“You clean?”

The question cut straight through whatever careful rhythm he’d been trying to establish.

Remmick blinked.

His head tilted, a soft nod following.

“Best I could manage. Swamp’s cold tonight.”

“Still smell it.”

He dropped his gaze then. Just briefly.

“I scrubbed.”

“I know.”

He took a slow breath.

“I’d tell ya it ain’t what it looks like,” he said. “But that’d be a lie.”

You didn’t answer. Just crossed your arms.

He continued.

“I tried to be quiet. Didn’t think you’d catch me.”

“You always think that.”

He nodded.

“Foolish of me.”

Another pause.

The clock ticked in the corner. Somewhere far off, an owl called once and was answered.

Then you said, “You got blood on the rosemary.”

That finally cracked him. Just a little.

His mouth parted. A breath caught halfway between guilt and laughter.

“I’ll clean it in the mornin’,” he promised. “Before ya even wake.”

“Damn right, you will.”

He smiled again. Smaller this time. Relieved.

Still, he didn’t ask for forgiveness. Didn’t plead.

Just stood there, soaked through, with a red glint in his eyes and the faint scent of iron clinging to his collar.

And waited.

You didn’t dance around it.

You’d never been one for hemming and hawing, not when the truth sat that close to the surface. And tonight, with the house still holding its breath and the floorboards still damp with the print of his boots, the truth felt loud enough to touch.

“What are you?”

The question wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t spit from the tongue or dragged through suspicion.

It was plain.

Quiet.

Like you already knew the answer, but the word had slipped just out of reach.

Remmick didn’t flinch.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t pretend he hadn’t heard you.

He just looked at you, really looked, and for a long, long second, you saw every year behind his eyes trying to decide whether or not to run.

But he didn’t.

He sighed.

And when he did, it wasn’t the sharp exhale of a man trying to find his way out of a lie. It was deep, tired, and slow. The kind of breath you take when a door that’s been closed for too long finally swings open.

“I don’t know what you’d call it now,” he said. “Folks’ve had a lotta names. Over the years.”

You said nothing.

Just tilted your head slightly. Waiting.

He wet his lips. Slowly. Out of habit, not hunger. Like he had to remember how to speak the word, how to say it in front of someone who mattered.

“Vampire,” he said at last. “If that’s still the word folk use. Feels funny in the mouth, but that’s the one most settle on.”

There it was.

Hung there in the space between you. All sharp and simple. No lightning strike, no howl of wind through the windowpanes. Just the word.

And the man still standing where he’d always been.

Your shoulders didn’t twitch. Your hands didn’t clutch the table. You didn’t take a single step back.

You just looked at him.

“That what you are?” you asked, eyes narrowing slightly. “Not just pretendin’? Not just wearin’ someone else’s coat?”

“No, ma’am,” he said, his voice soft. “Ain’t pretendin’. I’ve been this for a long while.”

“How long?”

He swallowed.

The quiet ticked again. The walls felt a little closer.

“Little over a thousand, far as I can figure. Give or take.”

You blinked.

Your expression didn’t change. Not much.

But your breath slowed. Measured. As if your heart knew before your head did that the shape of the world was different now.

“A thousand years,” you repeated.

He nodded once.

“Gimme an exact.”

He gave a dry smile at that. Not smug. Not proud. Just... worn.

“Been hard to keep track. I was born before folk kept good calendars. Or at least before I cared to mark ‘em. But best guess puts me ‘round the 10th century,”

You absorbed that in silence.

He kept talking.

“Didn’t always look like this. Used to be more beast than man. Took a long time to... settle. To figure out what the hunger wanted. To learn how to pass.”

His voice didn’t shake.

But there was something behind it now. Not grief. Not guilt.

Something older.

Weariness.

“And now?”

He exhaled again. Shoulders dropping just slightly.

“Now I do what I can. Hide where I need to. Feed how I must.”

You didn’t ask what “how I must” meant. Not yet.

Instead, you stepped forward.

Slowly.

One foot in front of the other, your steps soft as you crossed the room until only the kitchen table separated you.

You didn’t reach for him. Not yet.

Your eyes flicked up to the red still faint in his irises.

“I knew you weren’t right,” you murmured.

He nodded.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” you said. “You never scared me.”

That made something twist in his expression. Not relief, exactly.

Something more like grief, bent toward gratitude.

“I shoulda told ya sooner.”

“You shoulda. But I reckon if you had, I wouldn’t’ve listened.”

He looked down at that.

And then, like your words finally gave him permission, he spoke.

“There are rules,” he said quietly. “Things that ain’t changed since I was first turned. Can’t cross thresholds without invitation. Sun burns me... as you know. Fire hurts. And the thirst never really ends. You just learn how to live beside it.”

You nodded.

Still, you didn’t look afraid. Just thoughtful.

“And the blood?” you asked. “Yours? Or someone else’s?”

His eyes flicked up quick.

He shook his head. “Not yours. Not ever. I wouldn’t-”

“That wasn’t the question.”

Remmick went still.

Then, slowly, he nodded again.

“I don’t take what ain’t freely given. Not anymore. Haven’t in a long time. And when I do... it’s animals. Mostly. Or people who trade it for coin, like a service. Or...” he hesitated, “... folk I trust.”

You studied him.

Your gaze raked down his frame. The water still glinting off his collarbone, the faint steam still curling off his sleeves in the warm air of the room.

“And tonight?”

He took another breath.

“Someone offered,” he said quietly. “City man. Got a house on the edge of the woods. Said he liked the teeth.”

That made you blink.

You let out a short exhale through your nose. Not quite a laugh. But close.

“And you just took off to go nibble on a stranger?”

He gave you a pained look.

“I didn’t want to wake ya.”

“You did anyway.”

“I’m sorry.”

You stared at him.

Then, slowly, stepped around the table and sat yourself on his lap.

His posture tensed again, like he didn’t know what you were about to do.

But all you did was take his chin in your hand.

Turned his face toward the lamplight.

Looked again at the teeth. Always just slightly bared now, long and sharp like they’d never fully retract. Looked into those bloody-blue eyes. Looked at the man who had collapsed on your doorstep and gifted you a gold necklace and kissed your mouth like it was the last prayer he had left.

And instead of fear, you felt fascination.

You leaned in, slowly, until your breath brushed his cheek. Watched the way his lips parted as if he thought you might kiss him again. You didn’t. Not yet. Your hand moved instead, one palm against his jaw, thumb dragging lightly along the edge of one long canine.

He shivered.

You tilted your head, narrowed your eyes just slightly.

“They’re sharp,” you murmured, more to yourself than him.

“I know,” he whispered, throat working. “I can cover ’em, if you’d like. Hide ’em again-”

You slipped your finger past his lips.

He froze.

Mouth open, barely breathing, as your fingertip traced the edge of his fang. It nicked you. Just barely. Just enough to break skin.

You felt it. That tiny sting.

And giggled.

Quiet and unexpected.

His eyes widened.

You pulled your hand back, sucked the drop of blood from your finger like it was stray droplet of nectar, and shook your head with something close to delight. “Damn things are sharp.”

He stared at you like you’d just blasphemed in a church.

“You ain’t scared?”

“Should I be?”

He didn’t answer.

Because you both knew the answer already.

Instead, you took his hand.

Turned it over, slow and reverent, palm to the low lamplight. Studied the curve of his nails. Longer than they should be, ridged like bone instead of keratin, glinting faintly like glass in the flame’s glow. They were claws. Elegant. Meant for something wild, something ravenous.

And you ran your thumb over them like they were precious stones.

“They look like they hurt,” you murmured.

“They don’t,” he said. “Not unless I want them to.”

You traced the edge of one, then threaded your fingers through his. Held his hand in yours like it was the most normal thing in the world.

He looked down at your hands. At the difference in them, warm and dark, soft and human, against his pale, calloused fingers. It looked impossible. Like everything should’ve stopped to watch it happen.

And still, you kissed him.

Just once.

Soft.

Pressed your lips to his, with the faint taste of your own blood still on your tongue.

His claws didn’t twitch. His fangs didn’t pierce.

He just kissed you back.

Slow and still, like his whole life had been building to that moment and he didn’t dare rush it.

When you pulled away, his eyes hadn’t moved from your face.

“You really ain’t scared,” he breathed.

“No,” you said, lips brushing his. “I think you’re beautiful.”

And for once, Remmick didn’t know what to say.

You held his gaze a while longer.

Then said, “All right.”

His brow creased. “All right?”

“I can work with that.”

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t dare.

Just stared at you with something ancient and awe-struck shining behind his lashes, like the world had cracked open just to let him feel something holy after a lifetime of sin.

You dropped your hand.

“Go dry off. You’re drippin’ on my floors.”

And that was that.

[sunshinesfreckless]

Dinner is Served

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───

Pairings: Felix x fem!reader

Summary: Horny thoughts at 3 AM turn you into a fine dining expert in the field of “Your Boyfriend’s Ass.”

Warnings: Felix’s ass, being hungry for Felix’s ass, freaking out over Felix’s ass… MDNI

A/N: Bangchan might have the biggest, but I don’t know—Felix looks so appetizing.

ALSO, the spoiled parts for Changbin, Han, and Lee Know are ALL in the making, my sweetlings. (Just like a part 3. for Every Girl gets her Wish) <3

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───

Felix had just begun his descent into peaceful slumber, arms wrapped protectively around Y/N, her back tucked snugly to his chest. One leg was lazily draped over hers like a clingy golden retriever. He was warm, comfy, and entirely unaware of the war about to be waged against his peace.

She blinked at the ceiling.

“Felix,” she whispered.

A sleepy grunt. A soft kiss to her hair. “Mmm.”

She wiggled slightly. “Felix.”

“Yes, baby,” he mumbled, somewhere between sleep and a dream about pancakes.

She rolled over to face him. “Open your eyes.”

His brows furrowed. “They are,” he slurred.

“No they’re not.”

He pried them open like it was the hardest thing he’d ever done. “There. Open. What is it.”

“Can I eat your ass?”

Pause.

A beat passed. Then another. Somewhere outside, a dog barked.

Felix blinked. “I’m sorry. I think I misheard you. It sounded like you just said—”

“Can I eat your ass.”

His eyes widened. “Okay. No. I’m awake now. Fully alert. Why—what—HUH?!”

She looked entirely too pleased. “Many men do this with their girlfriends.”

He sat up like a vampire emerging from a coffin. “Many men also die in the ocean. That doesn’t mean I’m going snorkeling with you at 2AM.”

“Oh my god, you’re being so dramatic.”

“I just laid down! I was about to have a dream about petting a goat!”

“I’ll pet your goat,” she said with a wink.

“What does that even MEAN?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m workshopping it.”

Felix buried his face in the pillow and faked a cry.

She crawled over him slowly. “You have such a pretty little ass, Lixie. Like a treat. Why wouldn’t I want dessert?”

He slapped a hand over his own behind. “No! No dessert! This bakery is closed!”

She licked her lips. “I’ve got the key.”

“STOP TALKING IN METAPHORS.”

Felix was still face-down in the pillow when she straddled his thighs like a woman possessed.

“I just don’t get it,” she sighed dreamily, hands spreading across his lower back like a renaissance painter preparing to sketch his muse. “How is it so round? So plush? So… biteable?” she stared at the Calvin Klein Boxershorts.

He let out a noise that could only be described as a muffled wheeze of betrayal. “Y/N. Baby. It is literally three in the morning.”

“I know,” she cooed. “That’s why I want it now. The nightly cravings.”

He twisted his head to the side.“You literally said that exact sentence last week when you tried to climb me like a jungle gym while I was eating nachos.”

“And you loved it.”

“I choked on a jalapeño and almost died.”

She smirked. “Exactly. After that you ate me out. What a way to go.”

“I haven’t even digested dinner!”

“That’s okay, now I’m the one digesting.”

He blinked.

“Felix,” she said reverently, as if she was about to recite scripture. “Your ass is like a peach carved by angels. A gift from the gods. Michelangelo could never. The Louvre is shaking. Doja Cat wrote ‘Juicy’ for you.”

“I’m breaking up with you.”

“You’re only in your Boxers and I’m on top of you. Be serious. You can‘t live without me”

She was right. He groaned, rolling onto his side, trying to scoot away. She followed like a determined raccoon after a shiny object.

“You don’t even know what you’re asking for,” he whined.

“I know exactly what I’m asking for. Face down, ass up, let me French kiss your Cheeks.”

He buried his face back in the pillow. “I’m calling Seungmin.”

“It’s 3am, he’s not picking up.”

“I’m texting Hyunjin.”

“He’ll help me.”

Felix finally flipped over, eyes wide and tragic. “Why now? Why this moment in time? Why is your whole personality suddenly centered around my butthole?!”

She leaned down until their noses touched.

“You underestimate how much I want to ruin you in the name of pleasure.”

He gulped. “…You’re insane.”

She grinned. “Turn around and find out.”

Felix sighed dramatically as he turned, flopped onto his stomach, dragging the pillow over his head like it might shield him from her deranged mission.

“You’re really not letting this go, huh,” he mumbled into the cotton. “It’s 3 a.m., Y/N. People are supposed to sleep at 3 a.m.”

She straddled the backs of his thighs like a woman on a mission. “People also nut at 3 a.m. It’s a sacred time.”

“Nothing about this is sacred.”

He yelped when she gave his ass a light slap through the fabric of his boxers. “You say that, but your body’s already getting shy,” she teased, fingers dipping under the waistband. “What’s wrong, pretty boy? Scared of a little tongue?”

“You are way too excited about this,” he muttered, but made no effort to stop her as she started peeling the boxers down.

She did it slow, dramatic—like she was unwrapping the world’s most unhinged birthday present. He kicked a little when they got stuck at his knees.

“Oh my god—lift your hips, you useless slut,” she snapped, swatting his thigh.

“Why are you bullying me and trying to eat my ass,” he whined, doing as told.

“Duality,” she replied sweetly.

Once his boxers were off, she sat back for a moment just to look. Her hands molded over the softness of him, thumbs spreading across the curve of his ass with open appreciation.

“Literally obsessed,” she breathed. “I‘m going to dig in, not even Chan could pull me out”

“I’m going to cry,” he muttered into the mattress. “I feel like a girl in a Kevin Gates song.”

Then he let out a choked little noise when she leaned down and kissed the inside of one cheek. Soft. Almost loving. Then another kiss, closer to center.

“You’re seriously—oh, fuck—”

He cut himself off when her tongue slid between the cheeks, slow and wet and deliberate. His legs twitched. His hand grabbed at the sheets like they might save him.

Her hands held him firm, spreading him open while her tongue dragged another lick, more pressure this time—confident now that he wasn’t fighting it. Not that he could fight. He was trembling already.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “Fuck, that’s weird—wait—why does it—”

“Feel good?” she said smugly, breath hot as she dipped back in. “Just take it.”

He let out a broken noise, forehead pressed to the bed.

“Y/N,” he groaned, voice all wrecked and low. “I swear, if you make me cum from this I’m never making eye contact with you again.”

“Oh no,” she pouted. “How will I survive.”

“Y/N,” he gasped, already breathless, hips twitching as she licked another firm stripe right over the spot that made his thighs jerk.

“What?” she asked sweetly, pulling back to admire the way he was panting, the mess of his hair, the tremble in his thighs. “Shy now?”

“I—I’m not even supposed to like this—”

“Oh, baby,” she giggled, “you love this.”

He whined into the sheets, like the pillow could shield him from the truth.

Then she grabbed his hips with both hands and said, “Actually, turn over.”

“What?!”

“Turn. Over.”

“No—no, why—why do you need to see my face while you do this?”

“Because it’s pretty. And I want to watch it fall apart.”

He made a strangled little sound that might’ve been a protest, but she was already manhandling him—gripping his waist and flipping him over. He landed on his back, wide-eyed, dazed, legs still twitching.

And then she pushed. Bent his knees to his chest, folded him clean in half, heels hovering in the air. His face flushed so violently.

“Y/N,” he cried, face buried in his hands. “I LOOK STUPID—”

“You look delicious,” she corrected, kneeling between his legs, lowering herself like she was about to consume a five-star meal. “This is better. Now I can look at you and eat you.”

“I’m going to have a nervous breakdown,” he muttered, hands sliding helplessly through his hair as she lowered her head.

Then her tongue was back, this time with no hesitation, no teasing—just feasting. She licked him open, slow and deep, lips slick and greedy, moaning like she was genuinely enjoying herself.

Felix arched off the bed with a broken moan, thighs trembling, fists curled in the sheets.

“Fuck, fuck—stop—don’t stop—” He didn’t know what he wanted. All he knew was that her tongue was dragging circles that made his brain go fuzzy, and he could see her now—could see her eyes, half-lidded, cheeks flushed, hair falling over her face like she was starving for him.

“Why does this feel so good,” he whimpered. “Why the fuck does this feel—fuck—don‘t stop baby”

“You’re melting,” she whispered, voice low and proud, licking right over his hole before sucking on it like he was the sweetest thing she’d ever tasted. “Such a good boy. Look at you.”

His eyes rolled back. His hips bucked into the air like his body was begging for more despite his mouth saying otherwise.

“I hate this,” he moaned.

“You love it,” she corrected, licking deep. “You’re going to cum just like this, aren’t you?”

“I’m gonna cry.”

“Do it,” she breathed. “Cry for me.”

Felix couldn’t take it anymore.

His legs were trembling, spread wide, knees still pressed toward his chest as she devoured him like she hadn’t eaten in days. The slurping sounds were filthy, obscene in the dark quiet of their bedroom. Her tongue flicked, circled, dipped—and every time, his whole body jolted like he was being electrocuted with pleasure.

His hands clawed the sheets. “Y/N—fuck—I’m close—I think I’m gonna—”

“I know,” she moaned against him, breath hot and wet. She slid her hand between her own thighs, fingers disappearing between soaked folds, working herself furiously as she kept going, tonguing him through every twitch and whimper.

“I shouldn’t like this,” he sobbed, red-faced, sweaty, overwhelmed.

“But you do,” she gasped. “You love it. Look at you—fucking shaking for me—”

He was shaking. Legs spasming, toes curled, cock untouched and leaking, hips trying to thrust into nothing as she licked him right on the edge of madness. She pushed her tongue deeper, lips sealing over him, and—

“Y/N—!” he cried out, high and desperate, thighs clamping around her head as he came hard, untouched, whole body bucking against the sheets as he lost control.

She didn’t stop. Licked him through every twitch, moaning as she came at the same time, fingers still working between her legs, body clenching tight as her orgasm ripped through her with a loud, needy cry muffled by the mess of his thighs.

By the time she pulled back, they were both breathless and trembling.

Felix collapsed against the bed like a broken marionette, legs still spread open, chest heaving.

She crawled up his body, kissed his flushed cheeks, then kissed his mouth—slow and deep and sweet, like none of what just happened had been borderline illegal.

“Thank you,” she whispered against his lips.

He blinked. “What.”

“I’m really glad you let me do that,” she said, smiling like a satisfied little freak. “It meant a lot.”

He stared at her like she’d grown a second head. “You just—you—I—I came from getting my ass eaten and you’re thanking me like I handed you a bouquet?!”

“You did hand me something beautiful,” she said seriously. “Your ass.”

He looked at the ceiling in utter defeat.

“Take your time,” she hummed, cuddling into his side like the angel of filth she was. “You’ll be begging for it next time.”

His eye twitched. “…Don’t say ‘next time.’”

“Next time.”

“Y/N!”

Y/N curled into his side like nothing in the world had just happened—like she hadn’t just tongue-fucked him into an out-of-body experience.

She nuzzled his shoulder, voice all soft and sleepy. “Cuddle me now. Let’s go back to sleep.”

Felix was still spread out like roadkill, sweat cooling on his skin, brain soup. “I need… to clean myself first. I can’t sleep like this.”

She pouted against his arm. “I already licked you clean.”

“Emotionally, and i‘m full of cum Y/N,” he said flatly, sitting up with great effort.

She watched him stumble toward the bathroom, still butt-naked and sore-looking, and as soon as the light hit him—there it was.

That ass.

Perfect. Glowing. Slightly red from how hard she’d gone. The arch in his back when he walked? Unholy.

Y/N stared, shameless and awed.

He paused in the doorway. Froze. Then turned slowly, catching her eyes directly on the goods.

“Y/N,” he snapped, pointing a warning finger. “Don’t. Look. At. My. Ass.”

“I literally just made out with it,” she pointed out.

“Yeah, and now you’re gazing at it like it’s a damn Van Gogh.”

“It kind of is.”

He groaned, running a hand through his hair.

Then he pointed again, sharp and serious. “You get to eat it again only if you swear you won’t tell the boys about this. I’m not walking into the dorm and getting called Peachy Princess for the next year.”

Y/N grinned like the gremlin she was. “My lips are sealed, you pretty boy.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“Swear on your favorite hoodie.”

“I swear on your entire ass.”

“…I don’t know whether to be honored or afraid.”

“Little bit of both,” she said with a wink, and rolled onto her side, giggling to herself as he shut the bathroom door—his cheeks (all four of them) red and glowing.

[bills-bible-basics]

DRACULA, NOSFERATU, TWILIGHT: THE VAMPIRE FAD -- a Bill's Bible Basics Article #Christian #BibleStudy #Jesus This Bill’s Bible Basics article by Bill Kochman can be read at: https://www.billkochman.com/Articles/dracula1.html https://www.billkochman.com/Blog/index.php/dracula-nosferatu-twilight-the-vampire-fad-a-bills-bible-basics-article/?DRACULA%2C%20NOSFERATU%2C%20TWILIGHT%3A%20THE%20VAMPIRE%20FAD%20--%20a%20Bill%27s%20Bible%20Basics%20Article