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plutoswritingplanet · 2 months ago

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In My Back (Remmick x Female! Reader)

a/n: sooo uuuh... basically yeah... never in my life had i been on such a long writer's kick. idk what they put in this irish freak but im eating it up (this is a long one, like 11k words i think). Cross Posted on AO3

Warnings: Canon Violence, Carpet Munching like crazy, P in V, just... Smut y'know, Some Plot, Manipulation, General Vampire Shenanigans

Summary: Three times he comes in the night, with offers a plenty on his fingertips. The third night, he leaves you with a gift. A Devil's kiss and a taste for freedom.

MASTERLIST

"And then, when you least expect it..." your cousin's voice dips down into a menacing tone, that only serves to push a giggle out of your chest "They sink their teeth, and suck the blood straight outta your bones"

She snaps her mouth at you, teeth clinking together, and you push her away, laughing at the story. She laughs as well, dodging skillfully, as you swipe a wet rag at her.

"Stupid" you huff, trying to act exasperated with her antics, and failing miserably, as always. "I told you not to bother me with those silly stories."

She shrugs at that, twirls around the kitchen, like a fine lady in a coarse dress, her bare feet sliding over the linoleum tiles. You watch, as she dances out of the kitchen, grabbing a muffin from the table. You almost scold her, but decide to let it go, as you usually do. It's hard to be mad at her, damn near impossible to be honest. She always had a way of melting coldness around her.

With a small sigh, you go back to cleaning, wiping the counter and the windows, your mind wandering to your cousin's stories. It's always ghosts and goblins with her. Some new, terrifying thing, that would surely snuff sleep off your eyelids, if your feet weren't planted firmly on the ground. That's how it's always been, since the moment you both learned to crawl. She was the flying one, the one with her head in the clouds, too preoccupied with counting the stars to look down.

And you were the complete opposite. Grass at your feet, a clear road ahead of you. No wondering, no straying.

Sometimes you envied her lightness, sometimes you remembered, it was a burden. Especially for a woman on this earth. Despite that, she never lost herself. Despite hardship after hardship, she remained strong in her openness, in her will to think beyond, what the world offered her. How she did that, after living the past she's had, was beyond you.

God must be a cruel, cruel man, you think. For condemning the most unequipped for the biggest disappointments.

Still, you made sure, your cousin would never have to face her life alone. Not while you're still standing, unmoving, like an ancient pine tree. You would always give her shade, always protect her from the rain, pull her down if need be.

The sun starts to set over the horizon, the last rays of light flickering behind the woods. Your house was small, and well hidden, despite its proximity to the town. Your parents knew what they were doing, choosing this place to settle down, and you couldn't be more grateful. Before your cousin begged for shelter, you lived here alone, picking up both your parents' professions. And so, along with baking and feeding the entire area, you also became mean with any car troubles. A woman's and a man's job, both of them dancing under the sweat of your brow.

Your cousin begged you to leave that "dirty work". To focus on opening a legitimate business, a bakery at the marketplace. She cussed, cleaning out grease stains from your skirts, and you didn't have the strength, nor patience to explain to her, how you're only able to afford the soap in her hand, because the "dirty work" payed better, than any baking.

And so, when she stops you at the door, her arms crossed in front of her chest, her nose scrunched. She's looking you over, taking in the rough gloves and the utility belt, contrasting almost comically with the flowy material of your dress.

"Don't start" you point at her with your wrench, and she raises her hands in a mockery of surrender.

Her mouth twists in a way, that betrays her inner thoughts, betrays her need to say more. But, to your general surprise, she swallows, shaking her head. Then, her eyes find yours, and you feel the tangible warmth of comfort, at the slight, teasing pull of her mouth.

"Don't let any monsters in" she chirps behind you, as you open the door, and start walking towards your late Daddy's workshop.

All you can do is laugh. A rough sound, deep and dark like freshly brewed coffee. A mourning dove, and a wise owl, that's what you two were.

Lamps guide your steps through the darkness, as you make your way towards the workshop. It's a spacious raggedy shack, your father built himself, every nook and cranny marked by his strength. You feel as if you're stepping into a church, every time you slide the barn doors open.

It takes you a moment to light the place up, as you skip around a beaten down Buick, your feet padding softly over the recently swiped floors. The silence of the night calms you down, adds a layer of something almost sacred to your work. Night birds call out in the woods, crickets chirp in the grass, and you inhale the crisp air with your whole lungs, until they hurt. Until you feel the wind in the essence of your being. As soon as the workshop is ready, you find the ghost of your father inside every clink of metal, every grease stain.

That's why you do, what you do. That's why you hide the woman in your pocket, tug your skirts up, tie them to your belt, throw your hair out of your face. Your father's hands guide you, years spent looking over his shoulder marr your movements. It's not work anymore. It's a ceremony, a communion.

The Mississippi heat covers you with sweat, salty drops mixing with grease and motor oil, staining your skin. And as you wipe your face with a coarse rag, you entertain the thought, that this, here, is freedom. Your own, personal brand of freedom. Or at least some ghost of it.

That's how he first finds you.

Skin glistening under the warm lights, making you shine in his eyes. Your breasts exposed to a scandalous degree, your skirt hiked up so high, he sees the small stretch lines on your thighs. The sight makes his mouth water, literally. Such a wild thing, the sickly sweet scent of gasoline clinging to you, as you stretch on the little stool. A groan pushes past your lips, and he has to grip the doorway with his claws, to stop himself from pouncing. Even if he can't really do it, while you're in the safety of your workshop, he feels as if he'd be able to tear down any rules of ancient times, just to taste the nectar of your blood.

Then you start humming. Some unknown tune from far away, long ago. Your voice dripping like molasses, filling his ears with something, he was sure damnation took away. You move around the workshop, tidying up after yourself, legs strong like an ancient tree. A tantalizing image of skin, muscle and a jiggly layer of fat, that makes him want to sink his teeth in, over and over again.

Such temptation could not be ignored. Shouldn't be. It begged him to indulge, and who is he to deny the sweet embrace of sin?

"A woman with a wrench is such an uncommon sight these days" he starts, and skillfully dodges the aforementioned wrench, as it flies towards his head. "Now hold on there, darlin'..."

You spin around like a storm cloud, heart jumping into your throat, at the unfamiliar, male voice. He stands in the shadows, just out of reach for the outside lamp, leaning on the workshop's door frame. His face is barely visible, but you notice the paleness of his wrists, peaking at you from his front pockets. A sillhouette of a banjo on his back, tied with a frayed string, that's digging into his chest.

The world becomes quiet around you. Not a night bird, not a cricket. Just you, and him, and the increasingly fast beating of your heart.

"Who are you?" you demand, and the suspicion in your voice lets him know, he'll have to work for it "What are you doing here?"

Raising his hands in a mockery of a friendly gesture, he takes a slow step backwards, offering space. Your shoulders don't relax, hand creeping towards the folds of your skirt, where you hide a kitchen knife. One, you've never had to use, but God help you, you will.

"Apologies, darlin'. I didn't mean to startle you" he says, keeping his tone light, as if he's just an old friend, paying you a visit "I was walkin' down to the town, but I must've lost my way."

"Yeah, you must've." you eye him cautiously, the tartness of your voice making the corners of his mouth curl.

"Best get back on the road then."

He laughs sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck, as he swipes a look around the workplace.

"I saw the lights, figured there might be some good folks up in 'ere" he comes even closer to the door, lingering just outside, his well worn out boots kicking at the pebbles.

He makes a pitiful expression, as he looks up at you through his eyebrows, and for the first time, you can take a good look at his eyes. Blue, you think. But at the same time, strangely dark. It makes your eyebrows furrow, because despite your weariness, you can most certainly say, this stranger is a handsome one. With nicely toned arms, broad shoulders, and features that look warm in their softness, as well as dangerously sharp.

You don't like it. This strange impasse, that's seized your muscles. Like a deer stuck in the crosshair of a predator, it makes your skin crawl, and your insides tighten.

"No good folks here, just me." your voice is like a bell in his ears, slightly out of breath from all the work, and so, so dark.

The stranger laughs, and the sound sends an onslaught of shivers up your spine. Your fingers twitch nervously.

"See now, I find that hard to believe" the lightness in his tone starts to get to you, slithering under your skin like a snake "Surely such a sweet darlin' has some good in 'er"

God dammit, the way his head tilts to the side, as if trying to coax this mystical goodness out of you, chips away at your defenses. Your brain wrestles with your natural, tart disposition, and the facts presented before you. Here he stands, a respectful distance away, his hands in view. You don't see any weapon on him, but you see the sweat clinging to his dark hair. You see the dirt on his clothes, under his fingernails, the labored breathing he tries to conceal. He seems harmless enough, but looks can be decieving, and you'll be damned if a soft smile and a twinkling eye will be your downfall.

"You a travelin' musician or somethin'?"

He laughs, in pure delight. As if the notion is something he'd never consider, but he loves it either way. His laugh makes your cheeks tingle with warmth, and you curse yourself for such a strong reaction.

"Something like that..." he nods, eyes shining with mischief "I follow music 'ere I go."

With a defeated sigh, your shoulders slump, as you throw the dirty rag at the car.

"I'll get you some food and drink" you concede "Then, you can go on your merry way, yeah?"

"Yes Ma'am" he agrees immediately, his eyes following you, as you exit the workshop, sliding the door closed "D'you live here alone, darlin'?"

The question makes you remember the knife in your skirts, but you don't falter in your steps, as you make your way towards the front entrance to your house. It's not wise, running from a predator, if he indeed turns out to be one.

"That's none of your business, is it?"

"Fair enough" he nods, walking behind you, teetering the line of being much too close for comfort "Though it's a curious thing, don't you agree? A woman of your young age, alone in the woods. No ring on your finger either..."

He knows you're not alone. He smelled the other woman, felt the lazy drag of blood through her veins a mile away. But you don't need to know that, nuh huh.

Your right hand tightens into a fist on instinct, at his observation. Skipping the steps to the porch without an answer, you leave the door open for him.

But he doesn't enter, stopping right at the entrance, his shoulder leaning on the painted door frame, mirroring his stance from before. You shoot him a questioning glance over your shoulder, and once again, he scratches the back of his neck with a sigh. Such a boyish, shy gesture. Or a camouflage. You're undecided yet.

"Would be improper, to walk in without an invitation..." he explains, voice quiet, and almost timid.

Something tugs at the back of your mind. The story your cousin told you just hours ago, rings out like a sermon between your ears, and gooseflesh erupts all across your arms. Stupid. Utterly stupid and impossible, and yet... Your shoulders jump up, and down, in a nonchalant shrug, before you disappear into the kitchen. No use pondering over demons. The night is scary enough without them, and strange men can be worse than all the ghouls combined.

As soon, as you're out of sight, Remmick growls under his breath, finger scratching at the peeling paint on the entrance. He can smell you in the house, sweetness and musk, gasoline and cherry pie. Your heartbeat has calmed down significantly, but he knows, the cards he's been dealt are tricky to play. Good thing, he's a skilled gambler, and you've already extended a hand of hospitality. Already let him see a glimmer, of what's hidden under that hard shell. The sweetness of the fruit within, warmth like the sunlight he's been denied for so long. Your blood will be exquisite, he's sure of it. But before that...

There's a thrill like no other, when playing with one's food.

"There you go" you announce, slipping out of the kitchen, your clothes in proper place this time, obscuring the sight of your bare skin from him "Water and food, for your journey"

His eyes trail over your body, before landing on the glass in your hand, along with a package, wrapped in cloth. Another smile graces his features, this time however, he looks less like a shy farm boy, and more like a pleased man. All skin, and bone, and muscle. The transformation is quite jarring, and you have to blink a couple of times, not allowing yourself to be distracted, by the gentle shadows of his eyelashes on his cheeks.

"Thank you, lass" he answers, taking the water first, and downing it all in one go, causing a small laugh to rip through your lips, almost despite yourself.

"Forgive me, seems I'm more parched than I thought" he inclines his head, and you hand him the package.

This time, his fingers run the length of your palm, sweaty and rough, as they retrieve the offering, and your mind goes to some very unsightly places. His eyes trail up slowly to your face, and you swear, you can see his pupils shining, just for a split second.

Danger. The word climbs up your spine, takes root in your mind, as his tongue slips out to wet his chapped lips. Pink, and soft.

Don't let the monsters in, your cousin's voice follows you. But she didn't mention anything about letting the monster stay a while, right at the threshold. She didn't mention the shivers you feel, prickling at your skin under his inquisitive gaze. And she sure as shit didn't mention, how your breathing gets slower, deeper, when you recognize that traitorous need in the depths of his eyes.

It's been a while, since you've had a man, but you still remember, what it looks like, when you're wanted. When there's hunger crackling like fireworks between two people. And the hunger this stranger exudes, is nearly overwhelming, suffocating in the best way possible.

Time to end this, cut the weeds out, before they overpower all rational thought.

"You should get on your way" you say, and shiver at the way his eyes snap to your lips, drinking in their shape as you speak.

"Just one more thing..." he murmurs, low in his throat, so quiet, yet so unbelievably loud in the oppressive silence of the night.

This time you're the one wetting your lips, preparing yourself for something, although you're not sure for what. The air feels sticky, smooth like honey, passing between you and him. An intimate sort of exchange, that slowly, but surely, melts your insides. Makes you feel a bit lighter, as if your cousin's spirit has invaded your usual hardness.

Is this how it feels to be her? And if so, when will the first crash of thunder bring you down? Just like it brought her to the ground, again and again.

The man's eyes move back to yours, capturing your gaze and holding it hostage.

"A cigarette for the road?" his words are a whisper now, and you feel ashamed, at how long it takes you to register his words.

When you finally do, a single arch of your eyebrow makes his lips pull into a lazy smile. One that has no right working on you as much as it does. Alas...

"I saw you smoking in the workshop" he explains.

"...Ah..."

Your hand slips into your skirts, fingers brushing over the knife handle, and you take out a half empty pack. You offer it to him, and he reaches for the cigarette, his fingers sinfully elegant, as he presses it against his mouth, licking lightly at the tobacco. Something tightens low inside you at the movement of his pink tongue.

He's good. You'll give him that.

"I shall be off, then" he takes a slow step backwards, keeping his eyes on you, like he tries to pin you in place. "G'night, darlin'"

As soon as his boots hit the soft ground in front of your porch, your senses come back to you like a flood, as if some ancient spell has been lifted off your shoulders, and you straighten out with a sharp breath.

You don't know what compels you. What wild, unfamiliar force beckons you, but before you can stop yourself, you're calling out to him.

"Stranger!"

He twirls on his heel, like a dancer on a stage.

"What's your name?"

"Remmick" he answers, voice carrying through the night.

Then, he jumps up, dances a little jig that pushes clouds of dust into the air, and you can't help yourself. You laugh. A clear, honest sound, that surprises you in it's lightness.

Remmick bows, turns around, and walks into the shadows of the woods, leaving an indent in the shape of his curved smile in your brain.

"Remmick..." you repeat under your breath, before shaking your head at your own antics, and closing the door of your home.

The moon laughs at you as well, her light slipping into your room through a half open window. It's not a merry laugh however. It's a mournful, hopeless one, to which you are none the wiser, falling into dream-filled sleep. And as soon, as your eyelids close, as soon as your consciousness slips, a shadow rises from the earth, hanging over you like an executor's axe.

***

You awake in the early morning, sweat clinging to your feverish skin, your hand squeezed tightly between your thighs. You don't remember what dream has put you in this state of mess, but your limbs shake as you stand up, your heart beating right out of your chest. It's a little disappointing, really, you think to yourself, as you wash off the slick from your thighs, that you've become reduced to this so easily. Surely not because of last night's visit. You're stronger than this. Stronger than some wanton virgin, who's never felt a man before.

And yet, as you skip into the kitchen, and prepare for the day, you can't seem to shake the image of him from your brain. Like a sickness immune to all ointments, Remmick lingers under your skin, slithering and burning.

Your cousin joins you downstairs some time later, lured out of bed by the smell of freshly baked goods.

"Whooo! Baby!" she sighs, taking in the kitchen, her smile crinkling the corners of her eyes "You gonna sell these?"

The sluggishness with which you turn to her, makes you realize just how distracted you've truly been. Ridiculous. You're being ridiculous, and for what?

"Yeah" you nod, wiping flour off your hands into your apron "Gonna head to town in a bit. Sure you gonna be alright on your own?"

Your cousin rolls her eyes, and steals an apple from the fruit basket.

"I'm not a lil' kid no more" she tells you, like she's reminding you of homework, and it's your turn to roll your eyes at her.

Ain't you?, you wanna say, but you bite your tongue in time. She doesn't deserve your crudeness. So you cross the kitchen and peck her cheek affectionately. As if to make up for the thoughts, that are left unsaid.

"I know, I know. And you know where the shotgun is, in case trouble comes a knockin', yeah?" she nods once, with a resolute expression.

You recognize the irony in your words. Last night you practically invited a strange man into your home, just 'cause he smiled nice. In your stubborn refusal to admit your own transgression, you tell yourself, you'd shoot his ass to high heaven's, if he tried anything. Even if the notion rings hollow in your own brain.

"What's on your mind, cuz?"

Her voice drags you back to reality with harshness, and you take a sharp breath through your teeth. One, she immediately notices, her eyebrows scrunching into a frown.

"Nothin'." a weak lie, a pathetic one, really "Just... Ghost and Goblins"

Concern melts into a teasing smile, as your cousin starts packing up the still steaming bread.

"Ah..." she laughs, bright and airy "Some stranger in the night sunk his teeth into you?"

For a moment you watch her expression carefully, trying to decipher if she knows, if she heard. Even if she sleeps long and hard, like the dead. All you can see on her face, is a smile of someone proud of her stories taking root. Relief and guilt mix in your gut, and you have to look away, before you crack.

It doesn't matter. Nothing happened, and you'll never meet the smiling stranger again, so why do you feel so... What is it exactly that you're feeling? Disappointed? No, disappointment is for people like your cousin. For people who hope, who fly. Then what is it, biting at the back of your spine like a bloodsucking flea?

"I'll be back from town before you know it" your voice is quiet, dismissive, but she doesn't seem to hold it against you.

"Have fun" she calls after you. Then, silently, she adds "God knows you need it."

The road to town goes by smoothly, your truck jumping and bumping over stray stones. The bustle of the market welcomes you like an old friend, and just for a moment, you allow yourself to miss it. The people, filtering through the streets, laughing, talking, keeping friendly despite the underlying tensions in the air.

Your father would take you here often, while he was alive. He'd stand under the very same sign, you're lifting over your truck now, letting people come to him with business. You'd listen, like a diligent little student, soaking in the wisdom of the trade, helping him run books, count the money, catch conversations.

They all knew you here. From the very moment you've been old enough to stand on your own, you were part of something bigger, than just your family. Always your parents daughter, but so much more at the same time. And now... Now you're a ghost of your own choosing. Respected, liked even, but always on the outside, no longer part of something, but a welcomed guest nonetheless.

Bread goes out first, then sweet rolls and pies. You've been slaving away in the kitchen since the break of dawn, but as the sunset comes closer, you'd be damned it it wasn't worth it. Soon enough, your purse is filled, and you're packing your stand back into the truck, arms burning from work.

Wiping the sweat off your face, your neck, you make your way across the street, to the supplies store, where, as soon as the bell above rings, you're greeted by the owner. A woman, who could've been your peer, could've been a friend, if you were someone different. If you were your cousin, or at least, not a ghost.

"Look what the wind blew in." she leans on the counter, hair slipping out from under the scarf on her head "Haven't seen you in a while."

"You know me, always busy..." your eyes already scan the products, landing heavily on the prices.

She doesn't know you, though. You've never given her an opportunity to know you, and perhaps, that's why you always choose this shop. Perhaps, that's the only time you allow yourself to hope. That maybe this time, you'll be different, this time you'll let yourself be open. That's the reason you know, disappointment is for the hopeful.

"You got some flour for me?"

The shopkeeper nods, crosses the floor and jabs her foot into a couple of bags by the window.

"Got some milk too" she says "Hell, even some sugar, if you wanna"

To that you shake your head.

"I've got some sugar left still. And I'll pick up some eggs on the way back, from Ol' Johnson's farm"

A beat of silence.

"Oh? You haven't heard then?"

"Heard what?" you don't sound too interested, already pulling out a bunch of dollars and sliding them on the counter.

The shopkeeper walks over to you slowly, a solemn expression on her face, and that finally gives you a pause. The sun paints the inside of the shop a deep orange color, your neck tingling with heat and sweat, hair sticking to your skin.

"Ol' Johnson's dead. God rest his soul" the shopkeeper says, swiping a sign of the Cross over her heart, and you repeat the action, like it's second nature.

Coldness seeps through you, a strange sort of feeling, like there's something more hidden in the revelation. Some terrible truth just waiting to bury you. You swallow thickly, trying to ground yourself.

"What happened?"

Another moment of tension filled silence passes, as the shopkeeper takes a deep breath, eyes scrunching in sorrow.

"His wife came back from her family down South. People said she found him, dead and burning in the morning sun."

Cold turns to freezing in your bones, brain working overtime under your skull.

"They burned him?" you ask, mindful not to sound too curious, too insensitive.

"Sheriff said they killed him first, mangled the poor man beyond recognition."

"Jesus...." you sigh, trying, and failing to push away an image of the old man's face, scorched and bloody. "What about his widow?"

"She's staying at the Motel until they burry him. I think she'll head back South after, there ain't nothin' keeping her here anymore."

You nod solemnly at her words. A quick thought passes through you, a worry, where you'll get your eggs now. But you scold yourself hard in your mind for such heartlessness. This is not the time, nor the place for wondering about trivial matters. Not when a man's life has been snuffed out, and so brutally at that.

"The funeral's tomorrow, if you care" the shopkeeper's words snap you back from your cold thoughts, and you realize, that yes, you do care "We'll have a small thing for him at the Joint"

"Yeah..." you speak before you have the time to think on it "I'll be there."

She helps you load your groceries into your truck, a comfortable silence settling between the two of you, and once again, you wish things would've been different. Instead, you thank her with a dollar bill, and start the car on the road back to your home, where you're not alone, but solitude still awaits.

By the time you arrive, it's dark outside, the porch light guiding your steps. The house is quiet, your cousin asleep in her room, buried under heavy covers. You linger in her doorway for a moment, mind lost deep in thought, as you watch her peaceful form. Something tugs on your heart. Some undeniable feeling of sorrow, dragging your heart down to the wooden floors.

What you're mourning, you're not sure. But it brings a tear to your eye nonetheless, and your feet carry you outside, into the peaceful darkness, the crisp evening air. There, you can finally breathe, you can let the tears flow easily, without worrying about your sorrow staining the warmth inside.

Hands clutching your head, your shoulders shake in silent sobs, the heaviness, and the cold of today reaping it's spoils on your body. And you stay there, soil soaking up your tears greedily, until the steps of the porch creak loudly, tearing your heart straight from your chest.

You shoot up, turning your whole body so fast, you nearly collide with one of the pillars supporting the roof over the porch. Hand wraps around the handle of the knife, perpetually hidden in your skirts. And then you see him.

"Heaven's you startle easy, darlin'" Remmick raises his hands, giving you a sympathetic smile.

Here he sits, right at the porch step. The man you were sure you'd never see again, same clothes, same twinkle in his eye. He gazes at your tear stained face, with a calmness of someone who's seen more sadness, than you can comprehend.

"The hell you doin' here?" you try to demand, but your voice is still too shaky, and your hand too weak, to hold the knife any longer.

"Heard a bird sing in mourning" he answers, something warm slithering into his voice "Followed it's song all the way here."

You should be better than this. Stronger than this. Hell, you are stronger than this. But there's something so gentle in his presence, so different from the hunger you've felt the first time you've met. And your bones are tired, and your head is pounding, and God...

Slowly, like a wild animal learning to trust, you sit back down on the porch, a safe distance from him. But nothing can shield you from the warmth of his body next to you. From the unexplainable sense of calm, that floods your veins with every breath you take. And the night is so quiet, not a noise around you...

"I could sing you a song" he starts, and you scoff at the notion, a wet, broken sound "Something that would lull your pain to rest..."

"I don't need cheerin' up" you cut him off, and he smiles in a way, that makes you feel exposed like a bleeding wound.

You look down at your hands, woman's hands marred with signs of hard work. No longer soft and gentle, but trembling and covered with callouses. You're proud of them, of every scar and blemish, and you wish they were clean at the same time. You wish they were made for holding silk instead. At least just for tonight, in the dead silence.

"No" he murmurs "No you don't"

His eyes meet yours, when you risk a look in his direction, and what you find, makes your heart feel light as a feather, and heavy as a stone at the same time.

"Cheerin' doesn't bring anythin' for you, does it." he says it like it's a fact, like he knows you from within "You know the value of sufferin'."

God damn him, you think, new tears already stinging your eyes. He leans in, cold breath tickling your cheeks, and to your surprise, you don't run. You don't want to run. Not even a flinch passes you, when his fingers brush the stray hairs out your face, pushing the rest over your shoulder.

A small hiccup rips through your throat, because you never want to be touched. Never, until now, until him. Any other boy from town would already have his neck scuffed, for even daring to get this close. But this stranger, this man, this...

"Remmick..." you whisper, something wet and broken in your tone, something you haven't heard since your mother's funeral.

He hums, deep in his chest, as if he's pleased you remember his name. As if somehow, in this state of brokenness, he's the most proud of you. Your head ducks on instinct, when he moves closer, taking a long whiff of your hair.

"You know" he continues, low and intimate, his lips moving like the wings of a butterfly over your forehead "That tears can be sweeter, than any smile, any laughter.

Fingers pinch your chin, pulling your head up, until your glassy eyes meet his once again. For a moment, he searches your face, gaze drifting over your wet eyelashes, your trembling cheeks, your mouth opening and closing.

"Because tears are honest" he finishes, and a ragged sound of a gasp escapes through your teeth.

Your hand finds purchase on his chest, feeling the rough material of his shirt, the buttons hanging on a couple of flimsy threads. You could mend them for him, you could offer him food, drink, your bed, anything. If he'd only ask.

But he doesn't. Instead, his large hand presses gently over the flushed skin of your cheekbone, thumb running gently under your eye, gathering saltiness as it goes.

"Let me taste it, Sweetness" he whispers, pleading, his face leaning impossibly close "Let me taste your honesty."

His breath mingles with yours, and you can almost taste him on your tongue, so close, yet not close enough. Your fingers tighten on his chest, dragging the fabric beneath your nails, and finally he dips down.

But before you can feel him fully, before he drinks you like communion wine, your cousin's voice rings out throughout the house.

Heart jumping into your throat, you nearly rip yourself away from him, the spell of his honeyed words gone as quick, as it appeared. You stumble back on your feet, flushed and confused, gaping at him like a fish out of water. Something flashes through his expression, quick like a band of wild horses, but you catch it, you always do.

Perhaps, just a trick of the lights, something insignificant and unreal. But just like your cousin's stories, it lingers.

If tears are honest, then what do you call the sudden meanness in his eyes? The ghost of irritated anger, that pulls his mouth down, sets heavily over his brow?

Danger, you brain supplies again, and as your cousin calls out your name again, dread climbs up your back.

He repeats your name, so silent you can barely hear him, but even so, he looks victorious. Defeated, but victorious nonetheless, and your instincts kick in tenfold. The handle of the knife is cold in your grasp, a grounding weight against your hand. He doesn't move, just stares at you, expression of utter calm gracing his confusing features.

Now that's how a proper predator looks like. Half hidden under the shadows, his mouth open and panting, as if tasting the lingering scent of you from air alone. There's no tension in his figure, only steady confidence. He's gotten your name, he's almost gotten your trust, your honesty.

You wish you were stronger. You were taught to be stronger.

The front door creaks open, and you turn to push your cousin back inside, scream at her to stay back, stay where it's warm, and safe. Where the darkness won't catch her.

But just as she steps outside, her thin sleeping gown flowing around her form, your eyes flicker to the porch steps. And he's gone.

Not a trace of the strange man, of Remmick. Only the moon and utter silence.

"You're back" your cousin wraps her arms around your waist, tugging you inside "I fell asleep waitin', I'm sorry"

"No, I..." you try to respond, barely hearing your voice over the thundering sound of your own heart, eyes scanning the tree line, every shadow looking like him.

"You good? You look like you've seen a ghost"

Finally, she drags you over the threshold, closing the doors behind.

"You've been cryin'?"

"No it's just..." you swallow thickly, throat tight "Needed some fresh air, don't you worry your head about me"

Your cousin looks beyond skeptical, a strange reversal of your usual roles, but she doesn't push, God bless her soul. Instead, she kisses your forehead, wiping away the ghost of Remmicks lips, and at last, your shoulders relax.

"You work too hard, y'know" she murmurs, sleep still clinging to her "It's not good for the nerves"

You know exactly what's not good for your nerves, and it sure as shit isn't your work, but you can't say that. You can't reveal the true source of your frazzled state, if only to shield her from all the confusion. All the dread and longing, that's mixing dangerously in your gut. She's been through enough, and suddenly awave of fresh guilt crashes over you.

Carelessness is a sin, you never thought you'd commit. Yet here you are. God forgive you, because you cannot do it yourself.

***

Leaving the window open is your continuous mistake. One, which Remmick uses generously.

His body levitates in the cold air, unmoving like a hanged man's corpse, scraping his nails over the window frame. Stuck in perpetual stillness, the warmth of his breath fogs the glass. Two dots of red cut through the darkness, overpower the moon's cold light behind him. Like a shadow of death to come, his presence looms over your room, over your sleeping form.

You never sleep under covers. He noticed it a while back, when you didn't know him, when he still thought you were just a bag filled with blood. His for the taking, to sate his never ending thirst.

Now, he sees the bag has arms, that curve elegantly over the pillow. He notices the smoothness of skin, the delicate slope of your neck, where your blood sings a hymn just for him. Such a sweet thing, the ripest of fruits, just waiting to be devoured.

Later.

He has to remind himself to be patient, no matter how hard the pull of your saccharine scent calls to him. He needs you pliant, he wants you at your fullest. He wants love dripping from your fingertips like a fountain. Just so he can lap it up like a hungry dog.

For now, he satisfies himself with this image of you, splayed out on the covers. A ghost of a Babylonian queen, come to life in this abandoned neck of the woods.

Remmick takes a deep breath, humming to himself, as your scent fills every pore of his damned body. Dark and heavy, sweet on his tongue. He closes his eyes, nose pressing into the glass, teeth biting into his lower lip. What sweet torture this is. Being so close, yet so far away.

Makes the spoils all the more worth it, in the end.

***

Ol' Johnson was a good man.

He never took more, than he needed. Greeted everyone with a smile and a story, told in a voice roughened by years of smoking cheap tobbaco. He helped you, when you couldn't bring yourself to call on anyone, and kept helping you, until you've learned to accept it.

And now he's dead. And all you have to remember him by, are dwindling memories, and a glass of lukewarm whiskey in your hand.

The funeral service was a miserable affair. His crying widow nearly drowned out the sounds of the sermon with her sobs, and your heart broke for the poor woman, who lost everything in one night. She didn't look at you, when you offered her condolences, and you couldn't blame her. Tear stained eyes stayed fixed firmly on the wooden coffin, as they lowered her husband into the ground. And they didn't move an inch, when ground covered him forever.

She's a good woman too. Kind in a natural way, that seems to spread warmth wherever she goes. Always willing to give more, than what's expected of her. Now, the burden of being warm falls on the shoulders of the town. And they all take the mantle in stride, holding her through her grief, offering her comfort, that can only be found in community.

You don't fit in here anymore. Besides, who would want comfort from a ghost.

So you linger at the back of the Joint, sipping whiskey through your teeth, trying to remind yourself, that solitude is what you chose. You chose safety, you chose your cousin, your family. You can't regret that, you're simply not allowed to.

Soon enough, mourning of death becomes a celebration of life, as musicians take stage, and bodies filter onto the dance floor. Sweaty, greased with alcohol, and yearning for a moment of recklessness, they dance. And with every step, every twirl, every pull of the guitar strings, you feel Ol' Johnson's spirit. You feel every story, every helpful hand, every puff of cigarette smoke.

You can't stay still. Despite your promises, your responsibilities, you can't let his memory fade into a sad song. So you abandon your glass, your lonesome seat at the table, and you join in dance. You dance like you've never danced before, heels stomping on the wooden floor, sweat dripping down your face like tears would've. The music swells, and swells without stopping, and you're not stopping either. Not until your legs are burning, and your breath gets stuck in your throat.

Then, you're stumbling out the Joint, passing by the bouncer into the cold night's air. Where there's stars, and the endlessness of the skies. You want to keep dancing, even if your legs beg you to stop, even when you collide with the cool metal of your truck's door.

This is freedom. This is love. This is the only regret you have.

Digging out the keys from your purse, you eyes catch something in the dark. Two shining points, deep ahead of you. Your blood boils under your skin, a familiar feeling, which you keep forgetting ever day. Because you know this sight, deep within your bones, it settled a long time ago, a memory of something so terrible, your mind had to protect you from it. Had to keep forgetting. It can't protect you now however, and as the familiar spell of curiosity roots you into place, Remmick steps out of the shadows.

Moon paints his skin in glowing paleness, something otherworldly clinging to his every step.

No knife will help you now, you realize, as your back presses further into the cold side of your truck. And no one on the Joint will hear you, should you call for help. That's the price you pay for being a ghost. Music still plays inside, a quick tune that borrows it's rhythm from your feverish heart.

"You followin' me or somethin'?" voice cutting through the night, you feign confidence, crossing your arms in front of your chest.

Such a flimsy shield, one he'd tear without even trying. But he stops, a safe distance from you, his palms raised high in a placating gesture you know too well. There's not a trace of that alarming meanness from the night before, a lazy smile gracing his features instead.

"I told you" he starts, tone light and friendly, like before "I follow music, that's all"

God, you wish you could believe him.

"This here a Juke Joint?" he asks, and once again, suspicion rears it's ugly head in your gut.

"Ain't you a traveling musician? You should know where to play"

He laughs, sheepishly. Although you're more and more convinced, it's a wolf laughing underneath sheep's hide. You can't shake the image of his face, twisted in anger, the two red dots hanging in air, just where his eyes could've been.

"Folks wouldn't let me in" he shrugs, and you notice the considerable lack of the guitar on his back "A private celebration I think."

"A wake." you cut swiftly.

"Ah..."

He doesn't ask who died. You would've found it strange, if you didn't know. You don't want to know, fighting that awful feeling of your guts churning in premonition. But you do, and despite that, you can't run. Still, after all the dots connecting in your mind, you can't run from him, his shining eyes and his curling smile.

Remmick comes closer, measured step after another, as if he's approaching some feral little animal, thrashing in the hunter's binds. Or a killer, that's found an easy victim. Your blood runs cold in your veins, gooseflesh covering your skin. Still, he doesn't snap his jaws, not yet.

"You dance mighty fine, darlin'." the comment doesn't even sound like a flirtation, just a pure, bare bones fact "Saw you through the window, twirlin' and stompin'."

He doesn't wait for your reply, reaching into the pocket of his trousers, and pulling out a cigarette case. You recognize the design despite the darkness, and your throat tightens, until you can't breathe properly. God forgive you, you've almost let a killer into your home. Would've let him into your heart, if he'd ask.

"Where'd you get that?" there's a tremble in your voice, one, that puts an edge to his easygoing smile.

"My Daddy gave it to me, for the long road ahead."

Lies come like second nature to him, leaving his lips dripping with honey. Once again, he licks at the end of the cigarette, eyes flickering up to meet yours.

"My friend had one exactly like that" you note, still trying to cling onto some semblance of hope.

Alas, hope only breeds disappointment, you know that too well.

A slender flame from the lighter flickers in his pupils, as he lights the cigarette, taking a long drag of smoke.

"Maybe we've got the same Daddy" he muses, clouds of white slipping past his teeth.

You'd laugh, if you were light as a feather.

Another drag of the cigarette, and Remmick closes the distance between the two of you, standing foot to foot. Your body fails you, at this crucial moment, because all you can do is watch him, eyes wide, stuck between pleading and anger.

"What are you?" the question leaves you, before you can catch it, and the man before you sighs, shaking his head.

"Told ya'. Travellin' musician"

Your mouth opens, but he's quicker, flicking the cigarette to the side, and grabbing ahold of the back of your neck. You grab at his wrist, but don't go any further. His hold is gentle, despite everything you'd anticipate, and he leans his head towards your ear, like a lover whispering a secret.

"Shhh..." he shushes you quietly, cold breath tickling your feverish skin "I've already decided I'll help you."

Confusion overrides any rational feeling, and your hands slip to the coarse fabric of his well worn shirt. The buttons are still barely hanging, but now you'd rather be caught dead, than mend them. Hell, you probably will be. Something mean and dark rises in your throat, pushing past your teeth with a hiss of a venomous snake.

"I don't need savin- ah!"

A small, surprised moan tears it's way through your throat, as Remmick runs his tongue over the delicate spot behind your ear. His fingers bury themselves into your hair, gently massaging it in a way, that is almost grotesquely delicate. You can feel his mouth, running the length of your jaw, up your cheek, where he presses delicate kisses. The tip of your nose is next, then the softness under your eyes, the wrinkle of conflicting emotions between your eyebrows.

"C'mon darlin'." he whispers into your hairline "Won't you let this sinner in?"

Once again, he doesn't leave time for you to reply, diving down towards your lips, taking them into a slow kiss, that makes your insides flutter. You should hate yourself for the way you're not pushing him away, for the way you chase his mouth with your own, when he pulls back for just a second.

You should hate him for everything, but most importantly for the moan he gives out, when his tongue slips into your mouth. Such a beautiful sound, it shakes every bone in your body, makes your fingers dig into the fabric of his shirt.

He tastes of iron, an unmistakable bloody residue, but it's so sweet on your tongue, you can't seem to care. Like poison attacking your senses, you let yourself be carried away, mind going deliciously blank. His hand still continues to coax you with the gentle movements of his fingers in your hair. While the other takes it's fill of your body, warm palm pressing against your waist, your hip, pushing the silken dress up your thigh.

Then it moves higher, until he's grasping at your heart through the plush flesh of your breast, and this time you're the one moaning. His thumb brushes over your hardening nipple, pulling another sound from you, like he's playing a fiddle.

Heat rises within you like the tide, every touch, every caress building up a storm of want. Soon, it doesn't matter anymore, that he's surely the monster from your cousin's stories, because he kisses like an angel.

His mouth leaves yours, a sticky mess of saliva that should disgust you, but God, you've never tasted anything sweeter. Once more, he attaches himself to your neck, kissing it with fervor, broken sounds escaping him, like a starved dog feasting for the first time in months. His hand palms at your breast one last time, before reaching back, and soon enough you hear the click of your truck's door.

There's no time for questions, for concern. Not when the need runs so deep, and begs to be satiated. He pushes your body inside, splays you out on the back seat, amongst old blankets and empty bags of flour. Your thighs fall apart, to accommodate him, when he climbs over your body, like he can't bear being away from it even for a second.

"The door..." you pant out, against the hunger of his lips.

"No one will see us" he huffs into your shoulder, and the utmost certainty in his voice makes you believe him.

This time it's your hands doing the massaging, as you grip the black strands of his hair, trying to bring him closer. Trying to morph the Devil himself into your body. He hikes your leg up, over his waist in response, and you can feel with damning clarity, his burning hardness pressing against the flimsy cotton of your underwear.

You want him inside so bad, it's nearly breaking you apart.

"Too damned sweet..." he murmurs into the running pulse of your neck, and your entire body freezes, when he teases the place with surprisingly sharp teeth.

"...no..."

It's a quiet, barely audible whisper, but he straightens himself on his arms, hovering above you with a questioning look on his flushed face.

"No biting..." you repeat, louder this time, your heaving chest brushing over his "No pain. I don't wanna hurt tonight."

A blink, a gasp, and Remmick morphs between your very eyes. His expression turns into something so gentle, so caring, you're sure a man like him shouldn't be able to look like that. He takes a deep breath through his mouth, a broken sound emanating from deep within his chest. And then, he kisses you again. Slow, intimate, until your head is spinning.

"The things you do to me, woman" he whispers into your mouth, and starts to crawl lower.

His tongue laps at your collarbone, lips sucking into the skin of your sternum. Your body arches off the seat, as he dips into your cleavage, letting your breasts spill out the top of your dress. He kisses them, like they're more than just a body part. It feels sacred, feels like a prayer in a language you don't fully understand.

Another series of kisses over the fabric covering your stomach, and soon enough, he's making a home for himself between your thighs. Your body starts to shake in anticipation, half lidded eyes following the movements of his dark haired head, as he leaves wet kisses on the inside of your thighs.

"Christ Almighty..." he groans, as his thumb runs over the wet patch steadily forming on your underwear "Like Heaven's Gates opening for me"

Your hips buck in a stuttering motion, as he puts his mouth over the cotton, tongue lapping at the fabric in a promise of things to come.

"Knew you'd be sweet" he comments, voice dipping down so low, you can feel it in your insides.

Then, your legs get thrown over his shoulders, and before you have time to adjust, he pushes your undergarments to the side, and nearly drowns his face in your cunt.

The sound you make is nothing short of scandalous, as he begins to lap at you, greedily soaking in the very essence of your being. His tongue finds your clit faster, than any man before, and as his mouth close over the pulsing bundle of nerves, you throw your head back.

He's good, so good in fact, that your stomach begins to tighten in seconds. Your hands flail at your sides, nails scraping over the backseat, over your dress, his scalp. You don't know what to do with your body, completely surrendering to the ancient magic, he pulls from you with every drag of his tongue.

And God, the sounds he makes. You've never met someone so vocal, so utterly devoted to drinking every last drop you have to offer. Soon enough, your thighs start to shake, the pressure building inside you reaching levels you never thought possible. And he doesn't stop, not even for a moment, licking, sucking, flicking his tongue until your voice becomes hoarse.

"Remmick..." you mewl.

The sound of his name feels right, leaving your lips, feels like truth. Like that mythical honesty, he wanted to taste in your tears.

His grip on your body tightens, and it's as if he's been possessed by some demon of desire. You can feel his face pressing closer, deeper into you, and that's the final straw. Stars erupt in your vision, as you come, hard and fast, earth shattering around you. Body nearly flying off the car seat, your breath gets punched out of your lungs with the force of the most delicious of sensations.

Remmick seems almost reluctant to part with your cunt, licking at the swollen flesh, until your hand slaps him away, too sensitive for any more attention. His face is glistening in the pale moonlight, and his sinful tongue cleans everything with an almost inhuman groan.

"You're heaven, mo ghrà" his voice breaks "You're sunlight incarnate"

There's devotion like nothing you've heard before in his tone, and if you weren't so completely wrecked, you would've blushed. Instead, you reach for him, and he obeys, coming back up, until you can kiss him again.

His arms sneak around your waist, pulling you up into an embrace, and your boneless body let's him do what he likes. Let's him settle you into his lap, legs nestling on both sides of his thighs. Forever greedy, he ruts into your twitching core, and you're cruelly reminded about just how empty you feel.

"You'll never be alone" he whispers, voice muffled by the skin of your chest "You'll never be forsaken, not while I walk this earth."

Something in the way he says that, makes your spine tingle with a dreadful sort of shiver. But there's comfort in his words, enough of it, for you to throw caution to the wind, and reach for the button of his trousers with shaky hands.

You'll worry later. For now, you want him to make you forget what worrying even looks like.

And as if reading your thoughts, he obliges, pushing your hands away, to do the work himself. His trousers fall open, and he frees himself with a choked groan. His cock rests on your lower stomach, hot and ready, smearing drops of precum over your skin. Your muscles tighten in anticipation, hands squeezing his shoulders.

"My girl" he murmurs "My sweet girl, let me in"

All you can do, is nod.

Remmick lifts you up, as if you weight nothing, positioning you just right, before he slowly lowers you onto him. Your combined groans fill the silence of the truck, as you stretch around him. He's gentle, letting you adjust before pushing into you a bit further, until he's buried to the hilt in your heat. His head falls back against the headboard, hands roaming your body. You can see the treacherous light in his eyes, now, finally a tangible truth, rather than a figment of your dreams.

It doesn't scare you though, nothing scares you now. Not when he fills you up so completely, you feel like you belong for the first time in years. This moment of stillness, of silence interrupted only by laboured breathing, doesn't last long.

Nails digging into the bottom of your thighs, he rocks you in a steady, almost languid rhythm. You flutter around him, small gasps of pleasure leaving your lips, and that familiar pressure introduces itself once again. He speeds up, guiding your hips in an up and down motion, that soon makes your teeth clink together.

"That's right... God in Heaven... So warm... Mmmmm..." his voice flows between murmurs, groans and whispers, every word making your insides twitch, making your eyes flutter.

"Take me in... Good... Deeper..."

You can feel him, pressing into your bones, nestling into the deepest parts of your soul, and with every ragged moan he breathes, something close to sweet affection blossoms inside you. Honey and milk, they drip from your fingertips, as you caress his face, contorted in a beautiful image of pleasure. You could love that face. You won't, but Heaven's above, you could.

"Christ" he chokes out, hips bucking off the seat "My sweet girl, mo ghr- ah..."

The sound of his voice alone makes you come again, lighter, but no less pleasurable. And as you tighten around him, a choked sound leaves his throat. His arms encircle you whole, pushing himself so close, he might as well find home in your chest cavity. Soon, his movements stutter, face hidden in your shoulder, breathing in the scent of your hair, and with a last, decisive thrust, he spills himself inside you.

Bodies covered in sweat, you both shake in each other's arms, for a small, blissful moment being completely alone, shielded from the world. Remmick holds you, like you're his only hope, mouthing gently at the skin of your throat, whispering things you barely comprehend. Prayers, that are marked by something ancient, older than the trees and the rivers. Worship, that flows like blood from a wound.

"Thabharfainn fuil mo chroí dui..."

You want to whisper back, but there are no words, that could compare to his. So you do the next best thing, running your fingers through his hair, tracing circles into his back, mapping his features with delicate kisses. He basks in the affection, eyes fluttering closed, a familiar twitch of renewed desire stirring your insides. Your thumb brushes over his bottom lip, still wet with whatever mixture of fluids, and he parts his mouth under your touch.

And that's when it all comes shattering down.

Because hidden beneath the chapped softness, are teeth that don't belong to a human. Sharp, pointed angrily, perfect for tearing at flesh.

Remmick hums in his throat, feeling the way your body seizes with dread, and as his eyes slowly open, you're met with another damning sight.

Those aren't human eyes either. They shine at you, reflecting moonlight in a haze of red that makes your skin crawl.

People who dare to hope, are the one's crushed by disappointment. How dare you forget that?

"It all makes sense now, doesn't it?" he asks in a low voice, all traces of gentleness gone in an instance "The nightly visits, the quiet in the woods..."

His finger traces a line from between your breasts, up to your bobbing throat.

"The pull you feel, even now." a slow roll of his hips makes you choke on air.

Remmick's smile turns cruel. There's no denying, what you're seeing, and it's no longer the man you almost could've loved. It's not a man at all, but a monster your cousin's stories warned you about. Things you believed to be impossible, come to life before your very eyes.

"What are you?" your voice breaks, and he smiles, as if the question has become some sort of a joke shared between the two of you.

"How about I make you a deal?"

You've never noticed, how sharp his nails are, not until they drag back down your throat. Gentle enough not to break skin, but brutal enough to leave imprints in their wake.

"I'll race you back to your house, and if you get there first, I'll leave you two be."

Dread turns your blood into ice, and all you can do, is stare in shock, as Remmick lifts you off his lap. His cock slides out of you languidly, and for the first time, since you've met him, you feel disgust. At him, at yourself, at the whole waking world.

He brushes your sweaty hair out of your forehead, claws dragging over your face as he does so. Then, a quick press of his lips to your temple, and you shiver in your spot.

"Be quick" he instructs in a tone that is entirely too cheerful, before he shoots you a wink, and climbs out of the truck.

Three seconds, that's all you need, before you realize the severity, the absolute hopelessness of your situation. And as you scramble to the passenger side of the truck, thighs sticky with evidence of your misplaced affection, all you can see is your cousin's smiling face.

***

The door to your home slams against the wall, when you stumble inside, feet barely catching up with your panicked movements.

You scream her name through the halls, pathetic and desperate. Silence greets you, not a sound to be heard, and as tears spring from your eyes, you sprint towards the stairs. You climb the steps, hunched over like a wild animal, adrenaline pushing your every movement. And then, with the entirety of your body weight, you slam into the door of your cousin's bedroom.

You can smell the blood, before you see it. A stench so profound, you'll never be able to get rid of it.

And then, a scene so terrifying, so profoundly heartbreaking unfolds before your very eyes.

Remmick stands in the middle of the room, hands folded casually behind him. His jaw clenched tightly over your cousin's throat, her lifeless body half hanging from the bed. There's blood on the floor, on the walls, on the sheer dress she wore to bed. And then, red eyes find you.

Your cousin's form falls onto the floor with a sickening, wet sound, as Remmick let's her go, licking her blood from his gums, his chin.

"Now I understand..." he claps his hands lightly, and once again, you can't move, frozen to your spot, eyes glued to the heap of fabric and flesh, that was once your family "Why you've kept her hidden, like a princess locked in a tower."

His boots leave bloody prints on the wooden floor, as he steps closer to you, crossing the bedroom in long strides.

"There's no worse thing, than a cruel man. Not for a woman like her."

You can't look away from her. Not even, when Remmick's hand covers the side of your face, his thumb brushing the underside of your jaw in a gentle caress.

"I can see it all now, y'know" he murmurs "All her memories are mine. I know what a bastard her husband was. It's no wonder she ran away."

Another step closer, and his other hand finds the softness of your stomach, sharp nails scratching gently over the delicate fabric of your rumpled dress. You can still feel him, a dull ache between your legs, a stickiness of your bodies joined together.

What a damned fool you are.

"And you took care of her so loyally" he continues, a hint of admiration entering his words "Sacrificed so much... But not anymore."

Finally, you dare to look up, and he sighs in delight, as tears fall on your cheeks.

"I promised you" a whisper, a cold breath against your skin "No more alone, no more forsaken"

His lips kiss away the saltiness, with gentleness so unbefitting his monstrous nature, it makes your breath lock itself in the column of your throat.

"There's only love in your future, mo ghrà. Only love."

The bundle of fabric moves. A jerky sort of motion, and your eyes snap behind his back, as your cousin's hand jumps against the bloodied floorboards. Remmick let's you go without a fight, and you stumble on your feet, falling to your knees, next to the slowly awakening corpse of your cousin.

Her name is a prayer on your lips. You're begging for the impossible, you're aware of that, but she moves nonetheless, lifting her face.

"Hey cuz." she croaks, the wound in her throat moving as she speaks "It's all gonna be alright now."

It's a fate worse than death, seeing the unnatural, golden shine in her eyes. The monstrous, sharpened teeth peaking from behind her smiling lips. You reel back from her, vision blurry from all the tears. She follows you, on her fours, as if she's forgotten what it means to walk.

"I know it's scary" she stands up, blood dripping from her dress, her mangled body "I was scared too. But now... Now it's all bliss. It's all love."

Your heart breaks into a million scattered pieces, dread and pain nearly knocking you off your feet. But you keep backing away, until you stop at the very top of the stairs, swaying in your sorrow.

"You did so much for me" you cousin closes the distance, drool slipping out her mouth, mixing with crimson on her chin "Let me repay you, let me give you a better life."

It's only as she reaches for you, fingers digging into your shoulders, teeth bared and ready to bite, do you react. A sharp yell rips through your throat, and you don't think anymore, that primal instinct of survival taking root. The world becomes a mess of limbs and screams, and soon it all spins around you. Wood of the railing breaks under your weight, when your cousin slams you into it, blood of your blood sends you flying. Your fingers grip her nightgown in a death grip however, and the both of you crash to the floor below, with a thunderous crack, that carries through the entire house.

For a moment you can't breathe, your vision going black as night. Then, everything spins, but you don't feel any teeth, any claws. Just waves of pain crashing over your back.

You will never forget the next sound. It will haunt you through your life, turn every dream into a nightmare. The broken, ragged intake of breath on your left.

"Cuz..."

Your head turns, and there she is. The dreamer, the flying dove, her chest split open by a stray piece of wood, blood spilling out her mouth like a fountain.

"...no..."

Despite the blinding pain in your back, you rise to your knees, falling over her, hands trembling and for the first time, you're at a loss. What can one do in this situation? How can you fix this?

"No, no, no, no" your cousin's body twitches, her eyes growing more and more glassy with every ticking second "Please, God... Help..."

But there's no God in this house, not anymore. He's been casted out, with your cousin's last breath, and so, as desperation shakes your being, you call out to the only other option. The only way that's in the cards for you, until you too leave this earth.

"Remmick, help me!" it's hypnotizing in it's irony, you calling out to him, begging him.

He stands behind you, watching your shaking shoulders. Watching those fascinating, calloused fingers rip out hairs from your scalp. He knows, somewhere deep inside his rotten, ancient heart, that he would help you. He'd come acrawling for just one word.

He also knows, you've been crying over a corpse, as soon as wood pierced your cousin's heart.

And so, he lingers, a silent statue in a house, that was once a home. Like a pillar of marble, devoid of guilt, of heartbreak, stirred to life only by the misplaced fondness for a woman, who dared to hope in his presence.

Time ticks by, your sobs turning into heaving breaths, which soon fade, leaving silence in their wake. That's when he finally makes a move, bloodied soles of his boots dragging closer, until your abused back leans against his side. It's a small touch, but for him, it means more, than any before.

There's no more strength in you, no more fight. Like a block of clay, begging to be shaped into a masterpiece, you surrender.

And it's all he's ever wanted. So then why...?

"Leave this place" his voice sounds foreign, even to his own ears "Go far, far away. And live."

You don't even lift your head, don't look at him, but he knows you listen, he knows you understand. A brush of cold lips against the gentle curvature at the back of your neck. There's no shivers, but your heart stutters, that's all he needs.

"A gift for you, mo cuishle"

***

A month later you're standing on the platform, nails drumming anxiously on the leather surface of your baggage.

You're going far away, like he's told you, leaving behind the town, Ol' Johnsons abandoned home, the shopkeeper's smile, and the ghosts haunting the small house in the middle of the woods.

And life goes on. You find your place in a shop of your own, in the middle of a town, that's buzzing with life. You put your talents to good use, and soon, people remember your name. They wave at you as you pass, they visit your shop, and talk to you, as if you've lived here from childhood.

You make friends, good ones, that last through thick and thin. And despite waking up every night, covered in sweat, with the haunting images of that fateful midnight flashing behind your eyes, you're happy. You find lightness in your step, in your mind. You cradle the community within your calloused palms, and let them cradle you in turn.

So, when the new Juke Joint opens, you don't think twice, about letting your dearest friend, Pearline, drag you with her. For a night full of drinkin', dancin', and cheerin'.

#my writing #remmick #remmick x reader #sinners movie #remmick x you #sinners 2025 #remmick fanfic #it's not often someone makes a perfect movie but let me tell yall this is it #our man of the hour is almost pathetically tender in this one but we're still talking about a horror movie so yknow

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