This is the final part of this story! Thank you for all the love! There will be one more story in this series, but that will be a one-shot set during Sinners.
Warning! Smut, Mentions of the Klan, and mentions of death. Also, a super long chapter!
Translations- Mo Dhia= My god, Mo chroí= My heart, and Táim i ngrá leat = I'm in love with you
Pa might have been right, you considered, I don’t know when to shut up.
“What ya’ thinking about?” Remmick questioned, folding your clothes with tender hands, scared to mess up or overstep. You never thought your childhood bed could fit a grown adult, especially not a man, but Remmick fit perfectly. Just as well as he fit into everything else in your life.
“Just think it's funny, I've been calling it Remmy’s room and now it really is.” You’ve never seen him smile the way he does at your words. He grins from ear to ear, exposing his beautiful, fanged teeth that you know would slice your flesh with the gentlest touch. Your heart flutters: this is what comes of your lack of self-control.
Four nights ago, about three weeks after you first met your little crow, Remmick came knocking on the door as was routine. He was covered in dust, looking adorably disheveled, and he explained that he had fallen through the roof while working on the old mill house, which he had found a few miles away.
Although you laughed at him, taunting as he called it, you suggested he just stay with you. Naturally, he refused and argued against it for two days before falling through the roof again and returning to you like a desperate dog.
It was a reasonable arrangement; the two of you had grown to be friends. Before moving in, he visited nearly every night, staying up and talking for hours before he decided it was time for you to go to sleep, even when you protested. Occasionally, you cooked for him when he had enough blood in his veins to enjoy the pleasures of humanity.
Those were his favorite nights because he got to stand in the kitchen with you, talking about everything and nothing, sometimes singing together as he tried to lure you from the stove to dance with him. If he asked, he’d get the chance to cook with you, even though it was mainly him grabbing whatever you pointed out. After dinner, you let him help you with the dishes, and it almost always turned into a water fight.
You expected living together wouldn’t be much different. Except you forgot about the tension. Always whispering in the background, licking at you like flames. A touch that lingered, words too soft to repeat, and glances that bordered lust. Even the most innocent of moments held something deeper. Remmick folded your clothes along with his, intimate and domestic. You wondered if this was how newlyweds felt.
There was something darker growing between the two of you. Hidden by the light of your budding relationship and potential feelings. Possession was in every shadow, it was in the way you combed his hair as you pulled him closer, it was there when he pulled you into his lap in the name of companionship as you wrote spell after spell. Not that you minded it, you craved his obsession for it fueled your own.
“Gonna sit with me, sugar?” That insufferable nickname. You were willing to bet that Remmick kept a detailed list in his mind of all the nicknames he could call you. He knew exactly when to use them against you, and he always knew which one would make you the weakest. As requested, you join him on the bed.
“How was the market? Is Annie doing well?” Remmick never said it out loud, but he loved to hear about your day. He didn’t care about humans or their woes, but he did care about you. If you loved something, he would try his hardest not to destroy it beneath his withering touch. If the sun weren't so cruel, he would spend every day with you from morning to night.
“Annie is good, she still wants me to talk to Benny Boy.” You don't notice how Remmick falters. “I got more blackberries, thought I could use them for a little kitchen witchcraft! I found a recipe for blackberry muffins in my ma’s spellbook, supposed to be good for protection. I’ll always remember her in the kitchen telling me what ingredients would cast a love spell, and which would bring us luck.”
Remmick wanted to kiss you. He found it increasingly hard to stop himself, especially when you told him things that he knew were special to you, things that had a place in your heart. “Sounds nice, darlin’. I’ve been wonderin’ if your putting love spells in your food or maybe it's just too damn good.” You glow under his praise; he notices it. He notices everything about you.
A car horn interrupts your conversation. Only one person would be honking outside your house this close to sundown. You left Remmick, going to the front door and cracking the shutters to peek outside. Benny’s slick black car was approaching your house. You could strangle him, but the press of Remmick's chest against your back reminded you there were more important things to deal with.
You turned to him, shocked that he had followed you and even more stunned at how close he got as he attempted to look over your shoulder without being caught by the eager sun. You wondered if it was normal to feel so safe with a man cornering you and your back against a wall. You knew it was deranged, but it made warmth flood your stomach.
“It’s just Benny.” You're so grateful that the sun is still up and Remmick is trapped in the darkness of your home, all the windows closed and a million of your ritual candles lit. “Stay inside, suns not down yet. Besides, he ain’t no threat.”
Remmick disagrees; in his opinion, your ex-fiancé is the biggest threat in his life right now. More threatening than a thousand suns and a million vampire hunters. It’s not his place; he won’t leave the house or hurt the man. Only restricting himself because it is what you asked of him. His blood, technically the blood of some foolish Klansmen whom he’d drunk from and gutted, boils within him.
You are about to open the door, but Remmick stops you, holding out your robe so you can cover your body, clad in nothing but a lacy nightgown. Earlier in the day, he had flushed like a tomato when you stepped out of the bathroom in the sheer fabric, but he was getting used to your nightwear.
You took the robe, wrapping it tightly around your waist. Recently, you’d found yourself dressing in your most intimate nightgowns just to watch Remmick struggle. You liked the hunger in his eyes, the way he scratched the back of his neck, and his flushed face. You especially liked how he clawed into his thighs to stop himself from touching you.
“Hell, you doing out here so late, Benny Boy?” You make a point of shutting the door behind you. Benny climbs out of his car, handsome and lean. He flashes you a dimpled smile. Once upon a time, you would have fallen into his arms just because of the gesture. His skin, dark and soft, glows like yours in the setting sun. It's subtle yet charming.
“Annie told me she worries you're mighty lonely out here. Least I could do was check on you.” It’s sweet, it’s his nature. You meet in the middle of the yard, exchanging a side hug that isn't awkward but isn't intimate. He’s a good Christian man, but you weren’t what he wanted.
“She’s supposed to worry about me! She’s my sister after all. But ain’t no reason for you to go out of your way to see me! Still, I appreciate that you did.” Benny has a boyish charm, shy and awkward. It reminds you of when you first started hanging out with Remmick. It’s cute on a boy, but Remmick has proven himself to be much more than that. The occasional charm is endearing, but he has moments that are so serious and raw that it makes you fidget under his gaze.
“You alright? You look a little red.” Benny jokes, thinking his presence has affected you when all you can think of is the man probably pouting in a corner behind you right now. You nod faster than necessary.
“I’m fine, Benny! You should head back home now,” you try to nudge him to his car, but he doesn't move. He studies your face, not like Remmick does; there's no adoration or awe in his gaze.
“I’ve missed ya’. Annie’s doing good now, there’s no need for you to put your life on hold anymore.” You wish he would shut up, your eyes beg him to stop, but he doesn't notice or doesn't care. “Let’s get married. Have a house and a family like we always wanted, before it's too late.” Even now, he considers his dreams as your own.
“I don’t want that. I love ya’, Benny. You will always be important to me, and you’re an amazing man, but my future can’t be like yours. If it does, I guarantee I'll end up like my mother.”
“Why? I don’t understand.”
“Because I ain’t in love with ya’. Maybe I never was. You want a big family, with a bunch of kids all running a farm and attending church every Sunday. There ain’t nothing wrong with it. In fact, I think it's beautiful, but God, Benny, I don’t want that. I don’t know what I want, but it's not that and it ain’t you.”
Benny listened, for possibly the first time, and when you went quiet, he nodded like he expected every word. He pulled you into a hug, warm and welcoming, then pulled away. “I think you're makin’ a mistake. I hope you're happy, I do.” Then he turned to hop into his car.
A weight lifted from you, maybe it was the weight of his love, but you felt surer of yourself than you had in over five years. You made your way back to the house, hearing Benny’s car start with a growl. When you opened the door, Remmick pulled you into his arms.
It was nothing like Benny’s hug. It yearned, promised, and comforted like nothing ever had. You fold against him, forgetting to close the door, forgetting that Benny hadn’t driven off yet, forgetting that the sun couldn’t reach Remmick's skin from just beyond the threshold. “Táim i ngrá leat.” You didn’t understand the foreign words, but you nuzzled into his arms nonetheless, glowing red eyes hidden from your view.
Benny put the car in reverse, taking one last look at your retreating figure. He watched a white man pull you into his arms with the sincerity and desperation of a lover. The man looked up, staring right through Benny with eyes like shadows and embers. This man, this devil, closed the door behind you, and Benny didn't look back.
“The whole Delta is talking about it! At the market today, all the church ladies came up to me asking if you was dating the damn Grand Dragon!” Annie dropped her bag on your table, barging in just as Remmick shut the bedroom door behind him. You knew he could hear her; you imagined the disgust on his face at the absurd statement.
“I don’t have the slightest clue what you’re talking about.” Annie took a seat, watching you stir your bowl as you peered down at your mother's spellbook. Blackberries stained the beige batter as you stirred it together.
“Benny Boy told me he came by to see you. Said he watched a white man cradle you in his arms as if you were his wife!” You didn't know who you wanted to hit more—Benny for starting the rumor or Remmick for giving him a reason to.
“If Benny only told you, then how does the whole Delta know?” You tiptoed around Annie's statement, not willing to acknowledge what Benny saw.
“Well, he told Baby Bee as well.” You frowned, wiping the flour off your nightgown. You hadn’t dressed for company.
“Then that bastard wanted it to get out! Everyone knows Baby Bee would tell your whole life story to the Klan just for the hell of it.” To be fair, you liked his sister. Beatrice was the youngest of Benny’s siblings, and she had earned the nickname Baby Bee even though you figured it should have been Blabber Bee.
“Who is he?” Annie was tired of your game. You didn’t have to ask what she was talking about; you already knew.
“Just a friend, Annie. Besides, he’s Irish.”
“That only makes him whiter to me.” She retorted, making you giggle despite the glare on her face. “Don’t laugh. This is serious. If word got to the wrong person that you were messin’ around with a white man, lord help us.” You felt a little bad for worrying your sister so much, but then again, Annie was a natural at it.
“We ain’t messin’ around. He’s my friend, and Benny had no right to slander my name.” You set the muffin mix down and rest a tender hand on Annie’s shoulder. “Don’t let them wrap you up in this. Their gossip is my burden to bear.”
“Tell me something about him,” Annie watched your eyes as she made her plea. “I just, I need to hear it.” You weren’t sure what she was getting at. You thought it over in your head, whatever you said would be heard by the man himself, and you didn’t want to expose any feelings you might have hidden beneath the surface. You also didn’t want Annie to think Remmick was no good.
“He’s kind. Not in the way that everyone's supposed to be kind. It’s natural with him, like he knows the right things to do or say, and he just does them. He ain’t always good to everyone, but he tries to be for me, I think.” Annie sighs, quietly yet meaningfully. She doesn't ask you to stop. “He’s a strange man, but I guess that's why we get on so well.”
Your sister rests her head against her hands. Exhaustion pours from her demeanor, and you wonder if you’ve said too much or too little. Then she looks at you with hopeless eyes and whispers, “I was scared it’d be like this. I was scared you’d be in love with him.”
She continues to say something, you hear her voice but can’t grasp the words. Everything felt out of touch as you tried not to panic; the fear of what this could mean ate at your heart. You weren't in love with a vampire. You weren't in love with Remmick. “No,” it's a breathless whisper. You imagined him in the other room. You see him jumping through the window, smoke flying from him as he bolts for the trees. Or maybe he's resting his head against the door, heart beating like it never has before. If you hoped it was the latter, would that mean Annie was right?
“Enough of all this nonsense. Get on home, Ann. I’m trying to do a spell, and I can’t do it with all these silly notions of love and whatnot.” Huffing, your sister takes her bag, gives you one last look, then slams the front door shut until you're alone in a kitchen lit by candles instead of the sun that pleads for entrance.
The bowl clatters on the counter as you drop it from your hands. Leo startles at the sound before taking gentle sips of water, ignoring your deep breaths. The bedroom door creaks open; you can’t look at him. You turn with your back digging into the counter and your hands covering your eyes. You aren’t helpless or sorrowful, you're frustrated.
If Annie was this scandalized by you loving a white man, what would she say if she knew he wasn't human? He was a dead man, a being of evil with a hunger for your flesh and blood. That very man, cursed and damned, wrapped his hands around your waist with the gentlest touch as he lifted you onto the counter, giving your weary legs a break as he settled between them.
“You ain't mad at me, are you, sugar?” You shake your head, easing his fears of your anger. “Need you to look at me, Darlin’.” Remmick pleaded, pulling your hands away from your eyes. You looked at him, disgruntled tears blurring the handsome lines of his face.
“I fucked up, Remmy. I really fucked up.” He cups your heated cheeks between his hands, analyzing every light and twitch in your eyes. Leo rubbed against Remmick's ankle but pranced off to the other room, planning to fall asleep on the warm laundry.
“What did ya’ do, baby?” Remmick stroked your tears away with the pads of his thumbs. So tender and loving, it broke you a little more. You couldn’t crumble for this man. He was not someone to be desired; he should have been immune to human emotions and off-limits to your heart.
“ I-I care for someone whose heart doesn't beat the same as mine and whose skin ain’t the same color.” You regained a bit of control, no more tears threatening to run down your cheeks, just sheer disappointment in yourself and the path you've taken. “Annie could be right, and if she is, then I’m the biggest fool in Mississippi.”
“Are you mad that I’m dead, or are you more upset ‘cause my skin ain’t like yours?” You were shaking your head, freeing your face from his loving hands. He didn’t get it—a thousand years and still a fool.
“People have died for less, Remmy. If you were a woman and I were a man, I’d be dead by now. Suppose the Klan hears about this, it ain’t just me that they’d kill. Every person of color in the area would suffer for my mess.”
He pulls your head into his chest, trying to say something that would ease your worries. Remmick knows the price for this. He remembers when couples like you were first persecuted. Over the years, he has learned one solid truth: death is the only way to end the divide.
“I’ll kill 'em all, sugar. Burn the world if that's what it takes. I’ll raise an army for ya’ and we’ll slaughter them where they stand. Nothin’ on this damned earth is gonna keep me from what I want.” It should scare you how easily he discussed killing everyone in his path, but it lit a fire within you. Powerlessness was a retched feeling, it curled in you like a cottonhead snake. With Remmick, there was power like you’d never known.
“Townsfolk are gonna call me a traitor. They think I’m fooling around with the devil.” It's embarrassing to admit.
“Well, that ain't true. We ain’t foolin’ around.” He’s playful and endearing, and you know you love him.
“I’m not sure about that.” You sigh, lips so close to his own. Remmick’s brain doesn't have time to process your words before your lips press against his own, and he feels as though his mind has gone cloudy. You push gently against him, trying to show your feelings in one kiss.
Remmick always had something to say, always had a funny retort or a sassy response. Now all he had was his mouth as he sought after yours, passionate and rough. Like a man doomed to death, he moans against you as though he has tasted salvation; he has, and it is your lipstick mixed with the blackberries you ate before Annie broke your peace. Your lips tasted of sin and eternal life; he was tempted to bow his head in prayer.
“I’ll do whateva’ you want,” Remmick moaned into you. “I’ll kill every Klan member this side of the Mississippi.” His hips pushed into the cabinets under the counter as your hand came around his neck, gripping until he felt lightheaded. “Or I won’t leave the house. I’ll wither away in here, and you can keep me as you’d like. Ain’t nobody would find out.”
“Why would you do that, Remmy?” You know why, your lips find his jawline, and you press them there, leaving a red print when you pull back. It matches the shade found on his lips. The world buzzes around you, for every breath Remmick takes, you do the same, matching his breathing with precision.“Why would you act like a dog tryna’ please his master?”
“Because I am.” He whined, his hands digging into your hips as you left lipstick prints all over his face. “I’ll be ya’ dog or ya’ slave, it makes no difference to me. Call me and I’ll come. Tell me to bite, and I’ll make the Delta run red. Just don’t make me leave again, sugar. Anything but that.”
You burned with it, the power he placed in your hand. A simple turn of your thumb, life and death were at your control. He would kill as you saw fit, lay waste to cities and towns if it pleased you. Behind the goofy and boyish facade was an ancient being who had survived purely through violence, lived through wars and famine, and had thrived as others dropped dead. The press of his skin against your own was proof of his violence, his ability to survive in a world that wished him dead.
Suddenly, it was clear, he wandered the Earth looking for something or someone who could make him bow, and you were that divine being whom he’d bleed for. Men have always needed something to kill for; it's why they created their gods and their myths. They sought out violence like second nature, and in his search, Remmick had found his savior, the reason for his eternal suffering, and the cure for it all.
“Get on your knees, baby.” Your voice broke through his cloudy mind as you pulled your lips away from his own. With his face turned upwards, his gaze held your own as he descended to his knees, the beginning of his prayer. “You hungry, love? You look starved.” His hands rested on his knees, held together in reverence as you lifted one side of your nightgown, baring the flesh of your thigh. “Go on, feast.”
His tongue traced your thighs, searching for the veins hidden behind your deep flesh. When he found the one he wanted, the femoral vein within your inner thigh, his fangs pressed against you. He didn’t break the skin; instead, he watched your face, partially hidden behind the curve of your breasts. Gently, he broke your skin, feeling the warmth of your body as it welcomed his fangs inside. Warm blood rushed to greet him like an old friend.
He could not remember all the people he drank from. There must have been at least a million faces lost to time. You would not be one of them. The flavor of you, metallic and salty, fed him like a home-cooked meal. Remmick swore he’d never tasted someone as good. Perhaps it was because you were you and he'd already been obsessed, or maybe you were naturally divine.
Your back arched across the counter, head slamming back and aching from the sharp movement, before you pulled yourself upwards. You wouldn’t call it pleasurable; it felt like two sharp knives buried in your skin, but the sounds that fell from Remmick’s mouth brought satisfaction to your stomach. He whined and whimpered, pelvis thrusting against the cabinets. You watched his eyes when he looked at you, for once, you were able to witness the change set in. Those adoring navy blue eyes of his darkened in front of you, turning to pools of coal.
Grasping at his hair, you push him further into your thigh. “Drink up, baby.” He does just as you say. When he’s filled with you, he laps at your wounded thigh. The pulsing pain in your leg is hard to ignore until Remmick’s tongue traces further up, no longer focused on his bite mark.
Slowly, his tongue pushes against the fabric of your panties, nudging them away from your heat. His nose brushed against the hood of your clit. Instantly, your back arched off the counter as you mewled at the touch. As soon as the sound left your mouth, he was looking at you, his chest heaving with every deep breath.
“Fuck.” Remmick groaned, instantly reaching for the top of your underwear as he yanked it down your legs, brushing your bite wound and making your legs jolt. He looks at your bare cunt, panting like a dog in summer. “Can I? Sugar, please, I need to taste ya’.” You just barely nod before his mouth begins to leave a hot trail up to where you need him the most.
His lips suckle at your clit, a feeling you’ve never experienced before and it makes your body tingle like it’s coming to life for the first time. His tongue joins in on the torture, licking circles around you. Your hands dig into his hair with the force to rip it out, but when you catch yourself being too rough, you are quick to stroke his head in an attempt to pet the pain away.
Praises leave your throat like sobs. You tell him how good he is, how you adore him, and how he will be yours. The praise makes his tongue move quicker, more deliberate, and intentional. You’d never experienced anything like it, not to say you hadn’t explored your body before, but this was different. Your muscles spasmed, and your head bobbed up and down like you were in a drunken daze.
Your legs wrapped around Remick's head, falling uselessly against his shoulders. He didn’t mind the weight of you on him, instead, he gripped your hips and pulled you closer to him, dragging you closer to the edge of the counter. The grip of his hands around your waist and the deeper feeling of his tongue against your clit, sent you over the edge you didn’t realize you were on. Mindlessly mumbling compliments and lovestruck remarks as you felt yourself gushing against Remmick’s skilled tongue.
Standing up, Remmick, held your head so that you wouldn't drop it against the hard counter. His hands gently cupped your hair and petted you as you came down from your high. He bent to nuzzle his nose into your neck as your breath left you in shaky pants. “You’re so good to me, sugar.” His smooth voice met your ears as he caressed you.
With buzzing fingers, you pulled yourself off the countertop, landing on shaky legs. Remmick steadied you with a hand to your back and the other on your waist. “Wanna come to my room, baby?” You asked him, looking up with enchanting eyes that he could never say no to. Your blood flows through his veins, he feels you coursing within him, warming him and flooding his arousal.
Instead of answering, he captured your lips within his own. His mouth was softer than a petal as it moved against yours, consuming and gentle as though he were savoring the feel of your stained lips against his own. When he pulled away, you licked where he was and could taste a combination of your arousal and blood on him.
Pulling him by one hand, you lead him into your bedroom. It is the only room in your small home that he had never been in, he’d never dared cross the threshold that would be completely you and all-consuming. As you led him through the door, he knew he had passed the point of no return.
Your room was the personification of your soul. With hanging plants, two small shelves filled with books, a few candles, clusters of crystals, and most importantly, pictures that spoke to your love and heart. As you sat on the violet-clad bed, Remmick traced his hands along your few but important belongings.
Some pictures featured you and Annie, another showed you with her and two men who were twins. All the photos were secured by dark wooden frames except for one. He didn’t need to ask who the people were; he knew by the way your younger self was grinning. Annie and you, clearly children, with arms wrapped around one another. Standing behind you two, in front of the wooden cabin, was a man and a woman. Both of them were smiling, he noticed your features in them, and the whole picture screamed joy. That's probably why you’d chosen a more expensive, silver frame to hold the memory.
“You gonna keep starin’ or you gonna come over here?” Remmick turned to look at you when your playful voice broke the silence. You were lying against the bed, back lifted by pillows, while the silk of your nightgown kept slipping from your shoulder and hiking up your thighs. He’d seen every wonder of the world, every perfectly sculpted statue and acclaimed painting. Nothing could compare to the sight of you, disheveled and relaxed in your bed. He jumped you without a second thought.
A knee pressed between your parted legs, as his clawed hand wrapped around your throat. With a gentle squeeze, your breath stuttered, and your mind went blank. Remmick's gentle lips pressed against your face, caressing your skin at every spot they touched before colliding with your own. It was hungry and frantic as your lips locked together, your body buzzing from the excitement. Your hands crept under Remmick’s freshly washed wife-beater, feeling the softness of his stomach and the muscles of his chest as his heart pounded against your hand.
“Mo dhia,” He whispered as you tried to chase his retreating lips. One of your hands buries into his dark curls as the other trails from his heart to the little patch of black hair leading past his belt buckle, and you follow it blindly.
“Mo dhia, don't stop.” You obeyed him, slowly tracing him through the fabric of his briefs. Stroking and teasing, you gulped at the realization that he was bigger than you expected. As you continue to palm him, he whimpers out words you don’t understand, but you know must be his native tongue.
“Mo chroí, I need you. Need you more than anything.” Instead of answering, your hand that has been tugging at his hair, clasps around his neck to pull his lips down to yours. Grinning into the kiss, you pull him out of his briefs so you can slowly start pumping him. He groans against your lips as you wipe your palm over his leaking tip to add wetness while you stroke him.
Remmick forces himself to pull away from the warmth of your body. “Can’t wait, mo chroí.” He whines as he pulls his remaining clothes off, leaving him bare above your scantly clad form. Watching you with loving eyes, Remmick slowly lifts the dress from your figure before tossing it aside with his clothes.
“So beautiful. Imma’ make us one,” he begins as he parts your thighs with his strong hands. “Is that what ya’ want, sugar? Wanna be joined with me forever?" There is tenderness in his voice, his weeping cock is lined at your entrance, but he holds himself back waiting for your titillating voice to answer him.
“Forever,” you keen as he pushes into you. Slowly intertwining the two of you, inch by inch. He bottoms out, kissing the tears that fall from your eyes. You didn’t realize you were crying, you weren't in pain, but in a way, you were.
You never knew what it meant to be connected so deeply with someone; you watched from the outside as Annie and your friends fell deeply in love and had those feelings reciprocated. Sure, you loved Benny, but that was merely acceptance and contentment. This, this was passion like you’d never known, yet you could feel the weight of your love being returned in full. His heartbeat against your chest was proof.
“Fuck, I-I gotta move now, sugar.” You nod feverishly, begging him to. Slowly, you feel emptiness within you, only to be hit with simmering pleasure as Remmick thrusts back into you, hitting a pleasure point that pulls a moan from your throat. He smiles, fangs and all, as he attempts to recreate that same movement.
You whimper dumbly against his neck as he snaps his hips into you, his lone hand that does not hold him above you, trails down your body until he finds that special spot on top of your pussy. With every sensual thrust, he rubs your clit with an equally strong pressure.
The intoxicating throbbing of Remmick moving perfectly within you leaves your skin tingling. He attempts to place loving kisses along your neck, but they are sloppy, needier than expected. As he rests his sweating head against your chest, he notices the way your breasts rise and fall and how your nipples press into his chest with every lift. Gently, he leaves your swollen clit to focus on tracing the hardened peaks. He squeezes your breast, delighting in the way your flesh spills from his hands. You grasp at his hair, squeezing hard enough to make him mewl into your neck.
“Táim i ngrá leat.” The pressure in your stomach unravels like a ball of yarn. You feel him and nothing else, the world falls beneath your feet as you call his name until your throat hurts. Remmick whispers those words, over and over again, grinding into you until you feel him spasming within you. He cries into your neck, your name falls from his tongue, a desperate prayer. Your body goes limp within his arms, he holds you as you collapse.
“Ya’ okay, pretty baby?” Remmick whispers as he pulls out of you, his hot spend flooding out of you and coating your trembling thighs. The ringing in your ears stops, letting in the loving tone of Remmick's deep voice. His strong arms wrap around your waist, pulling you on top of him as he relaxes into your bed. His hands trace circles into your hip bones while he hums a familiar tune. The very song you sang the night you found him.
“Those words, tim leat or somethin’, ya’ said it before. What’s it mean?” You rest your arms around his shoulders, twirling his dark curls with your fingers. He nudges your forehead with his own, lovingly bumping into you as his humming quiets down. Your eyes meet.
“I am in love with you.” It’s a statement, an answer, and a promise all wrapped into one sentence. Remmick smiles when your eyes water, his fangs poking out from behind his kiss swollen lips. You repeat his words, whispering them over and over as Remmick chastely kisses your temple.
“I’m in love with ya, too.” You giggle as his stubble tickles the side of your face. Leo meows at the door, not entering the room but making his presence known. In a whirlwind, Remmick pulls the violet blankets until they cover your nude bodies. Only then do you call Leo into the room. He lands on the bed with a thump, takes one look at the two of you, then curls up with a huff. His disinterest makes both of you laugh, curling up into each other's arms again as you plot how to tell Annie the truth without giving her an aneurysm.
ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ᴅᴏᴍᴇꜱᴛɪᴄ!ᴘᴏꜱꜱᴇꜱꜱɪᴠᴇ!ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ x ᴍᴏᴅᴇʀɴ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ
ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴘᴏʀɴ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴘʟᴏᴛ, ꜱᴍᴜᴛ, ꜰʀᴇᴀᴋʏ-ɴᴇᴇᴅʏ-ᴏʙꜱᴇꜱꜱɪᴠᴇ-ᴘᴀᴛʜᴇᴛɪᴄ ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ, ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛ ꜱᴜʙ ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ, ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛ ᴅᴏᴍ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ꜰᴇᴍᴀʟᴇ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ʜᴜᴍᴀɴ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ᴍᴏᴅᴇʀɴ ᴇʀᴀ, ᴏʀᴀʟ (ꜰ ʀᴇᴄᴇɪᴠɪɴɢ), ᴘ ɪɴ ᴠ, ᴍᴏᴀɴɪɴɢ, ᴡʜɪɴɪɴɢ, ᴘʀᴀɪꜱɪɴɢ, ᴏʙꜱᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴ, ꜱᴛᴀʟᴋᴇʀɪɴɢ(ᴋɪɴᴅᴀ?), ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ, ᴜɴᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛ ꜱᴇx, ꜱᴡᴇᴀʀɪɴɢ, ᴇxᴘʟɪᴄɪᴛ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ, ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛ ᴅɪʀᴛʏ ᴛᴀʟᴋ.
[Also, English is not my first language]
ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ: 6K
It's been a shitty day. There's no other way to say it.
You started with a flat tire, then the usual blackout at the store forced you to manually enter every receipt, with your boss breathing down your neck at every minor mistake. The boiler gave up the exact moment you walked home and now… now it’s raining.
But not the slow, lazy kind of rain that makes you want to curl up on the couch with a book and a cup of tea. No, it’s raining like the sky is serving a sentence.
The wind howls like a dying animal, crushed under the weight of the storm, shaking the hedges and trees with force—something you find strangely hypnotic. The rain lashes fiercely against the kitchen window as you stare through them.
At least the house is quiet. You made yourself canned soup—the dinner of the desperate—and swallowed it standing up, leaning against the counter, without even turning on the TV.
Your cat weaves between your ankles, rubbing itself, searching for food to satisfy its greed.
You bend over and scratch behind its ear while pouring the contents of the wet food into the small ceramic bowl on the floor.
You were about to stand up and grab some dry food when a dull thud breaks the roar of the rain. Then another thump follows. The metallic clang of trash bins tipping over.
You freeze. It’s not the first time this has happened—there are raccoons and stray animals around, although lately they've been rare.
Slowly you set the can down on the trash and walk into the hallway. The government-issued rifle hangs above the door, not out of paranoia. From protection. From them.
It wasn’t an explosion. Nor an invasion or a scientific breakthrough, like in the movies.
It was a slow accumulation of evidence. An escalation of “isolated incidents” too similar to ignore. Unexplained disappearances. Blood-drained bodies, animals reduced to carcasses in the suburbs. And then the videos: grainy, shaky, filmed with cell phones in the dead of night. Eyes that glowed too bright in the dark, shadows moving against the laws of nature, and smiles full of fangs.
At first, it seemed like a prank. A joke.
Then they started arming themselves.
The creatures of the night—vampires, werewolves, spirits, hybrids never classified—had always existed, only they had known how to hide for centuries. But the era of total surveillance shattered that fragile balance. Technology had discovered them and humans, predictably, responded with fear.
And with fear came solutions. Special patrols, UV ray weapons, sacred barriers, identification serums.
And above all, the Custodians: government and paramilitary groups licensed to hunt, contain, or eliminate every anomaly.
Officially, it was for collective safety.
Unofficially, it was a cold war.
Because humans had never truly accepted that they were no longer the only species at the top, and the creatures of the shadows… had never truly forgotten what the world was like before.
So the government equipped the population with weapons to counter these creatures if needed, and the number of paranormal events drastically dropped.
Your fingers tighten around the rifle’s handle, and you load it with a familiar motion. The metallic click rings loudly in the stillness of the house.
You open the front door, and the cold, wet air hits you full force. You pull your jacket tighter around you, looking down the alley beside the house. The bins are overturned, the open bags spilling their contents across the driveway. The streetlamp’s light flickers in the rain, making everything blurry and trembling.
The distant sound of sirens piques your curiosity.
You take a step forward, stepping down from the porch, then freeze again.
At first, you don’t see it.
You hear it.
Another thud to your left. You look toward the small tool shed in the garden and frown. The door was closed.
Too well closed.
You know that door. It’s old, it sticks, and you always leave it ajar so you don’t have to force it every time you need a trowel or a bucket.
And despite the strong wind, it stayed magically shut.
You feel a chill slide down your back.
You advance with the rifle gripped tightly in your hands, the barrel pointed ahead as you move in that direction. Your heart pounds hard but your hands stay steady. You’ve learned to keep panic at bay.
The grass beneath your shoes is soggy from all the water; every step makes a wet squelch. Your breath condenses in front of your mouth.
When you reach the door, you press your ear to the wood but hear nothing. Not even a breath.
With a sharp motion, you fling the door open. The wood creaks and hits the inside of the shed, and in the confusion, you see eyes shining in the dark and something reflexively bolts forward.
The first shot rings out in the night, echoing, and hits the back of a tin barrel. You’re about to reload when you see him emerge from the shadows. Kneeling.
Hands raised, palms open, eyes wide.
“No! Please! Don’t shoot!”
At first, you think it’s just a homeless person, maybe a drug addict or drunk who ended up in your garden, but then, in the dim glow of the outside lights, you notice more.
The hands are long, the nails too sharp. The skin pale as wax, blotched with blood. The neck stiff, the jaw clenched as if trying to contain unspeakable pain. And the eyes. When he realizes you won’t shoot, he raises them just slightly. They are glossy behind the wet hair falling over his forehead, but a type of red that could only belong to one of them. A creature of the night. A vampire.
“Stop right there!” you shout, clicking the magazine threateningly. Your voice is sharper than the rain pelting down on you.
You see him bend slightly over himself, knees scraping the grass as he inches forward, letting out a wet, deep sound, like he’s drowning.
“I-I didn’t mean to frighten ya. There was nowhere else! I'd have left… I just wanted to hide 'til—” he stammers, shoulders tensing as the police lights begin to color the horizon red and blue. They had probably heard the shot.
You don’t let anxiety take hold and don’t look away from the dangerous creature before you. He’s on your property now, and who knows how long he’d been hiding in the shed. They would ask questions, interrogate you for hours.
As common as those creatures were, so were the people who protected and hid them. And the system certainly didn’t treat them differently once they found out.
“Shit…” you whisper, your finger trembling on the trigger.
“I beg ya. Let me stay 'til they're gone. I won’t harm ya…” he continues in a whisper so low you have to strain to hear, as if he fears the Custodians might hear even through the wind and rain. “I swear on everythin'… on everythin' I've got left. Please, just for tonight. Don’t tell them I’m here.”
Each word is a cough. When he tries to move, you see one leg visibly tremble. His voice breaks on a sob that doesn’t even sound human.
You swallow hard. Instinct tells you to shoot him, to finish him before the Custodians find him.
But looking at him—so broken, so different from every story you’d heard or seen about vampires—you wonder what you’re really seeing.
Not a predator. Not a monster, at that moment.
Just a being close to his end.
“Move.” You say, rifle raised. “Inside. Before they see you.”
He looks at you as if he doesn’t understand.
“What?”
“You heard me. Inside. Now.” The sirens in the distance are getting closer. Time is running out.
The creature drags himself, almost crawling. Each step a groan, a test of endurance. His legs barely hold him; his face is contorted in pain. When he crosses the threshold of your house, he collapses in the hallway, his back against the wall, the rug slowly stained by the blood leaking from his leg. He stays there, without even the strength to turn toward you.
You slam the door shut.
The lock clicks. Two turns. Then silence, almost.
Now the rain is just a muffled sound against the windows.
You feel droplets drip down your hair and neck but don’t bother brushing them away.
Out of the corner of your eye, you see your cat peek out from the kitchen and instantly flare up when it fixes its yellow eyes on the man. It emits a low, threatening hiss, like a little dragon. Its fur bristles and tail puffs before it leaps and disappears toward the bedroom as if it had seen the Devil himself.
The vampire barely lifts his face, cracked lips curling into something that might have been a smile.
“Looks like I've got a bit of charm for 'em.” He murmurs, voice trembling.
You don’t laugh. You don’t move. You don’t lower the weapon.
You still keep it pointed straight at his face.
“Don’t move.” You order. “At the slightest, I’ll put a bullet in your head.”
He doesn’t protest. Just nods slowly. Then a jolt bends him in two. A moan escapes his lips and he wraps his hands around his leg exactly where his pants tear, muttering something you don’t understand—maybe a curse or a prayer.
After a few seconds, you notice the trembling. Fingers twitching near the gunshot wound.
You take a deep breath and curse your conscience.
You turn without a word and head to the bathroom cabinet, where you keep an old first aid kit. Nothing serious: iron tweezers, sterile gauze, a couple of bandages, and discount disinfectant.
You bring everything back to the hallway, rifle clutched in one hand, and toss the small box toward him. The kit lands half a meter away, slides on the floor, and opens sideways, spilling some of its contents.
“That’s all I’ve got.” You spit.
The vampire leans forward and slowly reaches for the tweezers.
You watch him tear more at his pants, the fabric soaked with blood and water clinging to his skin, revealing the bullet’s entry wound still lodged in the flesh.
You almost turn away when he inserts the tweezers into the wound, but you don’t. You can’t.
The sound is wet, disgusting. He growls, his head hitting the wall, sharp teeth clenched to keep from screaming.
A bloody, steaming piece of metal falls to the floor with a dull clack. It must have been silver.
The tweezers land beside the bullet, and you hear him let out a big sigh of relief.
“Thank you…” he whispers.
You stare at him.
“Don’t thank me.”
You lean against the wall opposite him for some stability on your tired legs, watching the wound start to close, the blood stop seeping.
“Name's Remmick.”
You frown at his introduction but don’t return the courtesy.
Time passes.
You stay there, unmoving. Eyes glued to the figure collapsed on your hallway floor. The vampire seems to have stabilized. His eyes closed, occasionally moaning—a low, painful sound that scratches your ears like sandpaper.
You wanted to say you’d stay awake. You wanted to believe it.
But your body had other plans. You’d had an exhausting day and the adrenaline rush was wearing off; it had kept you standing so far, but now it was pulling all the accumulated fatigue down onto your body.
You drag yourself to the couch without ever looking away from him. You keep him in your sights even as you sit down. But your eyelids grow heavy, your eyes burn, and your heartbeat slows, irregular.
Just five minutes, you tell yourself.
Just one breath.
Then the night closes over you.
You wake up with a jolt.
A gasp. Your heart pounding like a hammer against your sternum. Short of breath.
Morning light slams against the windows, filtering faintly through tightly drawn curtains.
A pale, milky white. The rain has stopped, and the world is quiet.
Too quiet.
You sit up suddenly, your stomach clenched in a knot as you look around. The hallway is empty.
The vampire’s body is no longer there.
“For God's sakes.”
The word comes out like a gunshot, sharp and dry. You immediately reach for your neck, searching for bite marks, teeth, anything. Your fingers move across your skin—nothing.
You check your arms. Then your legs, lifting the edge of your pants slightly—again, nothing.
No marks, no bites, no punctures.
But the anxiety doesn’t fade.
You scan the room, searching for any trace. The carpet is still stained, bandages are scattered, and the forceps are still crusted with dried blood—clear signs that the previous night hadn’t been a nightmare.
Then, in the gleam of the light, a glint catches your eye. The rifle.
It’s neatly placed on the low table next to the couch where you’d been lying.
You didn’t leave it there. You had it with you, gripped tight, until sleep took you.
You snatch it up and check the magazine. Still full, the two bullets nestled inside.
Your hand trembles slightly. You wonder how many chances he had—and how many he ignored.
But more than anything: why?
An unmistakable clatter of pots reaches your ears.
You grip the rifle tighter and take cautious steps down the hallway, shoulders tense and eyes scanning every corner. The window in the hall is closed—but you don’t remember shutting it.
Your steps falter when a warm, salty scent wafts into the air, sliding under your nose: bacon.
And something else.
You turn the corner, tension braced for an ambush. And instead…
“Mornin' to ya, sweetheart.”
The voice greets you before the image does. So light and full of cheer it nearly makes your temples throb.
The vampire, Remmick, is there. Standing at your kitchen stove.
He’s still wearing the stained white t-shirt he tried to clean, and one of your aprons is tied around his waist. His hair, still damp, is awkwardly slicked back but sticks out in odd angles.
You stop at the threshold, almost paralyzed, slowly lowering the rifle to let it rest at your side. You can’t speak. Can’t even think.
Remmick smiles as he moves a piece of sausage from the pan to a plate on the set table.
“Had a look in yer fridge, found a few bits.” he says, briefly adjusting the flame under the scrambled eggs. “Thought ya might fancy a hot breakfast, y'know -after pullin' some poor bastard outta the fire last night.”
Your eyes scan the room, taking in every detail.
The two windows: both closed, sealed carefully against daylight. Even the small gap above the sink is covered with a dish towel taped in place. Only the bluish glow of the overhead lights illuminates the scene, preserving his safety zone.
“Ya were up before I even got the coffee sorted,” he adds, nodding toward a gently steaming mug on the counter. “Only had the instant stuff, sadly. Spotted the moka, yeah, but…I reckon yer outta proper grounds.”
You stare at him. Still silent. Your mind unable to fit this scene into any definition of “threat.”
Remmick slides the finished plate along the counter, placing it on the opposite side from where he stands. He watches you intently as you approach—his red eyes now replaced with wide, gray, puppy-like ones.
You pick up the plate and bring it closer to the stool.
“Thanks… I guess?”
His eyes shine with such open gratitude it’s almost painful to bear—and you’re certain that if he had a tail, he’d be wagging it.
You rest the rifle against the kitchen island, not willing to be too far from it, and sit down on the stool.
“You said your name’s Remmick, right?”
He nods, wiping his hands on the towel before untying it from his waist.
“Is there a reason they were after you?” you ask firmly. You see him smirk, but before he can speak, you add, “Besides the obvious,” motioning at his entire being with your fork.
The smile fades from his lips. Not all at once, but slowly, like a candle dying out.
He leans on the back of the chair in front of him and lowers his gaze, as if debating whether to lie.
“They sold me off.” he murmurs finally.
You raise an eyebrow. “Sold?”
He grimaces, like the word tastes bad in his mouth.
“A volunteer… one o' them folks who, well, y'know how it goes…”
Of course, you’d heard about them. Volunteers—humans who offered themselves willingly to the creatures of the night. But even that had been outlawed and prosecuted.
“The fuckin' Custodians jumped me 'fore I'd even physically step away from the lad.”
He lowers his eyes for a second and you think, for a moment, he regrets his wording as you grimace visibly.
“Haven’t laid a fang on anyone without askin' in donkeys' years, swear it.”
The kitchen is silent for a few seconds after his justification.
Then, the alarm explodes in your chest like a gunshot.
A sharp, repeating buzz vibrating against your thigh from your pocket.
You grab it—7:48 - Work
The weight of time crashes down on you suddenly, like you’d forgotten the outside world still exists.
You have a job to show up for, a life that—until yesterday—was made of routine and reassuring silence.
You jump up, ignoring the full plate and now-cold coffee.
You swing open the closet by the front door, yank down your coat, and slip it on in swift movements.
The keys jingle as you grab them from the hook.
Luckily, you hadn’t changed clothes the night before—you’re still in your work uniform.
As for hygiene, you’d freshen up later after handling the store’s incoming inventory.
Meanwhile, Remmick watches you—just outside the kitchen doorway, peeking down the hallway.
You turn to him and force your voice flat, emotionless.
“By the time I get back,” you say, adjusting your bag on your shoulder, “I don’t want to find you here.”
You see his shoulders drop by a millimeter. When he opens his mouth to speak, you turn, open the door, and leave.
Morning and afternoon drag on, marked by the ticking clock above the register and the dull clatter of empty carts.
You sort the shipments quickly, serve customers with your usual professionalism, and close the till.
You watched the sun start to set behind the buildings of the industrial zone, casting dirty gold streaks across the windows and signs.
Sounds became muffled, and by 7 PM, you flipped the sign to CLOSED.
The walk home is always the same: four blocks, a downhill slope, two intersections.
The asphalt is still wet from last night’s rain, small puddles scattered here and there.
You slide the key into the lock and the door creaks as you push it with your shoulder.
Your hands are full—the bag, the keys, a crumpled sack from the corner store where you picked up coffee grounds and dinner.
You expect silence. Emptiness. Maybe a note on the table saying goodbye.
Instead…
The hallway, where last night there were footprints, blood, and mud, is spotless. The carpet is gone and the floor gleams, faintly scented with alcohol and soap.
You lower the grocery bag just inside the door and step into the living room.
You see him before you even cross the threshold.
There. Sitting on the floor by the cold fireplace.
He glances at you out of the corner of his eye but says nothing.
“I told you to leave.”
You’re tired. So very tired.
“Yeah, I know” Remmick lifts his chin slightly but stays seated. “You did.”
The silence that follows is thick, full of unsaid things. But he breaks it quickly.
With soft, cracked words, turning onto his knees.
“I cleaned up the whole place. Set things straight. Blankets folded, all that. Even had a gander at the sink trap—it leaks a bit, but nothin' serious.”
You squint at him. You don’t care about the sink. Not now.
“You’re still here,” you repeat. It’s an accusation, not an observation.
Remmick shifts slightly, his gaze dropping back to the floor.
“Please,” he says. “Just let me stay. Not askin' for much. I can… I can lend a hand. Clean, keep an eye on the place when you’re out. Whatever ya need.”
You take a few steps closer.
You didn’t bring the rifle—but you feel like you could summon it with a thought, if needed.
“You’re asking me to take you in like a stray dog?”
“Jeez, darlin', I'll be whatever ya want. A bloody pet. A shadow in the corner. A dusty armchair -don't matter. I’ve nowhere else. Nowhere safe.”
You look into his dark pupils, those irises just a little too deep to be human. There’s pleading in them, yes—but something worse, too.
Abandonment.
You know creatures like him—vampires, especially—have perfected persuasion as a weapon. They sell pity and weakness when it suits them, and their instincts never truly sleep.
They’re hungry, unstable.
Lies with legs.
Remmick looks at you. He doesn’t get up.
And silently, without another word—but sealing your decision—you head to the kitchen to put something in your stomach before hunger makes you faint.
Against all odds, the cohabitation went well. The days began to blur
together, like water slipping through your fingers. Every morning you woke up with a light pressure on your feet, and from that you knew Remmick was back.
He never talked about where he went at night. You had explicitly told him that if he killed someone you would not protect him again so you hoped he would respect this wish of yours.
He would leave quietly, shortly after you had fallen asleep, and return before the first light of day filtered through the tightly drawn curtains in the living room. You would find him curled up at your feet, immobile, as if he had never moved from there.
Your cat, who had his place of honor on the pillow next to yours, still seemed very wary of him and hissed every time he tried to stretch out on that side of the bed, making him take a step back and return to your feet. All this with some grumbling of displeasure from the vampire.
Instead, you got used to his presence as you get used to the constant noise of an old boiler: annoying at first, then strangely reassuring.
You began to ask his opinions, to organize movie nights on lighter days, to take long walks in the nearby park (reassured by his presence that would certainly ward off any other predators).
Every now and then, when you got close enough, you felt his icy fingers brush the inside of your wrist or any point he managed to reach and he would stare at you. Those eyes, which had something
bestial, but also desperate.
And as your attitude towards him changed, his gestures changed too. He became more… attentive. More present. More fixed.
One day you found him outside your shop, waiting for you under a streetlight after closing. He didn’t say anything, he ran to you and stood next to you as you closed the shutter, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And from that day on, it was like that every night, when the sun was low enough for him to come out.
He watched you finish your shift. In silence.
From that day on, you started to notice strange things. When you talked to some customer for too long outside the shop at closing time, Remmick seemed to… change. His eyes became dark,
shiny, like wet glass. If you laughed at someone’s comment, his hands twitched a little, closing into tight fists. But he didn’t say anything.
When the person disappeared, his true self returned. With that crooked smile and the stories of his day or what TV show he had found, scrolling a bit.
As a result, you never felt in danger. It was disturbing, sure. But you had gotten used to it. It had become part of your routine, like canned soup or cat biscuits.
That is, until the fateful day that changed everything came.
It wasn’t a date. Not officially.
He had been one of those regulars, the kind who always cracks the right joke and leaves you a few extra coins in the tip jar. When you explained that you were busy, he had smiled, almost amused, and suggested a drink after your shift. A drink, nothing more.
And so you had accepted. You hadn’t even had time to let Remmick know. The man had shown up at your shop door a few hours early and since your boss was already in there, you asked him if he could let you finish early that day. You had intended to have a quick drink and then go home, before the sun went down.
But that wasn’t to be.
When you come back, hours later, the sky is already dark and the air smells of wet earth. You open the door without making too much noise, but you see him right away. There. Standing in the hallway, as if he’s been staring at the door the whole time.
“Where were ya?” he asks softly. But his voice is too calm to be forced.
“At work.” You say, taking off your coat. “I left a little early. A customer offered me a drink and—”
Remmick approaches instantly. He’s a few steps away from you before you can finish speaking. His eyes swipe over you, your hands, your neck, your face. He touches your arm, then your shoulders, as if to make sure you’re okay.
“Are ya alright?” he murmurs. “Did someone…do ya harm?”
You look at him, confused. “No. I'm okay.”
But you see the exact moment he changes.
The smell. The smell of that man.
Remmick can smell it inches from your face. The cologne, strong, invasive. He tracks it with his nose, almost sniffing the air. Then he stops, his nostrils quivering.
His eyes flash red. And he stares at you.
“Who was it?” He whispers, his voice scratchy. “Who laid a hand on ya?”
“Remmick…”
“It’s on ya. Here-” he says, brushing your hair, “-and here…” His hand lingers just below your ear, the exact spot where your skin still feels warmest. “He put his mouth here, didn't he now?”
Your heart races. You take a half step back, but Remmick follows you. Not with anger. With hunger.
He kneels slowly in front of you, and his face comes close to your stomach, rubbing it against the material of your shirt making you swallow loudly. His hands move up your thighs and as he stands again he makes sure that his body rubs against yours until it reaches under your chin.
You feel his breath on you, against the column of your naked neck.
You don’t know what to do. Your brain is confused, you don’t recognize the creature in front of you.
“I've to… get it off ya.” He continues. “I can’t bear the stink of it. I don’t want it lingerin' on ya, not a trace.”
He gently brings you against the piece of furniture in the hallway and you, dazed by that mixture of desire and anxiety, let him do it. The edge pushes painfully against your back until his hands close on your hips again and lifts you up to sit on it as if you didn’t weigh a gram.
Remmick slides between your legs before you can close them, his body leaning on yours.
“I… I can go wash myself if it bothers you…” you add, pressing your palms on his shirt-covered chest to maintain distance and making him growl.
His hands leave your body only to rest on the sides of the furniture, blocking your way out as your breath catches in your throat when his face comes inches from yours.
“How fuckin' dare they lay a finger on ya…” He whispers, and when he speaks, his voice is broken by something more animalistic.
His face bends on your neck, slightly up, and there, right where he had felt the other’s mark, his lips open.
You slide a hand into his hair, ready to pull with all your strength before he bites you but instead of the stinging pain of his teeth, you only feel a slow, wet caress, which makes you gasp involuntarily.
Your grip on his head loosens and you hear him sigh, his breath hot against your wet skin. Even though his body temperature is still a few degrees cooler than normal, the way he touches you burns.
His hands move again, closing on the sides of your waist and gently pushing forward until his hips are flush with yours. There’s no urgency in the gestures, but no slowness either. He’s clearly driven by a certain need that goes beyond the body.
“I still feel it…It's still clingin' to ya, love.” His voice is plaintive and he brushes you behind the ear with another slow lick, as if he wants to erase every trace of the other’s passage with his tongue.
“You have no notion how much it hurts. It's like fire on my skin, knowin' someone even looked at ya… thought about ya… touched ya…”
He leans down again, his lips landing on your neck with sick adoration, while one hand slips under your sweater, resting against your belly, his forehead laze on yours, shaking.
“I don’t just want to have ya…” he whispers against the skin of your shoulder. “I want to belong to ya. Yours to toss aside, break if you must, use as you will. And when someone so much as looks at ya, I want them to know -I’m there. Always there. And you’re mine.”
The sound he makes when your fingers close slightly in his hair sends a jolt of pleasure to the center of your core and makes you inadvertently grind against him, earning another hiss of need from him.
You feel it. Hard, hot, against your pants-covered lower parts, and when you use that hardness to find a moment of relief, he bites your shoulder lightly but without breaking the skin.
His chest rests against yours, holding you still but not imprisoned.
You are free, you could push him away. But you don’t.
And he knows it.
“Tell me ya want it too…” he whines, pressing against you insistently and making you tense when he presses just right but not enough. “That's it's not just pity. That ya want to keep me. That ya want me here. Always.”
His eyes, red now, search for you, while you’re distracted taking from him, lit by a feverish light.
“Let me stay, baby. Let me be the one who keeps ya safe. The one who warms your bones. Let me be the shadow, trailin' after ya. The beast lyin' at your feet. The lover in your bed.”
Then, lower, with that desperate tone that makes your insides twist:“Let me be yours, for fuck's sake…please.”
And that’s the last straw.
You tilt his face at a comfortable angle and press your lips against his, forcefully. Your tongue invades his mouth but Remmick responds with the same ardor, intertwining his tongue with yours.
His hand, firm on your belly, begins to move up under your shirt, making its way with trembling fingers, as if he were touching something sacred. Every inch of your skin lights up under him. He moves like a man who is thirsty and the only source of water is you.
“Do ya even know what ya are to me now?” He asks you with a thick voice as his lips separate from yours and pass over your chest, still dressed. “The poison...and the cure, both.”
You almost laugh at his dramatic nature but swallow it when the sweater is the first piece to be discarded, leaving you under his heated and supernatural gaze. It’s all there: the adoration, the longing, but above all that silent madness that scared you the first time and now… tightens your stomach in a vice that you can’t untangle.
He bends over your breast, taking it between his lips and clenching his teeth on the small bud in the center, making you arch against him.
The hand that isn’t busy holding your breast ventures under your pants—which you hadn’t even noticed he’d opened—and his fingers slide between your soaked folds, pinching your clit between them.
You let out a meow that makes him growl. It’s a hoarse sound that slides slowly down with him, he grabs the waistband of your pants to slide them down your legs and leaves you naked under his hungry gaze.
“Look at yourself, darlin'. Is all this for me?” His tongue flattens against your wetness, gathering it as it passes and, as if the first taste had gone to his head, he dives headfirst between your legs, devouring you completely.
“Fuck…you’re an idiot…” you moan, pressing yourself as close as possible to his mouth that closes on your delicate mound.
You feel his fingers wet with your own pleasure, pressing against your entrance and pushing in effortlessly, pumping forcefully in and out to draw as many sounds as possible from your lips.
He licks you with unnatural slowness, rhythmically, as if it were an ancient ritual.
Just when you feel your orgasm reaching you, his fingers and mouth move away from you. His lips return up. He kisses your belly, your chest, your throat, until he returns to your face. His red eyes burn into yours.
“What are you-?”
“Let me do it.” He stops you, as he brings one of your hands to the fly of his pants. Your fingers, until then useless, close around his clothed erection, making him shudder and whine. “Let me fuck you, darlin'. Let that sweet pussy tighten 'round my cock.”
His face bends to yours, his nose running along your jaw, like a dog asking for a firmer caress. And you give it to him.
You undo his belt in one swift motion and unzip his zipper with a slowness that could have killed the most patient man.
When your fingers capture his erection you let his weight rest against your palm, smearing your palm with his precum and pump down once to test the length and width. Remmick moans against your cheek and pushes against your hand, the tip brushing your inner thigh.
You curve your lips into a smirk.
“Do you think you deserve to fuck this pussy, Remmick?”
Remmick pulls back to look at you, surprised by your tone but definitely delirious, his mouth slightly open, revealing traces of small fangs.
“…No.”
You frown as you twist your wrist, gripping it harder, but he continues.
“Shit…no, I don’t reckon I deserve this.”
His hips snap forward and you almost lose your grip when he comes so incredibly close to your entrance, leaving a trail of liquid.
“But I swear…I could spend me whole life tryin' to earn it. Every day. Every bleedin' night. With all that's in me.”
He brushes his lips against your forehead, submissive and feverish.
“Go ahead, then.” You slide the tip of his erection against your pussy lips, wetting them with your own arousal, his hands closing on your hips, and you tilt him toward your entrance. “Make me yours.”
You feel his breath hitch and then he does.
He takes you.
It’s not a human sound, much less an animal one, that he lets out when he enters you completely, without giving you a second to get used to the stretch. You accept it with a hiss of pain, tightening your legs around his pelvis.
You’re not surprised when he pulls back slowly, your walls closing in on him as if to keep him in place, and then he sinks in deeply again, establishing a punishing rhythm. The piece of furniture you’re leaning against bangs against the wall and for a moment you pray that he doesn’t create a hole.
Every thrust is an oath. Every whine, a broken soul that offers itself to you without asking for anything in return but yourself.
“Ah… fuck… you’re…” and he never finishes the sentence. The words blur with his breathing and need so he kisses you violently and sweetly at the same time, his tongue moving in your mouth with the same rhythm with which his body sinks into yours. He clings to you as if you could save him, and destroy him at the same time.
As his hips begin to wobble, you feel two fingers press against your clit, curling your toes and digging your heels into Remmick’s back.
You move your face away from his to get more air in your lungs as your orgasm hits you hard, making you see stars.
Your tight channel grips his erection and you hear him moan in your ear as he comes inside you, murmuring your name like a plea, his hands still gripping your hips, almost afraid you might vanish beneath him.
And as he tucks his head between your shoulder and neck, nuzzling his nose against the column of your throat with a contented sigh, you realize it’s not just possession.
Hello Loves!!! Thank you for the support on my recent Remmick series! The next chapter (and the last for this particular part) will be updated probably by the end of this week! I’ve gone back to work now that my college semester is over but I’ll try to update soon! (spoiler alert it’s going to be EXTREMELY smutty) there will be at least one more part of the story that I’m already planning so stay tune for that!!
Lastly! Please answer my poll so I know what to work on next❤️
Stories you’d like! (All Remmick x Reader but I’m open to Poly with Stack, Bo,or Mary (mainly vampires lol))
(Warnings! This work contains references to suicide, period-typical racism and sexism, as well as mentions of the KKK!)
Amongst the hanging herbs and the glittering crystals of your home, loneliness sank into the very air. It had been five days since you kicked Remmick out. Leo wandered between rooms, meowing a call that remained unanswered.
You didn't cry, although sometimes you felt you would from the sheer loneliness you felt. Annie came by after you missed a market trip, and you couldn't explain your distance or your melancholy. It seemed so silly when confronted by your sister, whose own grief was so much more real than yours.
“Sun’s gonna set soon,” Annie observed with one hand held out to block the light of the sun from her eyes. Five days ago, you would have settled into Remmy’s room with Leo resting on the bed and your grimoire in your hands. When the sun was gone, you would have opened the shutters and cracked the window for your little crow to feel the breeze.
“Go on home. Nothing good comes out at night.” You remind her. Annie smiles like she's thinking you finally understand her worries, and she kisses your forehead, which brings tears to your eyes. She doesn't see them as she leaves, and you're so thankful she didn't notice it.
Leo lay on the dining table; you watched the pink sunset glow against him. Sitting with your head on your knees, you closed your eyes for a fleeting moment. When you opened them again, it was night.
“I ain’t scared of the dark,” you begin to talk, wondering if Leo will listen like Remmy did. “I love the night and the moon. Why should a creature of the night be any different?” You ask, but Leo doesn't respond; he doesn't even look at you, the damned cat.
“I ain’t never been lonely. I never missed Benny boy or Annie or anybody when I was alone. So why would I miss some silly bird?” Pure frustration filled your tensed muscles. Maybe it was the understanding in his eyes, or the specific little gifts he left you, but for some reason, you felt seen for the first time since your mother passed.
Even after you tossed him to the curb, he still came back. Never knocking on the door or trying to get your attention, he left gifts instead. Bundles of rosemary on Tuesday and quartz from the river on Wednesday. Thursday, it was a group of colorful rocks. Friday, he left mourning glories, and Saturday, it was a brand new copy of The Conjure Man Dies by Rudolph Fisher.
Each gift more meaningful than the last. He knew you, not because you willingly told Remmick, but because you bared your soul to Remmy. You hated the feeling of anger, it coursed through you like poison. Remmy was more than a bird; he was a demon of night, and he had willingly deceived you just to learn the most intimate parts of your life and the things you wouldn't even tell your sister.
Tap, Tap, Tap.
Nobody knocked on your door at night or during the day. He didn’t have to knock, not after you had given him a permanent welcome to your home, even though you had done it under false notions. Still, you were glad that he gave you simple respect, so you opened the door.
“I could fix ya’ car.” Remmick’s hair was neater than when you kicked him out. Most importantly, he was clothed. His pale frame was covered by a light blue button-up shirt with sleeves rolled to his forearms. Navy blue jeans looked nice on him, so did the belt he cinched around his hips and the suspenders he added purely as an accessory. “I know you ain’t got that boy to fix it no more. Figured it’s the least I can do.”
You laughed, “What would you know about cars?” To be fair, he had a physique similar to Benny and the other town mechanics. Strong frame, not as imposing as the farmers, but just as capable. He didn’t seem as sheepish or timid as he did when you last saw him. There was an ease to the way he leaned against your porch, potentially a facade.
“Been around since they made 'em. Did some work as a mechanic for a while back in the day.” He shrugged, naturally reminding you that this man was not like you. Though he appeared to be in his late 20s to early 30s, there was something much older in his eyes and his mannerisms—an ancient being masquerading as a boy.
“I’ll let ya’ try. Doesn’t mean you get to come in.” You retort, reminding him that he is a stranger to you. “I ain’t forget what you did and I damn sure haven’t forgiven you.” He nodded slowly as if he was trying to show his understanding. Without turning your back on him, you scurried back inside, locking the door.
An hour passed, and you weren't even sure if Remmick was still outside. You changed into your white chiffon nightgown before letting Leo out to use the restroom and wander the grounds. Taking a seat on the porch swing, you caught sight of Remmick, suspenders falling from his shoulders and dirt covering his pants. He had found the toolbox you kept in the back seat; it wasn’t yours to keep, truth be told.
“Figured you’d given up by now,” you hollered from the porch. Remmick would have heard your euphonic voice even if it were mumbled under your breath. His slightly pointed ears perked up, grinning as he sauntered over to the porch. So enraptured with the soft lines of your face, he hadn’t noticed the thin fabric of your nightgown until you were right in front of him.
“Well, I-I couldn't leave ya’ without a car,” his breath hitched at the sight of you, and his words stumbled out clumsily. In truth, he never lustfully considered your body. Even when he climbed into your bed at night, he was obsessed with the honeyed tone of your voice, your sparkling eyes, your soft and rich skin, and the way your curls fell around your face. The curves of your body were unfamiliar to him, but suddenly they were invading his mind.
“Remmick, your drooling.” His blue eyes, pupils blown wide and dark, shot up to your lips. Blood that was not his own rushed to his face and brought a bright red flush to his cheeks and ears. Quickly, he wiped the beady pearls of his saliva away from his chin. It entranced you, reminding you that this man was a predator, animalistic and primal.
“Are you…hungry?” Your eyes searched for Leo, begging him to return so you could go inside. The tabby cat was below you, standing at Remmick's side and brushing against his jeans—a fur-covered traitor.
“Nah. I ate earlier, sugar.” For a minute, his words felt casual, like he ate the same dinner as you, and not the blood of his prey.
“How did you eat the berries and nuts? When you were a crow.” Remmick thought for a moment, not as though he were crafting a lie but more like he was trying to explain. He inched up the stairs, making his way closer to you.
“When I was turned, my creator drained me of all my life's blood.” Remmick began, deliberately closing the distance between you two until he was directly in front of you as you sat on your swing.
“I don’t have blood of my own; that's why I have to take it from others.” You ignored the pang in your heart that came from the grimace on his face. “When I drink blood, it flows through my veins, and for a few hours, it's like being human again. I have a heartbeat, the ability to taste food and all that human shit. Blood powers damn near everything in the body, without it we’re just shells.” He shrugged his shoulders, “At least that's what it’s like for me.”
“It only lasts hours?” You couldn't imagine the misery of not being able to taste all the delicious food in the world. You’d die without Annie's famous fried fish.
“Depends. When you found me, I’d sucked two humans dry, filled my veins for a few days. Without new blood, the old dries up and everything’s useless again.” You expected disgust or hatred to curl in your stomach, but it never came. How could you blame him for surviving when you would probably do the same? You don’t ask for further details, right now you understand enough, and one thing is clear: Remmick did not choose this life.
“So what do ya’ think?” You inquired, slightly nodding towards the red Cadillac. Remmick misses the movement; his eyes are focused on the way your hands curl against your gown. He looked up, examining you from the roots of your hair to your bare feet.
“I like it.” He retorted.
“Talkin’ bout the car, Remmick.” He looks back at the Cadillac.
“Oh, it should be good. Just needed to adjust the motor.” You nodded along, not understanding the more technical terms he started to use, but it was nice listening to him explain it. Clearly, he knew what he was talking about. He motioned for you to follow him, and reluctantly, you made your way to the car as he started it to confirm it was working properly.
“Seems good.” You hesitate when he leaves the front seat and stands in front of you. “Suppose we could talk on the porch if you had any groveling or apologizing ya’ wanted to do. ” For an unknown reason, you felt the need to let him explain himself. You didn't regret kicking him out; it was the safest thing to do, but his constant attempts at forgiveness were enough to make you want to hear him out.
The two of you sat together, the porch swing once felt so big when you snuggled into your mother's side, now it felt crowded as if you were practically sitting on Remmick's lap. You didn’t realize the closeness it would bring. If he felt uncomfortable, he didn't say or show it.
Dying to fill the silence, you open your mouth to find words, but Remmick beats you to it. “ I was tryna’ get away from some dangerous people.” He hesitated, trying to choose the best parts of the story to tell without scaring you away. “They wanted to kill me, but naturally, I deserved it. Not all my kind can shapeshift, you gotta be stronger and older than the rest. I know I'm older than most.” He chuckled, a low and joyless sound.
“Don’t know why I can do it besides, only thing I can turn to is a crow.” Remmick looked off, watching the property line like a spooked animal. Leo bounded back up the stairs and jumped right into Remmick's lap, casually affectionate.
Absentmindedly, Remmy stroked the cat's fur as though it were the most natural thing to do. His navy blue eyes still examined the forest. You could never keep track of what color they would be next, but you were starting to understand. At his weakest, most human moments, his eyes were naturally blue. Still, you didn't know what to make of the changes.
“Think they shot at me with silver bullets, one must have clipped me because I could only go so far before falling.” Remmick ran a hand along his previously injured shoulder. “Was tryna crawl deeper into the woods. Then you found me, I’m mighty thankful for ya. I woulda’ve died out there.” His strong hand rakes through Leo’s dark fur, and the cat stretches his paws out as he soaks in the attention.
“I was too weak to turn back, but when I got better, I started sneaking out to feed,” Remmick explained everything as if he were teaching you basic English. There was a familiarity between the two of you, despite your eagerness to ignore it. Sitting on the porch together reminded you of late nights with a good friend.
“Why come back if you were healed? Why’d you leave all those gifts?” You asked, finding the questions easier than asking why he crawled into your bed dressed down to his underwear. He didn't speak for a while. With a Gallic shrug, he let the air go silent. You let him think, listening to the black field crickets and the occasional purr from Leo.
“I thought the gifts were pretty, reminded me of you,” He began slowly, testing the boundary of what you would let him say. “As far as why I came back, I wanted to—never had a pretty girl takin’ care of me. And you're so damned smart; listening to you talk was the highlight of my day. Guess I took a liking to you.”
Brazenly, you tugged at one of his suspenders, trying to get him to look at you. He did so, slowly turning to meet your playful gaze. His eyes appeared glossy, desperate for something in the same way Remmy’s eyes had so often looked. “For what it’s worth, I took a liking to you, too. In crow form, that is.” You pull a soft laugh from him as he places a contemplative finger on his lips.
“Perhaps, you could like the human side too? If ya’ got to know 'em.” Remmick's voice was unsure, feeble like the first call he made when you found him injured in the woods. Everything you learned was screaming at you to get rid of him. He’d confessed to being a vampire; he was something monstrous, the very creatures Annie had warned you about.
Still, he was Remmy. The little crow that listened to you attentively and left you gifts that proved you had captured his attention. His presence made you realize you were lonely out here, even though you liked to pretend you weren’t. You wondered if your eyes mirrored the same desperation that his did.
“I could,” You began slowly, torturing the man for fun.“If you were to promise not to hurt me, because if you tried, I’d have to hurt you back, and it’s damned hard to get blood out of clothes.” He nodded vigorously, his eyes wide like you were giving him a gift, something more precious than just your reluctant words.
“Wouldn't hurt ya’. Never even thought of it.” He promised like he had something to prove, like his life was on the line.
The eagerness he held was strange to you. Nobody had ever craved your attention, even the boys who tried to convince you to marry them were only after the prize of having you on their arm for show.
To them, you were just a pretty girl with a good enough income, but to Remmick, you were something to yearn for. He might kill you, might tear your throat out and leave you drained. His fanged canines promised this, but his eyes told a different story.
“Got work in the morning,” He knew this, he remembered your schedule. “I wouldn’t mind a certain boy coming back tomorrow. Preferably, at sundown. Any later and I might forget he exists.” You stood from the swing, bending down to pull Leo from Remmick’s lap. His eyes trailed the dip of your nightgown, and he swallowed hard when your fingers brushed against his thighs to pick up the sleeping cat.
“I-I’m sure he wouldn't mind that either.” Remick stuttered, lifting one leg over the other in an attempt to hide his lap. You didn’t notice. With Leo securely clutched to your chest, you used your elbow to push the screen door open. Without a goodbye, you closed the door, resting Leo onto the dining table so you could lock the front door.
Remmick didn't move for nearly an hour. His head fell back against the wall, his long pale neck bared before the moonlight. I’m no child, he reminded himself. I am older than most who walk the earth.
He couldn't explain the weak feeling in his knees or the way he constantly felt bested by you. The ancient vampire was no stranger to women; he was married once before, and he’d had a history of lovers, human and of his kind. Still, he was a stranger to genuine feelings that did not derive from lust or physical desire.
Remmick finally leaves, wandering away from your porch desperately trying to figure out the feeling that settles in his chest like an anchor tethering him to you.
True to his word, Remmick broke through the tree line just as the sun fell away from the sky. You were back on the porch swing, with Leo lying at your side. The first thing the vampire noticed was the length of your hair, wet from a recent bath and longer than usual. Your scent hit him as he climbed the wooden steps, vanilla and lilies.
“You sittin’ out here waiting for me, sugar?” Try as you might, you couldn’t deny it. You sped home from work, made dinner as fast as you could, and took a long bath in vanilla extract and essential oils. You told yourself you would do it for anyone, just trying to look nice for a friend.
“Might be.” You teased, smoothing the lines of your skirt. His hands traced your movements. The outfit you wore was delicate. He’d seen you in it before, a white sweater-blouse with a high-waisted linen skirt and a black belt, more appropriate than your nightgown, but pretty all the same. Everything looked beautiful on you, he figured it was you who made it so.
“Where do you go when you ain’t with me?” It was a question you pondered all day.
“Ain’t been in Missippi long enough to start a new life yet. I just came down from North Carolina. Got hurt on my third day in this damn place.” There was humor in his words, like he was used to the odds being stacked against him. “Usually, I find an abandoned home outside the town. Fix it up, get a simple job, and stay for as long as I can before the town notices all the missing folks and that I don’t age like them.”
“Do you make friends?” Remmick tilted his head, similar to the crow’s behavior, and he pondered your question as if it were something so confusing that he’d never thought of it. You imagined it was nice at times, traveling around and being someone new. You also imagined that it got tiring.
“I’ve made a few. Made some of 'em like me. Rare I meet another one of' my kind, but the friends I’ve turned are always with me, and I’m with them.” He tapped the side of his head, showing you where his friends were. “We all travel around, sometimes we meet. I don’t mind being alone, though. Grown accustomed to it.”
“I thought I was, too.” The ‘before you’ hangs heavy in the air. You didn’t mean to voice it aloud, but you couldn't help it.
“What, bout that fiancée of yours…boony?” Remmick asked.
“It’s Benny,” you correct. “I loved him, well enough. I couldn't balance my grieving sister and a needy fiancé, so I called it off. Not sure I would have been happy as his wife.”
Leo hops off the swing, stretching his arms out as Remmick steals his spot. The leg space you had disappears, but before you can throw them over the edge of the swing, Remmick takes the underside of your knees and lifts your legs onto his lap. He doesn't mind the weight on him; in fact, he seems to like it.
You're stunned for a moment, but you won’t let him get the best of you. Sighing contentedly, you lean back into the porch swing until your thighs lie atop Remmicks, and your head lies on the armrest. You enjoy the way Remmick looks down at you and forces himself to look away.
“Mama always said a woman's duty was to her husband and children.” You watch Leo roll around in the dirt. “Don’t need none of that. She had a husband, and it killed her. She had me, and I couldn't even save her. I've got Leo, maybe he can be my only son.” Remmick laughs with you, a melody forming between the two of you.
“You’re a good mother. Leo’s nothin’ but fat and happy.” It was nice to have someone who would agree with your little fantasy world, where you didn’t have to marry and your cat could be your son.
“What about you? Didn’t think I noticed the ring on ya finger? Figure you have a wife and kids somewhere. Little vampires, perhaps?” As you observe him, Remmick gently tugs your skirt back into place, pulling it from where it's slipped up your thighs down to where it's meant to be at your ankles. He places his left hand right above your knee, the hand bearing his golden wedding band.
“Had a wife once. No kids, thankfully. Don’t know if I coulda’ve made it a thousand years as a father to little ones.” You make a mental note of that; he’s older than you originally thought. Still, you relax further into him as he taps his ring finger against your knee. “Liadan, that was my wife's name. Don’t remember what she looks like; it was arranged anyhow. She was a kind girl, didn’t fit well with me. I’ve always been a lil’ wild. Ain’t the proper way to behave.”
“Fuck propriety.” Your laugh startles him; he wasn't expecting it. “The best people aren’t always well behaved.” Danger encourages you to wink at him; you do it without hesitation. It’s funny to watch him squirm, his Adam's apple bobs, you wonder if he's trying not to drool again. You think he might eat you, yet you’re not afraid.
“Benny boy, that’s what the town calls him, he wanted a wife like the bible talks about. He didn’t want no witch and sure didn’t want no sinner.” The moon caresses your face, edging you on as you slip into a more casual way of speaking. “Ben liked me in the sunlight when everything had to be done a certain way. Told me he was gonna keep me from the dark, and it made me feel sick.”
“You’re gorgeous at night.” Remmick bites his tongue, shocked at his own words. “Sure, you're beautiful in the sunlight too, but you're made for this,” he gestures towards the darkness around you, lit only by a pale glow. “Thought you were an angel the night you found me. You were glowing like one, lookin’ like sweet death.”
Speaking like a poet yet refusing to meet your eye, Remmick was glad that he had not fed yet, or else you would have seen a flush on his face and potentially felt him poking against your legs. His thumb brushed the fabric of your skirt, circling the space below your thigh. He bites the soft skin of his lip, hard. Sick delight courses through you, entranced by the sheepish way Remmick avoids your gaze.
“Crows are known to be gift bringers. They like giving shiny things, and they never forget a slight or kindness.” It’s so random, so uniquely you, that he throws his head back and laughs. A real, genuine laugh, showing his fangs and closing his eyes.
Despite his reaction, you continue, “They hold funerals and mourn their dead. Most importantly, they form bonds; it's not always exclusive, but sometimes, if they are lucky, they find the right one and mate for life.” You’re not sure if he remembers it, but last night he questioned why his second form was a crow. After talking to him, you feel you've figured it out.
“You’re so precious, sugar.” Remmick reaches out to push stray curls out of your face. You flinch back at first, gripping his wrist with your nails until you see the kind light in his dark eyes. From his sculpted jaw to his curved nose, you never paid too much attention to how naturally handsome he is. It’s subtle, but when you notice the curve of his lips and the strength of his neck, you feel compelled to let him do as he pleases. Cautiously, you release his wrist so that he can touch your curls.
Remmick's thin, shapely eyebrows curl up like he’s in pain, but he smiles all the same. His hand doesn't leave you; he cups your cheek within his palm. You notice that his eyes are dark again, shining obsidian. You reach out to take his hand within your own, but he pulls back. Gently, but rushed, he places your feet back on the porch and stands, moving away from you.
“You've got work in the morning!” He shakes his head like he's waking from a trance. “ Sleep well, Lassie!” You look down at Leo, scratching at the screen door, when you look back up, Remmick is gone.
(Warnings! This work contains references to suicide, period-typical racism and sexism, as well as mentions of the KKK, plus I take elements from other vampire lore (ex; shapeshifting)
(Title from the song That Thing Called Love by Mamie Smith, considered the "First Lady of the Blues". The song is also referenced in this, and she is an incredible woman!)
“Promise me you’ll take your bag!” Annie places the finishing touches on the amulet, blowing out the candles she lit around the house. She was rushing to get it done before nightfall, but she was a mere minute too late. You watched the sunset from her window; the colorful glow made the world appear hopeful.
“Don’t talk to strangers and don't let anybody in.” Annie chided as she tied the mojo bag around your neck. She was always suspicious of the dark, and when you told her you walked to her place from your own, she practically begged you to spend the night. You refused, reminding her your cat was waiting for you and he wouldn't take kindly to missed meals.
“I ain’t a little girl anymore, Ann! I know all about the creatures of the night.” With gentle hands, you adjusted the delicate bag around your neck. “Few folks have called me one from time to time.” Annie laughed at that, finally relaxing as you headed for the door.
“I'd better be seeing you tomorrow! We’ve got shopping to do.” Your sister was strange in her affection. She was not used to expressing her love with words of comfort. Often, it came in the form of actions and commands. “Don’t forget. Farmers market at two pm!”
You waved her off, sensing her follow you outside, where she stood watching as you made your way to the tree line. “Bye, Annie!” You shouted, waltzing into the woods, sticking to the manmade path that you knew by heart. When you looked back, Annie was gone, and the trees were blocking your view of her little house.
The moon lit your path as she always did. You would never tell anyone, but during these walks, you enjoyed talking to her. She listened with an open heart, and you often found yourself performing for her.
There were nights when you repeated poetry or lines from your latest reading. On nights like this, when the woods were more comforting than imposing, you liked to sing. Softly at first, then the memory of your mother singing in her kitchen came over you, and you sang louder. Gliding down the path with a rhythmic swing in your hips.
“ Now I want somebody, please.
To cure me of my love disease.”
Music came naturally to you. It was rooted so deeply into your childhood that it seeped out of you at every given chance. You weren’t like Sammy, Annie's cousin through marriage, who could sing in front of a crowd of thousands. That kind of talent was rare, but as you sang aloud, you figured the moon must be pleased, for she glows brighter than before, like a beacon guiding you home.
“That thing called love will make you sit and sigh.
That thing called love that money cannot buy.”
A sudden noise, like leaves crunching beneath someone's feet, startles you into silence. The handgun at your thigh feels tempting as you pat it, waiting for someone to jump from the trees. The sound comes again, but this time it's accompanied by the call of a bird, albeit tinier and weaker than any bird you've ever heard.
Inching onto the path is a black bird, dragging half its body with a lone clawed foot in your direction. Its wing and foot, nearest to you, appear injured, and they limp at its side. You recognized its more diminutive stature and fanned tail, instantly knowing it was a crow instead of the common raven. The creature's eyes flash at you, red like blood, but everything looks strange under the moon's glow.
You knew there were owls in these woods; you’d seen them a few times, and owls had a habit of attacking smaller birds. Speeding up, you were able to get close enough to see the wound in the moonlight. It was a nasty cut; the poor bird wouldn't make it till morning on its own, defenseless and exposed.
“Ya’ poor darling!” You bend to your knees, watching as the crow stops its desperate crawl. Instead, it looked at you with eyes so human yet so sorrowful. Gently, you wrapped the bird into your arms, cradling it against your chest. It didn’t fight, only letting out a slight wounded sound.
“I can’t leave you out here. My sister, Annie, doesn't care for birds. Especially not birds like you.” Birds of death and mourning were the last thing your sister needed to see right now. If the poor thing were to continue down the path to her house, he might find himself dead at her hands.
The crow tilts its head, confused by your words. Gently, you rub the back of its head, hoping to provide some form of comfort. You’d bandage its wounds when you got home, but for now, you could only offer tenderness.
“Leo ain’t gonna be happy about this.” You whisper aloud, thinking of your chunky tabby cat as he waits for you to return home. He didn't do well with sharing attention, not to mention his affinity for leaving dead birds at your doorstep. With the look of the wound, the crow would probably need a week to heal. You figured Leo could share the spotlight during that time.
Your cottage was different from Annie’s shack. It was your childhood home, buried deep in the old woods, surrounded on every side. Originally, a gift from your father to your mother: two bedrooms with a small kitchen, a bathroom, and a dining room that also counted as the parlor. Annie didn’t like to visit anymore; she called it haunted, but you called it home.
On the small porch was a cushioned swing that you and your mother used to sit on for hours. Sometimes the two of you would watch Annie and your father as they tended the garden, other times you would all sit on the porch drinking mint tea. Your sister stayed with you for a few years after her mother died. It was the first time she got to know her father and you. Still, Annie was out of the house as soon as she could be, and sometime around her move out is when your father left.
The house wasn't the same after that. Your mother wallowed in sorrow, lying in her bed from sunup to sundown. Nothing you and your sister did could pull her from her melancholy. It wasn’t much of a shock when Annie and the Moore twins, childhood friends of yours, came knocking on the door to tell you your mother had been found face down in the delta.
Against your better judgment, you told the crow all about the history of your cottage, and to its credit, the bird seemed to listen. “With mama gone and daddy missin’, the house and half acre were left to me. I use the spare room for my plants and crystals, but there’ll be enough room for you to heal right.” You turn the key as quietly as you can, but it is to no avail, as soon as the door opens, Leo is waiting for you, meowing like a rampaging tyrant.
“Shit, let me set you down somewhere nice so I can feed him.” The crow must know to stay quiet because he doesn't respond to the cat's persistent complaining. In your plant room, you place a cushion from your bed down atop your wooden dresser. You fluff it just right for the crow, who eagerly rests his weary body. “I’ll be back later with some food and water.” You promise as you shoo Leo from the room and take him to his empty bowl.
A bowl of chopped nuts and a cup of water are soon placed by the crow's bed. You fear he will reject it, but he takes the time to devour as much as he can. While he eats, you wrap his injured wing and leg in a thin cloth covered with yarrow paste. Leo is waiting just outside the door, hoping for a second meal. You sit on the bed that once belonged to you and Annie as you take a small sip of your tea. “He ain’t going to eat you. He’s just acting like he will.” You explain in defense of your cat.
The crow makes a low-pitched rattling sound that you take as his words of understanding. You continue your chatter with ease. “Leo thinks he's the king now, but I found him abandoned on the side of the road. He wasn’t anything but a starving baby back then.” The crow sits on its pillow, watching you as you fill the air with words. You tell him a little bit about the remedy you’ve put on his wing, like you would say to a patient at your clinic.
You mention Annie and the dinner you just had at her house. It feels nice to have someone to tell things to, someone who seems to listen, unlike Leo, who turns away from you when he’s trying to sleep.
“I figure it’s your bedtime now with it being night and all. Leo and I will leave you be, Goodnight-” You pause, unsure of what to call this newcomer in your life.
The bird must understand you, for it attempts to make a sound, but it comes out like cooing. You brush its back, humming as you think of the perfect name for this creature. As your hand trails up its body, the bird turns to take a nip at your skin, leaving a pearl of blood that is quickly nipped away. You pull your hand back, clutching your finger and scolding the evil crow.
Remmy, a voice within you whispered. Despite it sounding like your own, you can’t remember where such a name came from. Still, the name fit the little crow with the injured wing. “Goodnight, Remmy.” You blew out the tableside candle and shut the door to keep Leo from getting in. The feline didn't mind; instead, he made his way to your shared bed and was content to know that you'd be sleeping with him tonight and not that pesky bird.
A rhythm began between the three of you, with a natural ease. Leo would wake you in the morning, giving you enough time to feed him and Remmy before you had to run out of the house and rush to your nursing job in the city. You spent most days treating injured farm hands and the occasional wound sustained from fighting. When you weren't treating patients, you were reading medical books, learning about herbal remedies, and the known benefits of certain plants.
Your coworker would drop you off at Annie's house after work, and the two of you would catch a ride down to the market where Annie would sell spells and ointments. When you both had the money, you’d do a little shopping of your own. Your groceries over the past week were always filled with blackberries and pecans, Remmy’s favorite foods.
You would return home after a long day, cook dinner, and feed your boys all before picking up Leo and settling in the guest bedroom, where you talked to Remmy until sunset, and you grew weary. Tonight was no different.
“You should be able to practice flying now.” You tell the sleepy crow as you remove the bandage from his wing and leg. The crow preened as soon as the bandage was off. His eyes glimmer a shade of scarlet when he looks in your direction. You bent down to pick up Leo as he brushed against you, then both of you settled on the bed, with Leo snuggled into your crossed legs. Remmy gave his wings a little flap, seemingly testing out his movements.
“I’ll leave the window open tonight so ya’ can get some fresh air.” You trace patterns into Leo’s brindle fur. “Don’t gotta fly off if you aren't comfortable. You’re always welcome back here, just come on in.” Secretly, you hope Remmy won't fly away. He was good company, not that Leo wasn't, but there was something more attentive about the crow. So when you went to sleep, you left the window cracked just enough to give Remmy access if he chose it.
Come morning, you woke to find a shiny pebble placed outside your bedroom window. You opened it, quickly grabbing the rock before it fell. It glistened in the morning sunlight with a white hue similar to a pearl; if it wasn't for its rough edges, you might confuse it for one. Remmy wasn't in bed when you went to question him; the light from the open window glistened down onto an empty pillow. Your heart nearly dropped before you heard that familiar rattling sound that came from deep within Remmy’s throat.
He hid under the dresser, poking his little head out enough for you to know he was there. His body blended into the dark. Something in you knew to close the windows and shutters. As soon as they were closed, Remmy poked his head back out and flew to his pillow, a little wobbly but otherwise fine.
“Did ya’ bring me a gift, Remmy?” You teased the silly bird as you held up the white rock. His head moved up and down, similar to a nod. “Thank you very much, pretty bird.” You placed a peck on his beak, trying to show your sincere appreciation. Once again, the crow preened under your gaze.
As it was a Saturday, you and Leo relaxed in Remmy’s room while you took notes in your spellbook as you read through the book of herbal remedies. You lit candles as you recited old prayers and chants, hoping for prosperity. Annie had Hoodoo, and you had your craft, both different yet beautiful in their way. Remmy liked your prayers, flying to perch on your shoulder as you recited old words that flowed naturally from your lips. Leo lay with his belly in the air, comforted by the protective energy in the room.
By nightfall, you were too tired to make the journey to your room. You cracked the window open again before curling up with Leo and falling asleep in your childhood bed. Unbeknownst to you, the shadow of a man rose from your bedside. Beady red eyes traced your gentle figure before placing a blanket around you. Leo opened one weary eye, but he relaxed at the sight of the raven-haired man.
In the morning, Remmy was hidden under the dresser again, and resting on your pillow was a sprig of basil, the very herb you were writing about when sleep called to you.
Annie didn't know about your feathered companion. You doubted she'd approve of you keeping a crow around your home. Bad luck, she would say, he’ll bring bad luck. Remmy brought you many things. From shining rocks to useful herbs, he spent the next four days bringing gifts into your home when the sun set and you were none the wiser.
After a long day at work, sewing one too many cuts for a group of teens that had gotten into a drunken argument, you were ready to crawl into bed and bid the world goodbye. Like clockwork, you fed your two special boys before attempting to prepare for a cleansing ritual you would perform in the morning. As you wrote down the items you needed and the intention you had for the spell, your eyes fell shut.
There was a weight behind you, gentle and loving. It wrapped you in its arms and nuzzled into your neck. You wondered why such a warm dream was coming to you tonight; it was rare for you to dream of being loved. Not since you called off your engagement with your ex, Benny.
Leo made an appearance in your dream, curling into a ball at the top of the bed, purring when a pale hand brushed his ears. You heard the low, contented sigh as the weight pulled you closer. In your dreary state, one name fell from your lips, “Remmy.”
Nearly three hours into your peaceful sleep, your eyes begrudgingly opened. The warm breeze coming from your window blew strands of hair that tickled your neck. Sighing, you rolled over, lying on your right side and facing towards the window. A man lay beside you, the man you dreamt of; you figured you were still dreaming. Gently, you brushed the hair from his forehead as you prepared to fall back into sleep. Your eyes closed, and in a beat, a sudden realization hit you. There was a half-naked man in your bed.
You yelped, loud and aggressive, as you fell from the bed, slamming your back into a wall. Leo raised his head, startled and unhappy with the rude awakening. The stranger stretched his body, eyes still closed, as he mumbled, “Come back to bed, sugar.” He must have heard you reaching for the gun in the drawer of your nightstand because his eyes shot open, just as shocked as you had been.
“Shit, didnt mean to fall asleep.” He shook the black curls from his eyes. Standing quickly, while raising his hands up to show you he meant no harm. With nothing but a pair of cotton boxer shorts on, you could see the outline of him, and it stirred something within you.
“Who the hell are you?” You didn’t expect your voice to sound so stern; you figured it was from the years of being with Annie. Your right hand found the handgun and you pulled it on him, faster than a viper. That's when you noticed the flicker in his eyes, specks of rubies shining back at you. “Remmy?” The crow's name fell from your parted lips.
“Kinda? The names Remmick.” In the moonlight, his skin reminded you of the first rock you had received, pearlescent and glowing. He moves cautiously, circling the bed as if you were a wild animal waiting to jump. In a sense, you are. The light catches onto his shoulder, and you see the scar tissue of a cut that stretches past his naked torso and down to his thigh. It’s the same cut that Remmy had from his wing to his leg.
“What are you?” It was hardly a secret, but you wanted to hear it from him.
“Don’t know what ya’ll call it down here, but I figure Vampire is the right word.” You refused to look down as he stood on your side of the bed, hardly clothed, and sheepishly rubbing at his neck. “I wasn’t trying to hurt ya’. I was wounded pretty bad ya’ see,” He takes a step backwards when you grip the handgun between both your shaking hands.
“Then you found me, I’m mighty thankful for you. I woulda’ve died out there.” His strong hand traces the flesh wound; it appears to heal right before your eyes.
The rapid pounding of your heart was uncomfortable, to say the least. There was a connection between the two of you that hung in the air like a noose. You told Remmy a million things about yourself and your life; this vampire knew all of you. The thought of him having been given such precious information makes your face grow hot and your throat tighten.
“My sister always taught me not to mess with creatures like you,” You begin slowly, waiting to see if he will switch up and attack, but he just stands there. “You need to leave now. I ain't gonna hurt you, but you can’t stay here. I don’t trust no vampires and I certainly don't trust no white men.” Remmick's face contorts as if you struck him.
“I-I enjoy it here. Don’t wanna leave you.” He lamented, searching for a speck of doubt in your eyes that would prove you wanted him there. You refused to meet his gaze; you knew he would find what he was looking for.
“Should have thought of that before you tricked me.” God, you sounded like a heartbroken maiden, but you couldn’t hide the betrayal you felt. “You didn’t need to hide from me. You had days to knock on my door and tell me the truth. I don’t like liars, and I especially don't like men who creep into my bed.” Pushing forward, the gun stands between the two of you as Remmick walks backwards.
“Imma’ go! I didn’t mean to sneak in bed with ya’ and it wasn't like that.” He shuffled his bare feet towards the door as you followed. Before he could exit, something tender and unspoken came over you.
“Wait,” you called as you slowly made your way back into the room, stumbling a little because you refused to turn your back on the man. You opened the nightstand, fiddling around till you found Benny’s old robe. Remmick still stood at the door, his naked flesh lit by moonlight. Setting the gun down, you wrapped the robe around his shivering form and tightened it.
“Thank you, sugar.” Then he was gone, and you locked the door with shaking hands. Annie always told you something would come hunting for good women like you. She whispered warnings as she braided your hair, reminding you never to trust a stranger. Against all reason, you had let one in.
Prelude to Remmick x Witch!Reader story (That Thing Called Love is Out Now!!!)
This is just a short and sweet snippet of the relationship between Remmick and the Reader! Stay tuned for the rest of the fic!
(Also posted on AO3 : If These Walls Could Talk - BiWitchEnergy - Sinners (2025) [Archive of Our Own])
There’s a man in your house. You are the reason he is there. Weeks ago, you told him he would always be welcome there, you promised him entrance, and he made good use of it.
Your home was as much his as it was yours now. Amongst your dried flowers, hanging herbs, and taper candles were trinkets and tokens of his own.
Within your sculpted jewelry box, golden rings and chains mix with your pearls. The spice cabinet now holds caraway seeds and thyme, his favorites that are a must-have in your stew.
Surprisingly, your closet is all your own, but he has taken over a drawer of your dresser, packed with linen button-ups, navy blue pants, and the occasional suspender straps. His belts get their own box under your shared bed.
The dishes and laundry are always done when you come home; he has nothing better to do when the sun shines. You appreciate the help, considering the two of you live together now.
Leo, your precious tabby cat, is always properly groomed and has become spoiled from the double attention. The plants have never been better.
At night, the house feels empty with his absence. It never felt empty before. He will come back; he always does. But usually, you're asleep by then, and you only share a few moments in the early morning before you're off to the clinic for work. That’s why the weekends have become precious to him.
He sits on the bed, watching you comb through your drenched hair. You whisper as you braid it, chants and prayers that fill his dreams with you. You cast spells, mix remedies, and read magic books aloud, even though he doesn't understand them.
It’s nice to snuggle into your stomach as your voice soothes every ache in his soul. He knows that whatever he feels for you is not lust. It never was, but he couldn’t explain what else it could be.
As the night wind blows through the shutters and pushes the windows open, he stops tracing your thigh with his hands. You mumble in your sleep, it's something incoherent, but he hears it all the same.
He doesn’t pull away from you; it would pain him to do so. You were asleep when he got home, lying in your bed with Leo curled around your chest. The tabby didn't move when he joined you in bed.
The wind traces his spine, but he's immune to the cool breeze. He doesn't know what it is, adoration or perhaps curiosity, but something compels him to place his lips against your forehead, and he knows in that moment he can never leave.
(Fit to Eat - BiWitchEnergy - Sinners (2025) [Archive of Our Own])
Super long one-shot because I have no self-control! Enjoy <3
The scent of mortality rose from the dancing crowd, lingering at their stomping feet and rising in the air above as they raised their hands to the heavens. Bodies move together in their unique ways, yet follow the same rhythm.
You swayed amongst them, blending into their humanity with a long-practiced ease, dancing against a man with carob eyes whose hands grab your waist uncomfortably tight, desperate enough to amuse you. Hundreds of heartbeats bleeding together made your ears ring, heightened senses overwhelming you. The singer, Preacher Boy as he is called, plays the guitar with precision you have never seen before.
You remember the music of your home nearly 1,400 years ago and the music your father brought from his own home in a distant land, but sometimes you find it in these places. Changed but still the same, just like your people, whose resilience has endured suffering unimaginable.
Your father would be proud, you think, to see such a thriving party and such joy from people who have had to struggle for any pleasure they get. Your mother, with her Irish heritage and wild nature, would also approve of this rendezvous; you can almost see them now, dancing together beyond the veil where not even the conquerors can separate them.
A sudden commotion from outside reaches your sensitive ears, the mortals don't stir. They dance on without a care, even as you pull away from the grasping man behind you and head for the door. The silly little guard, Cornbread, had examined you and gladly welcomed you in. Taking in your pretty skin, curls, and the wealth of your outfit. Now he stands with the owners and a few others at the front, guarding the door for this newcomer who waits outside, asking for permission to join the party.
“What’s going on out there, Miss Annie?” You asked the gentle woman, with her calming demeanor reminding you of a sister long lost to time. She smiled, shaking her pretty head and telling you not to worry. A familiar scent catches your nose as she speaks, your eyes locked on a strong pair of legs standing right outside the door, the rest of the body blocked by the handsome twins who own the Joint.
Tobacco and sandalwood wafting in the air made your head swim, and your mind traveled to times of laughter and whispered conversation. Safety flooded your veins like a shot filled with ecstasy. You try to shake off the warmth you feel, but it's not a good idea to let yourself relax in such a way. After all, you are a predator of the finest degree, like a lioness on the prow.
“Maybe for just one night we can all be family.” Like smooth whisky, that voice washes over you, and in an instant, you rush forward until you stand just behind the taller men who block your path. You could move them, shove them so hard they'd fly out the door and hit the dirt with a resounding thud, but there is no need. You have learned when to be violent and when to be human.
“Remmick,” you say his name like a prayer. For you, it is. How long had it been? A millennium had felt like eons, yet your thoughts of him were just as frequent as the last day you shared with him. You left him for a reason, yet he clawed his way back, like you were the oasis for this dying man. His eyes reveal the truth: He wasn't expecting to find you here. They are stunned, entirely black, and dilated. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down like he's choking on your presence.
“Ay, pretty girl! Ya’ know this white boy?” Stack asks as he lets you in front of him, giving Remmick a full view of you. You bite your lower lip to stop the smirk that grows on you as you watch the way Remmick's hands shake as if he were an addict being presented a drug just out of reach. His fists clenched at his side, the look in his eyes a blend of desperation, anger, and something else. Something more substantial and more dangerous than the others.
“Ya’, I know him. We go way back. Get on inside, y'all.” You motion for the others to return to the party. If Remmick is looking for a feast, he won't find one here, not with you around. These people weren’t for drinking from; they were your friends, and if you played your cards right, they could be family.
“Ain’t gonna leave you out here with 'em’,” Smoke warns, staying frozen and unmoving like a wall. You shake your head, curls bouncing along your shoulders. Remmick traces every strand of hair with his eyes, hypnotized by the light that catches along your locks.
“Go on in. Imma just be a minute, besides, he ain't no Klan.” Remmick's face twists into a deep-set frown as if to express disgust at being viewed as a Klan member. Smoke obeys as you step down the stairs, going from above Remmick like a divinity to right below him as he stood a few inches over you. Still, you didn't feel fear; you walked right past him and like an obedient dog, he followed you to the edge of the forest, out of view of the others.
Suddenly, his demeanor darkens, the redness in his eyes glowing like a demon crawling from hellfire. He didn't put his hands on you, didn't even dare to touch your gentle skin, fearing he'd be turned away in an instant.
“Been lookin’ for you, darlin’.” He growled, baring fangs that matched your own hidden behind your soft lips. “D’fhág tú mé.” You left me. Instinctively, you take his face between your hands, a habit you've found works well with human men. He buried his face within them without hesitation, digging his nose against your fingers and taking in the familiar scent of your skin; he had never let you touch him before, and he certainly never sought it out.
Your head shakes, slowly moving side to side as you force him to look down at you. “D'impigh tú orm.” You begged me. He bit his lip, knowing he couldn’t argue the truth. “You needed me gone, suga’.” Reminding him doesn’t make you feel any better, but it eases the guilt that his wet eyes bring you. Over 400 years were spent together. As humans, He was beyond subtle if he’d ever yearned for you as you did him.
“I’ve looked for you ever since,” his voice cracks. “Can't go on without you. Just can’t. We were friends once, weren't we?” The pain of your absence has taken a toll on him. He looks like a man coming home from war, battered and yearning. His skin is pale as ivory, his blue eyes darker than navy, and filled with loneliness. Raven hair clings to his forehead, the humid Mississippi air makes everything sticky, even your hands feel clammy against his skin.
“Gotta place out here, just beyond the trees.” His ears perk up, waiting for you to continue. “Let me get my shawl, needa’ tell my friend bye.” His lips twist downward, his eyes flash with something akin to fear. Remmick’s hands find yours as they cling to his face, and he holds you in place. The touch is strange, unfamiliar, but so craved that you don't pull away.
“I’ll be back, Suga.” With the promise of returning, he lets you peel away from him, but you feel the pinpricks of his red eyes as they follow you into the Juke Joint. Cornbread watches you emerge from the darkness, relieved to see you safe from your little conversation with the stranger. The guard nods as he holds the door open and tells you to go right in. When you are safely inside, the feel of Remmick's eyes is gone, and you yearn for them again.
“Gonna need my shawl now, Annie.” You tell the younger woman as she dances in and out of the kitchen. Her eyebrow raises in one graceful motion.
“You leavin’ with that man?” You nod in confirmation. “I don’ know. Ain’t nothin good ever come from goin’ off with no white man.” She draws a laugh right out of you; it shakes your shoulders. Annie hands you the shawl, and you lean in across the table. You can smell the copper scent of her blood as it pulses through her veins, but your hunger has been sated for the night after draining two Klan members in an old house on the way over.
“Tween’ you and me, that’s my white man.”
——————————————————————-
An agonizing silence fills the walk to your estate. It’s aged, a short-lived summer home for some old white bastard. It was practically rotting when you found it, and the man inside was rotting with it. He wailed when you killed him, his eyes twitching even as you left his body outside, prepped for the vultures.
You’d made the manor into a home despite the moss that clung to the white walls and the overgrown grass filled with snakes, waiting for their next meal.
The inside is clean, decorated with pristine treasures from travels long ago. In the thousand years since Remmick last saw you, traveling was your primary goal, and now it felt as though you'd seen everything twice over. Antiques from Peru, a grandfather clock bought in Belgium, and Zulu masks that decorate the walls.
It looks brand new yet older than anything else out in the Delta. Not older then the two occupants though, damn near nothing was anymore except perhaps the ruins of civilizations that once believed they would last.
“Never did leave the 1780’s did ya?” He asked as he took in the decor, a mix of every century you lived through, yet heavily decorated with gilded furniture and antiques that you took from your Chateau in France. A time when you lived as the ‘bastard daughter’ of whatever duke whose home you stumbled upon before turning him, many years after you and Remmick separated. If you were going to be damned for eternity then you were going to do it in wealth and style.
Though gorgeously decorated, the home still had a southern feel. Mississippi grew from the floorboards and leaked into its very aesthetic. Your legs folded under you as you dropped onto the velvet couch you had acquired from a man in Leeds about a century ago.
Remmick’s fingertips gently ran across your old whatnot, delicately tracing the antiques resting upon it. A jar, filled with a strange mixture of liquids and herbs, covered in red candle wax, caught his eye. He didn’t touch it; the ornate bottle seemed holy to him. “Looked for ya’ in New Orleans. Heard talk of you there. Nearly tore the damn place apart lookin’.”
You watched him, his eyes glued to the spell jar; he knew where you got it, from the voodoo queen herself. You hoped he didn’t see right through it, you hoped he didn’t think it was for him. How silly you were to put a protection spell on a man long dead, but you had been inconsolable that night, screaming for a man you thought hated you, yet still desperate to see him again one day.
Remmick doesn’t realize it, he turns to you with a proud tilt to his lips, “was gonna kill 'em all tonight. Thought that singer boy could bring you back to me. Thought if you was dead, then maybe he could show me your pretty face again.”
A cruel scoff rose from the depths of your soul, “ You could have seen my face every morning and every night. I would have been with you now if you had let me, you accursed white devil. I was your friend, I knew you better than anyone!” The southern drawl is gone from your tongue, leaving your authentic accent, something old and new all the same.
“I hated you.” In a second, he voices what you have feared for a millennium. “I blamed you, and it wasn’t even your fault, Darlin’. I was miserable and young, but I’d never do it now. I’m old enough to tell you the truth of it all.”
His lips quiver, “I need you, Darlin’. Always have needed ya. You're all I want.” Remmick sinks to his knees at your feet, digging into the oriental rug you brought from Luoyang. If his head bowed any lower, he would look as if he were prostrating himself before his god. Thick hands, claws and all, find your hips, and he clings to them.
“You will never forgive me, Remi. I was your creator, I made you a monster. I-,” you pause as a knot rises in your throat, “I killed you.”
Remmick's hair sways as he shakes his head, gripping you harder. “I begged ya’. You was hurting, and I used you. I wanted revenge just as you did. They killed my family, thought they killed ya’. I would have done it all over again. I should never have blamed you.” Tears well in your eyes for the first time in a hundred years, foolish though it is, they don’t dare fall. He sees it and whines, taking both of you by surprise. The sound like a wounded animal snaps you out of a trance.
“Please, baby.” He was rocking back and forth, his knees shifting against the rug. “Chased you all these years, hoping to get ya’ back. I lied to you, told ya’ I hated you, but spent my days dreaming of you. I had over four hundred years to tell you I loved you, but I was a coward.” The shuffling of his body as he was practically grinding himself against your leg was distracting.
“I’ve been in love with you since we swam in the Lough Neagh.” You can’t breathe, your shoulders slack, and you throw your head into your hands. The two of you were human then; your family had just moved to the area after spending eighteen years in the deep forests.
A man like your father and a daughter like you stood out against the pale Irish, especially on your mother's side. You couldn’t have been older than nineteen. It was at least 1,400 years ago.
“I hate you. I loathe you. I’d dance on your grave,” you hissed as the tears poured over your eyes and onto your warm cheeks. “I thought you loved me. Before I turned you. Then you spent all those years, resenting me some days and being a friend the next.” He holds your wrists within his hands, trying to pry them from your face to see the tears that you hid.
“I love you, Mo Shíorghrá.” My eternal love. Your wrists fell, allowing him to cup your cheeks within his hands, roughened from years of playing any instrument he could master. Slowly, almost like a fleeting touch, his rose colored tongue lapped at the tears that flowed from your eyes.
He continued this in between words, “before death found us, I was gonna marry you. Built the house and everything. We would’ve been parents, we’d have been buried together. I was just waitin’ to confess and ask for your hand.”
“You hated me. We fought every day. I tried to drown you in the Lough Neagh.” Your voice is strained.
“You looked so beautiful holding me underwater.”
“I would have married you. We could have died together, saved from this eternal torment.” You whisper, a confession of your own that you'd waited a thousand years to say.
“Marry me now, then.”
Remmick’s blackened eyes search your face when you look up at him. Nodding your head to confirm to yourself that he is real and this is not a dream. You splay your hand across his chest, not timidly but calculatedly, pushing him back until he’s off his knees and lying against the ornate rug, surrounding him with vibrant shades of red and purple.
You slide off the couch and straddle him, sitting atop his lap. Remmick’s eyes are wide like a barn owl's, but redness blooms on his cheeks, mirroring the fire you feel spreading across your skin. His claws dig into your dress, ripping the red silk, and you chide him for it.
“Now, sweetheart, I loved this dress. Ya’ gonna be rough with your blushin’ bride?” He groans, thrusting his hips upward, effortlessly pushing your body higher.
Your southern accent leaves his chest heaving; you grin like a Cheshire Cat, realizing you've got him entrapped. Whispers leave him, strained and desperate, begging and cursing the years you spent fighting when you could have been doing this.
“So needy, pretty boy. How many girls ya’ been with? How many ya’ wish was me?” You purr, your clawed hands slowly trace up to his throat as he whimpers your name. When the two of you were humans, he had been engaged but narrowly dodged it, something you used to taunt him about. As far as you knew, he was innocent then.
You taste the salt of your sweat as it drips onto the top of your lip, you lick it away while making direct eye contact with the disheveled man who rolls his hips against you in the most pathetic display you've ever seen. The Irishman groans at the sight of your tongue darting along your plump lips.
“Too many, only when they looked like ya’. Ain’t never loved em’. Called ya’ name multiple times like a damn dog.” He gasps, your hands tighten on his neck, and he bucks his hips again, bouncing you on his lap.
Each buck has you falling back onto him, dragging your heat against his pelvis in a tantalizing way. You bite back a moan as he continues to ignite a deep ache within you. You're trembling above him, rutting against him with strangled cries.
“N’you? Can only imagine everyone who got to bed ya’. Always was stunning, all the people wanted a night with ya’ in their bed.” Hissing like a jealous viper, he grips your hips to grind you down against him. The rough rub of his jeans against your cotton under clothes is enough to make your eyes roll back, but you close them, raking your nails against his chest and shredding through his white shirt. His bulge presses into your clit, stimulating it just enough to make your limbs shake.
“Too many,” You sigh, using his words against him. It isn’t good enough for Remmick. He thrusts the tent of his pants against your core, and his nails sink into your hips.
He caresses the spots where his nails have left red indents on your hips, and his gentle demeanor surprises you until he's pulling you forward to nip at your neck. His fangs brush against you, considering breaking your skin. He’s challenging you, even after all this time, he still enjoys your battles.
“Was a man out in,” you struggle to stop the sounds that rip from your throat as he continues grinding against you, “Out in Oregon. Coulda been your brother with the way he looked. I rode him till the sun came up.” Remmick growls, in a steady motion that takes you by surprise, he rises to his feet with your legs instinctively wrapping around his hips. You feel the outline of him pressed into you, begging for entrance.
“Bedrooms upstairs, suga’. To the right.” Nails tracing his neck, you whisper against his ear as he nearly flies up the stairs. You lean towards him, licking a stripe from his necklace to his jaw. He tastes of salt, copper, and something so sweet you can’t name it.
“Wanna know something else, love? I called ya’ name all night.” For your taunting, you're thrown onto the bed you carefully made before you left for the Juke Joint. The plush bead spread, dark as mulberry wine, cradles your back as you land against it. You're left with your thighs clenched together, desperate for stimulation as Remmick stands over you.
“Gonna do that for me tonight? I’m gonna make your pretty throat raw.” He’s clawing at the dip of your dress, right below your neck. In one swift motion, he rips the dress straight down the middle. He raises your leg, taking your ankle into his hand as he tenderly kisses the sensitive skin. Your leg quakes in his hand before he drops it.
With one sharpened claw, he splits your two-piece undergarments until he can see every inch of you. Gently, he takes the cut clothing and peels it away from your body, tossing the rags to the floor. His shredded shirt follows.
For the first time, you are completely naked before him. Not to say that he hadn't seen you in all the years you were together, lustful glimpses as the two of you bathed in the rivers and days spent sharing a bedroom waiting for the sun to set had given him prior knowledge of your nude form in rare flashes.
Nothing could compare to this, with you lying below him, his eyes traced every stretch mark and every freckle in sight. He licked those too, bending over the bed and tracing your details with the tip of his tongue. From the marks along your thighs, he slowly moved lower, closer to where your body called for him. You grasp his hair, pulling his face away from your aching center.
“No! Need you right now, Remi!” Your voice, a strained whine as you pleaded for him to quit all the foreplay and just fuck you. His gleaming red eyes regard you with such softness that you throw your head back to hide your face from his loving gaze, scared he would see the desire in your eyes.
“Bout’ a thousand years I've waited for this.” Remmick's nose nudges your swollen clit, he buries his face into you, inhaling your heady scent. Lifting to watch your face, he continues, “damn near 500,000 days I've spent aching for ya’. Imma’ take my time tonight, darlin’.” He resumes his slow-paced lapping at your dripping cunt. With gentle fingers, he parts your flesh, giving him more access to you—his tongue, initially flat against your entrance, darts inside of you like a bullet.
Useless words and lustful moans fall from your bloody lips, raw from attempting to bite back whimpers. Remmick has starved, yearned, and thirsted for this since he first laid eyes on you. It was worth every agonizing second.
“Fuckin’ ambrosia.” He whimpers, “fruit of the gods.” Remmick’s tongue delves in and out of you as though he can’t get enough of your flavor. His fingers, thick yet long, trace your entrance as he pulls his tongue away to focus on your most pleasurable spot, engorged from the teasing. Your wrist finds your mouth when he pushes two fingers inside. Blood seeps from your lips, having bitten through your skin.
Remmick whines like a bitch in heat. His hips rutting against the comforter as he continues savoring you on his tongue while opening you with his fingers as preparation. You hold your wrist out and he lifts his head, watching curiously as the blood drops down to your swollen cunt. His big red eyes widen at your offering.
“That’s my beloved, feeding me right from her veins,” He groans through swollen lips. Remmick rolls his hips against your bare calf, chasing the bliss that he feels with every move. His tongue swirls around your clit and his lips wrap around it as he sucks gently. His fingers fly in and out of you, deliberately curling into a spot deep inside you that has your back arching off the bed.
You're clenching around him as you match his pace. Angelic moans fly from your lips, pleasure building in your stomach until the coil snaps and your legs spasm around Remmick's head. Your panting is soft, pleasurable tremors rake through your body.
The Irish man does not let up, he continues sucking and lapping up everything your body gives him, his clawed hands trail up your body until he's grasping at your breasts and rolling your nipples between his fingers. It’s borderline painful, you clench around nothing as he sucks at your clit.
The continued ministrations leave you spasming, your fingers twitch and clench into Remmick's hair. Your hips grind against his nose, stars in your eyes, and then your body drops like a puppet cut from its string. Drool rolls down your swollen lips, and for a moment, you worry you have hit your head because the world is slipping in slow motion.
“Pretty girl, my pretty bride.” Remmick stroked your cheeks, wiping the drool from the corner of your lips and licking it off his fingers. The flavor of your spit and spend mix together on his tongue, and he whines, loud and needy.
“I’m gonna fuck you so hard, suga’. You gonna let me?” He raises until your chest is pressed flat against his, and your thighs instinctively wrap around his toned waist. Your hands lazily trace the line of his abdomen down to the thin patch of hair that leads to his arousal. Your palm cups that spot you feel yearning against you, but Remmick grabs your cheeks, pushing your lips together as he pulls your face to meet his.
“Fucked ya’ dumb already? Asked you a question, darlin’.” He says as you struggle to speak or meet his gaze. You are still drooling, mind empty of everything but him. You bobbed your head up and down, hoping to answer his question while your mind reeled from the pleasure in your veins. Tenderly, Remmick’s lips meet yours.
It was not your first kiss; that was the day you turned him, but it's just as significant. You wrap your arms around his head, pulling him back to you when you part. This time, your lips move together, slowly pushing against each other.
Your tongue runs along his lips, he opens his mouth eagerly, and you wrap your tongue around his. You pull back when your lungs burn, Remmick rests his forehead against yours, and you stare into each other's eyes for a few loving minutes. “ I s liomsa thú agus is leatsa mise.” You are mine, and I am yours.
With trembling hands, Remmick takes hold of his weeping cock and positions it at your ready entrance. Gently, he inches himself into you until he can’t go any further. You swallow him within your warmth; he pulses with blood from his latest victim, and you can feel him twitch within you. Your legs, still wrapped around him, push him into you, begging for him to move, but he remains still. His eyes, rubies of light, watch you as if he's a man obsessed, taking in the curve of your nose and the bow of your lips.
“I loved ya’ in Ireland.” He starts, ignoring your confused look. “I’ve followed traces of ya’ from the deserts to freezing shores. And in every place, every damned second, I’ve been entirely in love with ya’.” He pulls back slowly, letting you feel every inch of him that leaves you before he snaps back in, refilling the emptiness and drawing out a breathy moan from you.
“When the sun goes down, we gonna go back to that joint and kill every last one of 'em.” Your lips on his neck make him moan against your breast as you whisper those words in his ears.
“We gonna have the family ya’ve always wanted.” You nip at his earlobe, pale as the moon. He rocks in and out of you with whimpers and whines that make you throb around him, feeling every movement and hearing every sigh.
“Maybe if ya’ fuck me hard enough, you’ll fill me with your babe,” the words sound like a prayer when purred against his lips. Remmick stops moving. He looks down at you for a minute; you worry that you've said the wrong thing until animalistic lust sets into his eyes. Then he's fucking into you, reckless and frantic with desire. The old bed creaks with each thrust. He ravishes you, like a man on his wedding night, desperate and hungry.
The bed frame groans as it bangs against the withered walls. Your nails scratch along his back, leaving marks that will heal in a day. He grunts, deep and long, as your nails draw blood from him. Your arms shake around his neck, chasing every thrust and craving it. You whisper words of encouragement, urging him to go faster and harder. Your sucking at the flesh of his neck, panting against him as he continuously hits the spot inside of you that leaves you whining against his skin.
Remmick grips your waist hard enough to bruise as he raises you from beneath him, slipping out of you for a minute before lying onto his back and placing you on top of him.
“Show me how you rode my look-alike.” He purred, as he took hold of his cock making it easier for you to sink onto him. You do so, biting your lower lip as he fills you even further than before. You felt drunk, entirely at his mercy, but you reminded yourself that letting him win would be a shame, so you gathered your wits even as you rocked your hips back and forth, rising up and down like you were riding a wild horse.
“He ain’t like you. He made me howl like a bitch,” you cooed as your man growls in response. Below you, Remmick looks completely unwraveled. His hips jolt up, quicker and rougher, as if he's challenging your smug statement. The golden chain on his neck catches your attention as your head lands against him. He whimpers when you pull him closer to you with a yank of the necklace.
Your rolling hips speed up, arching your back as that special spot inside of you is continuously probed. Remmick holds your waist, helping you rise and fall onto him, his eyes are filled with tears, and his lips spout slurred praises. “This the chain I gave ya’? One I bought you before you begged me tuh’ leave?” He nodded frantically.
“Never take it off.” He groans as you halt your movement.
“Not even when ya’ fucking them other girls?”
“Nah. Gets me hard, thinkin’ bout’ you.” Remmick’s hand grasps your neck, borderline choking you, but it does not stop your deep inhales. His words send goosebumps across your skin, before you know it, you are shouting praises as your hips grind against him.
Your legs crumble, your climax hitting you for the third time that day. Searing ecstasy washes over you, forcing you to scream Remmick's name as you tighten around him. You slump, your forehead hidden in his shoulder. With a sudden burst of energy, Remmick snaps his hips into you for three more thrusts before his body spasms. You feel heat like never before as he releases inside of you. You lie against him, your thighs weak around his hip bones as you both relax into the bed. He doesn't pull out of you, and secretly, you hope to stay like this until the night returns.
“Wanna’ do it all again.” You whisper in his ear, fangs dangerously close to piercing it.
“Gimme’ a minute, imma take you on the table next.” Remmick groaned, already plotting every place he would have you shaking for him.
“Nah, I meant the traveling. Been bored with it all for a while. Now, I wanna do it all again with ya’ near me not waitin’ in the shadows.” You tell him as he plays with the curls of your hair, tugging at them gently.
“Fuck it. I’m all yours, Mo Shíorghrá.” Remmick nuzzled into your hair, feeling at peace for the first time in a millennium.
Something I've realized about the women characters of HOTD is that they seem to be aware of modern politics and sensibilities in that they seem to be detached from their time and place in a sense.
Realistically, women in these worlds would want the same thing men do in the situations that they're in. When their families' lives are threatened, when their power is threatened, they are willing to go to war. They want vengeance and justice. They want their enemies to pay for what they've done. They want power and security for themselves and those dear to them. Some have hard power, like dragons or skill with the blade, that they can and will use to achieve their goals. In ASOIAF this is Daenerys, Brienne, Arya, and more. Some have soft power, like charisma, influence, and political knowledge, that they can and will achieve their goals. This is Cersei, Sansa, Margaery, and more. All of these tools and weapons are willingly yielded by their users to help themselves and their families to survive and to thrive.
Yet the women of HOTD seem to view these things differently. They stay stuck on the fact that men don't listen to them, instead of using the tools available to them to do anything about it and help themselves as GOT characters would. When Rhaenyra is talked over by her small council, instead of making a show of force or demonstrating her ability to lead and make competent decisions about warfare, all she does is accept what others tell her to do and then complain about it in private. When Alicent is ignored in the small council, instead of using her influence to convince her vulnerable son the king to do as she wants, she puts him down and isolates herself further. Despite the many decisions that these women could take to help themselves or act in any way that could help their situation, they are stagnant and passive.
It's almost as if these women are stuck on their victim status, in that they view themselves as victims in ways that the GOT women have either long accepted as truth or have been socialized to view differently. The HOTD know it's not okay for women to be talked down to, they know it's not okay for women to be interrupted or ignored, they know it's bad that nobody takes them seriously, whereas this is barely a thought of the GOT women, for whom it is a part of the world they've already adapted to and they know how to navigate around. Somehow it seems like the HOTD women are consistently shocked and surprised into inaction by the very fact that sexism exists in their world, despite the fact it's been there their whole life and they've never known differently.
This is what I mean when I say that the women of HOTD feel as though they're separate from their time and place. It's as if they exist outside the narrative, outside of this time and place somehow, based on the decisions they make and the way they behave. Instead of acting as others would in their time and place, they frequently seem as if they are aware of modern sensibilities and politics and it's these things that guide their thoughts, decisions, or dialogue. Their awareness of this prevents them from going to war when they have good reason to want to, and realistically any woman in this universe would willingly go to war, and it makes them say certain things that seems almost out of place in the context of the time and place that sound at times as if the writers are using them as a mouthpiece.
Yet the men of the story behave more faithfully to time and place. They desire action, they desire vengeance, they are allowed to feel angry for themselves and they are allowed to want power for the sake of it. They get to be more fully fleshed out in their motivations and personalities. They're believably a part of this time and place. The men behave no differently than the men of GOT save differences in character and context, but the women are so distinctly different from the women of GOT in terms of how they're allowed to feel, speak, and act.
the fact that aegon (presumably) went to the same brothel for his first time he took young aemond to later… something about how abuse begets abuse and how we perpetuate these cycles without realizing the harm we‘re causing and the abuse we suffered ourselves…..
What if when Aegon was young he followed Daemon, his uncle who is called the Prince of FLEA BOTTOM, into the slums of the city? What if he snuck out of the castle in curiosity because he was young and admired his fathers beloved brother? Maybe He wanted to be brave like the stories he heard of Daemon, maybe then his dad would notice him again. So he follows his uncle and ends up in that brothel, he sees that Daemon is sleeping with women and somehow little Aegon is spotted as a prince and surrounded by women who he inevitably looses his virginity to. It’s the cool thing to do right? Daemon was the coolest man he knew and he was beloved by all the whores and drunkards of the red keep. Maybe Aegon thought this was how he would be loved and because of the instant gratification, that thought process stuck. So he genuinely thinks he’s doing the right thing in bringing Aemond to the brothel because all the powerful men do it. And Aemond needs to feel powerful after the loss of his eye. Aegon thinks he’s helping because the brothel was his comfort and is the only place he feels adored.
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