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Jul 21

ptolemaea | remmick

a/n: hi! so this fic has been a work in progress for three months since i watched sinners and for good reason, it is a beast of a fic! also! i’m from new york so any southern inaccuracies/inaccurate accents should be ignored! there's a lot of violence in this, i would describe it as lovers to enemies if that's your thing. basically this is my swing at answering 'why does remmick wear a wedding ring' in sinners. warnings: DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, depictions of suicide, toxic relationships, major character death, gore, weapon use, general content warnings, canon typical violence, p in v sex, fingering (fem receiving), talks of christianity, remmick hates the british, mentions of torture, remmick being so down bad for the reader and it repeatedly goes wrong, angst, manipulative remmick, remmick is a bad husband, so just head that general warning, there's a lot going on in this onelots of teasing, lots of blasphemy, lots and lots of vampire references, kind of a time loop fic if ya think about it, cursing, flirting, many nicknames, preacher’s daughter trope, divorced couple energy, lots of drama, mentions of classism and general class differences, reader is female and uses she/her pronouns, with female anatomy, no use of y/n, religious/weird parents word count: 17.5k summary: remmick considers himself a very patient man. after all, he's been waiting for you for centuries. pairing: remmick x fem!reader now playing: ptolemaea - ethel cain "you poor thing/sweet, mourning lamb/there's nothing you can do/it's already been done." you can now read this fic on ao3, found here! let me know what you think!

Mississippi, 1932

At first, he does not approach you. He doesn’t talk to you, for two weeks, he only observes—

He watches.

He haunts.

And something deep down tells you that he’s been looking for you for a long time.

It started on a Sunday Night, just as the sun set.

Your mama had told you to fill a pitcher of water from the well that you had on your property, and you, being the good girl you were, obeyed without more than a ‘yes, ma’am.’

Your life hadn’t been anything fancy—You lived in the same house your entire life. You’d never gone farther south than Jackson and never been farther north than Memphis. Your daddy was a preacher; your mama was a devoted wife. You had lived in the same bedroom your entire life, tracing the same cracks in your walls since you were little.

The depression had hit your little town as hard as it had hit the rest of the country, but when people got desperate and scared, they turned to the lord. While everyone else was worried where their next meal was coming from, your daddy had become the most popular man in town.

Being the preachers’ daughter, you hadn’t made many friends— other girls didn’t think you’d make a particularly reliable presence in their mischief. And when you were younger, you didn’t mind so much—there had been plenty of chores for you to do. Even as you got older, you didn’t necessarily mind your quiet social life. You found comfort in the few books you could get your hands on, reading anything and everything you could find.

Your folks didn’t care for that—blaming your wandering eye for knowledge on temptation, telling you that if you wanted to read, you should invest more time in the ‘good book’, and you had nodded and agreed at the time, not bothering to tell them that the good book wasn’t as good as the adventure stories you kept under your bed.

Even that day your mama had sent you to the well, your mind was somewhere else. It had been a habit of yours, to stare off into space, to the edge of the property line, and just go. Anywhere you wanted. In your head, you were not barely beating the mid-summer heat, a pitcher leaning on your hip—you were in some far-off metropolis, dancing and drinking and learning—

When you glanced towards the edge of the property line, ready to mumble out some dramatic line you had read from one of your books when your eyes met his. He was just standing there. Like you were a play he had been watching for a long time.

From that far, you couldn’t make out many of his features, and somehow, it made him even scarier. Something about him filled you with dread as you looked at him, and you found yourself not wanting to turn your back on him even as you walked back to your house. But you heard your mama call for you from the porch and knew you couldn’t walk backwards—you’d be accused of demonic possession and scheduled for an exorcism by sunrise.

So, you made your first in a long list of vampire-related mistakes.

You turned your back to him and ignored your gut telling you to drop your water pitcher and run back to the house.

When you got to the porch, your mama had this look on her face.

“You alright? You’re lookin’ pale,” She said, worry seeping through her words. You pushed out an airy laugh, shaking your head.

“I’m okay, you know how I get when it’s hot like this,” You lied like it was natural—and at this point, you felt like it was. When you had a reputation for being a good girl, no one ever suspected that the words that left your mouth easily were far from the truth.

“Well, alright, hurry up and wash up for bed.” She ordered, before taking the water pitcher from your hands. You were quick to follow, but glanced back to the edge of the property line and—

Mistake number two.

He was closer now, leaning against the well you were just using, and you could see his features more clearly now. Mostly, you saw that he had dark hair, that an instrument was wrapped around him, and that he reminded you of something dark; something unnatural.

And there was something about him that made you dizzy, and you wondered what he sounded like when he spoke. You’d get your answer two whole weeks later.

But for those two weeks, you were haunted. It was like he was your ghost, but what had you done to deserve insomnia, stitched between nightmares, and paranoia? You felt like you were being watched. You dreaded the sunset, because you’d see him in the corner of your eye, like a shadow. You’d dream of red irises in black voids—you hadn’t even noticed red eyes, had you?

It was starting to affect everything. Church was first—a week after this haunting began, you were sitting in church, at the 9:00 a.m. service. You had spent the entire night awake with a pillow over your head trying to escape, go to whatever daydream could break this spell. Then, you were snapped out of it at dawn with a sharp knock at your bedroom door, to get ready for the service, always having errands to run; cookies to bake, people to meet, and church services to participate in.

But then, while your daddy was doing his sermon, you felt the warm morning sun on your face, and you couldn’t help but let your eyes flutter closed.. And you began to daydream. Drift off, just.. let go.

He never watched you while the sun was out, he never lingered past sunrise. You were safe.

Nothing could hurt you in the house of the—

Slam!

A smack of a book to your hand jerked you awake, a stinging sensation shooting across the back of your hand, as you looked up, your eyes meeting your fathers. And without another word, he went back to his sermon.

Shit.

And for the next week, you started to crumble further. You’re jumpy, scared and worst of all—you’re always on the verge of tears. On Monday, a shopping trip with your mama turns into a lecture about respect for her words. By Wednesday, you don’t even want to eat you’re so tired. Friday into Saturday, you think you can hear whispering and it doesn’t stop, causing you to let out soft whimpers as tears stream down your face—you just want to be left alone.

So, Sunday morning, you planted the seeds of ‘I’m not feeling too good’, needing a night to just sleep. To rest.

Your folks bought it—well, maybe they just saw how badly you wanted to stay home, but with your luck, they would’ve reminded you that the lord heals— But they didn’t. Instead, they told you to get some rest and that you could have some supper left over from the night before.

As soon as they left for the evening service, you went up to your room and collapsed on your bed. It was a cooler night than it had been in weeks, a rare break from the soldering heat you were used to. You didn’t need to open your windows for it to be cool enough to sleep and that was a blessing. You fell asleep as soon as your head hit the pillow. As if someone had snapped their fingers.

And you weren’t sure how long you slept. But it was a wonderful reprieve from—

Tap, tap, tap!

Your eyes shot open. Someone was at the front door.

And you knew who it was.

You sat up in bed and rubbed your eyes. You took a deep breath. And you made mistake number three. You got up from bed, pulled on your robe, and went to the front door. You took a deep breath. Now or never. You just wanted him to let you sleep.

You were so tired.

So, you opened the door and got your first good look at your ghost.

He had dark hair, and had dark edges, as you had remembered—but he had no instrument wrapped around him. And his face was more.. boyish than you would’ve thought yet complimented by smile lines and crows feet. He had a smile that made your stomach turn.

“Good evenin’,” His voice takes you back—for the most part, he had a southern drawl, but there was something else about it—something foreign. Unfamiliar. Ancient. “Hope I didn’t wake ya.”

And that strikes a chord—because you know it’s him that has been keeping you up, so you’re already feeling defensive.

“Can I help you with somethin’?”

This causes him to laugh a bit, and you just stare at him.

“Would you mind if I came in for a minute? I been walkin’ ‘round all day and just need to rest my feet.” He says, and his words are so.. innocent. But he stares at you like you’re prey.

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea.” You say softly, and he tilts his head, leaning in a bit, his eyes burning into your skin as they wander your nightgown. You pull your robe tighter.

“How come? You all alone in there?” His voice drops a bit, and there’s something much more sinister behind his words. When you don’t respond, he continues, “Say, you wouldn’t be the daughter of that preacher I saw givin’ his sermon earlier, would you?” He asks, and you’re not sure how he knows about your daddy’s preaching considering you never feel him watching you during the day—but you don’t care. Every inch of you is screaming to run away. To slam the door shut and hide in your closet until your parents get home. Maybe you should’ve grabbed your Pa’s gun before answering the door.

“Can I help you?” You repeat your question, your grip on the door tightening.

“Didn’t your mama ever teach you manners?”

“She taught me to not talk to strangers.”

That makes him scoff.

“Well, my name’s Remmick. What’s yours?” He asks, and you decide to add a tick on the list of mistakes—and you give him your name. Remmick doesn’t seem surprised, like this isn’t new information in the slightest. “Well, we ain’t strangers anymore-- your daddy’s the preacher, right?”

“Yes. He’s preachin’ now, right in town. You should go and check it out.” You’re trying to get him out of here, off your front porch and out of your life. But his feet do not move. It seems as if he’s exactly where he wants to be—well, almost.

“Now why would I do that when I can talk to his pretty lost lamb?” You almost take a step back at that.

Pretty? Lost?

“Ain’t no one lost here, except maybe you.” You remind, and he shakes his head,

“Nah, see, now I just don’t think that’s true. You wanna know what I really think, sugar?” He doesn’t give you an answer before he continues, “I think you’ve been lost for a long time. I think you’ve had your head in the clouds, dreamin’ ‘bout somewhere you ain’t never been. And I think you’ve been waitin’ for me to take you there.”

His words aren’t accusatory, they’re knowing.

And deep down, you know they’re right. That you have been waiting for something to change for years. But why would you let him believe he’s right?

“Well, I don’t think anyone pays you to do much thinkin’, so I don’t buy whatever it is you’re sellin’.”

It makes him laugh.

“No, you don’t yet. But you will.” He says, “Don’t matter how long it takes, one day.. you’re gonna let me in.”

You scoff as you go to close the door.

“You’ll be waitin’ a long time.”

His words hit you just as you close the door—

“That’s alright, lass. I’m patient.”

You start recalling memories that aren’t yours. Glimpses.

A soft touch, a flicker of a white dress, and then a whisp of fire.

Remmick ruins the dream every time. He shows up, and the dream ends, disappearing into clouds of smoke, but when you wake, you could swear you’ve lived hundreds of years. Tuesday night, you bid your folks goodnight, promising to help your mother with cleaning in the morning,

Then, you wait.

You wait for a long time. You sit on your bed, and you’re not sure when you start to fall asleep. But before you know it, you’re dreaming again, and this time the dream has a different sort of fuzziness, like film, just like the movies they showed in town (you’d made a habit of sneaking into the theatre while on errands in town.) And this time, the dream isn’t filled with dread.

But every bit of it feels real.

The dream starts with you in a bedroom, and someone throwing stones against the glass of your window. It’s as if you’re watching yourself open the window and help someone inside—but you feel the warmth of his hand spread up your arm as you pull him inside, the laugh that escapes him also escapes you, and before you can do much else, his lips are on yours. And it feels real, like you know the feeling well.

Remmick looks younger. Younger than you’ve ever seen him. His crows feet and smile lines are far less pronounced, and his hair is much lighter than you recall, even with a bit of scruff. And he’s happy. The way he smiles spreads a warmth across your chest, as if you are the one he’s pressing against the bed, whispering about—

Well, he’s whispering in choppy, broken words, his accent thick and foreign. And yet, as if you know him like you know yourself, despite having had one, brief conversation with him, you understand him despite his unfamiliar accent—

“You’re so pretty,” he starts, and you can feel the heat at your core, his fingers finding slick folds as he stretches you out for his cock with his fingers. You’ve never been touched like this before outside of these dream-memories, but it’s like he’s fucking you with his fingers, and you’re letting him—hell, you’re enjoying it, “Letting me fill you up like this, bein’ such a good girl for your—"

You wake up before he can finish his sentence, waking up with a start, blinking as you looked around your now dark bedroom. You rub your eyes, feeling sweat drip down your forehead as you wipe the hair from your face. Your chest is heaving up and down as you attempt to ground yourself; You’re safe, you think, nothing is wrong, and—

Your thighs are coated with a silky wetness, because that dream—or maybe it was a memory—felt so real. You’re waiting for your brain to catch up to the way your body is buzzing for more, chasing an unfamiliar touch that you have always known. You try to reason with yourself.

You’re being difficult, you think.

How could you possibly have been that close to him, he didn’t even come inside on Sunday, you remind.

What would he have finished that sentence with?, you wonder, before shaking your head and leaning over to your bedside table to find your crucifix, but you’re interrupted just as your hand finds the chain with a tap, tap, tap!—

Your eyes drift to the window, covered by a thin white curtain, but you can see his silhouette through it, and just the thought of him makes you nauseous—and maybe something else, a little more sinister, a little less than holy.

But you were waiting for him, not that you’d ever admit it, especially not to him, so you clutch the crucifix in your hand, the metal of the cross digging into your palm, before going over to the window and opening the curtain, like ripping off a bandage with bated breath—

And you let out a soft exhale of relief (with a dash of disappointment) when you find no one standing in front of the window. You blink, and when you open your eyes, suddenly there he is, his eyes burning holes into your skin. The sudden appearance makes you jump (you feel like your soul’s left your body, but you’re not that lucky), which causes Remmick to start laughing at your fear.

Over two weeks of sleep deprivation, nightmares, downright torture, has worn you down. Tears fill your eyes, angry tears that threaten to run down your face, but you just blink them back, and when your eyes open again, they harden into a glare at the man through the glass. Your hands are moving before you can stop yourself, opening the window and telling him—

“If you’re looking to kill me, stop being a pussy and get it over with.” Your voice is sharp, and it makes him laugh again. He’s looking at you like he’s already won. You quietly wonder how long it will take you to understand whatever game he’s playing with you.

“I don’t wanna kill yer, sugar.” He answers, and you think about the dream you had. Were those really his hands? But why did it feel like it was you he was touching?

“Then, what do you want?” You wonder, and he shrugs.

“I want you to invite me inside.” It clicks then, that in the dream, there was no invitation, he had just climbed through the window. The gears in your mind begin to move, and your eyes flicker down to his neck, where two small puncture wounds sit as if he had been—

You take a step forward to look at the teeth that he bears, and Remmick humors you, a sickening grin spreading over his face as you peer—and then you step back as if you were worried he’d lunge and bite you (and he would).

“Clever girl,” he praises, and you can feel a shiver of something unfamiliar run down your spine.

“Vampires aren’t real,” You say, and he gives you this look. You’re moving around your room, turning your back to him (idiot), and digging around for your copy of Dracula. You had to keep it hidden from your parents, not wanting them to accuse you of being persuaded by the devil (Ha.) You glance back at Remmick, who’s just looking at you and smiling, and wonder if maybe you are. You step back towards him to continue your thought, “So all I have to do to get rid of you is stake you through the heart?” You wonder, and he puts a hand right over where his heart should be.

“Ya could just ask me to leave instead of snappin’ at me, lass.”

“Oh, please.” You scoff, and it makes him smile again.

“Y’know, that Stoker guy, he gives men like me a bad name,” he starts, “That whole ‘we can’t rest on foreign soil’ thang is a load of shit,” he informs, a smirk on his face. “I can rest anywhere, so long that there’s a pretty girl layin’ there with me.”

The comment goes over your head, because you’re too busy putting the pieces together to acknowledge the way he flirts with you.

“But I bet he got the other stuff right,” You say, “I never see you in the sun, only ever at night, and you can’t come inside without invitation.”

Remmick’s fingers curl around your windowsill as he stares at you, as if he’s finding some self-control before he talks again,

“Yer a smart one, I’ll give ya that.” He hums, “Did I wake you?”

You look at him with a snap. Something about the way he says it makes you realize he knows exactly what kind of dream you were having.

“How did you do that? Get inside my head like that?” You question, and Remmick shakes his head.

“That ain’t me.” He says.

“Looked a whole damn lot like you.” You mutter, and he shakes his head.

“I didn’t put that in ya head,” He promises, “You did that all by yerself.”

Your hands come up to rub your eyes, and when you stop, you look up to Remmick again, and he’s looking at you. For a long time. But his gaze isn’t predatory, it’s almost.. yearning. Like he knows something you don’t—or at least, something you haven’t accepted yet.

“If I let you in,” You start, and when Remmick smiles, his teeth look sharper, “What will you do?” You wonder, recalling that vampires weren’t exactly known for their kindness, their softness.

Remmick tries something he hasn’t in a long time, but, he’d admit to himself later, you always knew how to make him a better man, so he tells you the truth;

“Well, first I’d really like to kiss ya.” He starts, and he tilts his head like a loyal dog, looking at you. “Then, I think I’ll fuck you, nice and slow, that way you really feel every inch of me buried inside of ya,” His vulgar words make you blush, and he seems to like the way you’re frozen in place, “and I’ll be really sweet about it too, don’t you worry, baby, I’ll make you cum over and over again—and I won’t stop kissin’ you neither. And when I’m sure you’re fucked out, curling against me, I’ll ask you if I can bite ya.” He says, “It’ll be up to you. I already told you, I am a patient man.” He leans forward, his fingers curling around the windowsill, and before you know it, you’re moving to slam the window shut, thankful that Remmick pulls his fingers away quick enough to not get his fingers crushed.

He laughs as he steps back, clearly enjoying your reaction. You glare at him, and it doesn’t seem to shake him at all.

“I can’t stand you,” You huff, and it only eggs him on. You close the curtain as drool drips down his chin.

You give in on a Thursday.

Well, you don’t fully give in.

But you do let him fuck you.

Alright, yeah, it’s not your brightest idea, but you’re running on empty when it happens. You haven’t slept through the night in weeks, and you keep having these dreams about all the ways he can touch you.

And maybe, you reason, if you get a fix of him, you could focus. Figure out what it is about him that tortures you, figure out why you have memories you don’t remember living. That night, when he shows up, you’re lingering in your doorway, and he smiles like he knows. Maybe he does.

You feel crazy. You’d venture to guess you are crazy.

And maybe that’s why, when he sees you sitting criss-cross applesauce on the edge of the door, just beyond his reach, his face forms into something kind of soft, and without a word, he sits in front of you, mirroring your position. Except, you’re sitting with your posture rigid, and Remmick leans back on palms spread across the wood of your porch.

You keep the gun you should’ve pointed at him the first night you met right out of view, but within reach. Just in case.

“Why, Hi there, sugar.” His voice does not seem to be letting up on any teasing, despite the look of fondness on his face.

You look at him for a long, quiet moment. You have a million questions, but finally decide on,

“Why won’t you let me sleep?” You continue when he goes to open his mouth, “And don’t tell me you want me to let you in. I won’t. You know I’m not gonna, so why not just let me sleep through the night? Why torture me, wondering if those dreams are memories or not? Why not spare me the filth, the sin?”

Remmick smiles at this. He shifts so he’s leaning forward now.

“I’ll cut ya a deal.” You resist the urge to roll your eyes. “You let me in, and you never have to worry about sleep again.”

You’re not a perfect person. You consider it for a second. But you’re also not stupid, understanding it’s exactly what he wants.

“Counteroffer,” You start, and Remmick looks amused. You’re glad (Kind of, not really) that at least one of you finds this funny. “You take a hike for the night and let me catch up on a few hours, without any implanted memories either.”

“How ‘bout you consider my offer again?” He hums, and you shrug.

“Then I guess we have nothing to talk about.” You say, “Goodnight Remmick,” you hum, before standing up, turning away from him and moving to close the screen door when you hear—

“Wait—Just, wait a minute, baby, let’s talk about this.” You can’t help the smirk on your face, wiping it off quick before sitting back down in front of him. He lets out a huff before telling you, “Alright, how about.. You come outside,” he starts, holding a finger up when you open your mouth to counter, “I won’t bite you, but you let me show you how real those memories can be.” His tone is rich, starving for something. Your finger twitches at the idea.

This moment is probably the worst of your vampire related mistakes.

“And then, when you’re done, you’ll let me sleep.” You say, and he smiles.

“Deal.” He holds his hand out for you to shake.

“Deal—Woah!” As soon as your hand grasps his, he’s pulling you past the doorway and onto the porch, right on top of him. His laugh pierces your ears as cold hands spread across your sides.

“You’re a naïve thing.” His tone is too sweet, and your face is too red.

“You’re a dick.” You grumble back, and he squeezes your sides,

“You have a dirty mouth for a church girl.” He accuses, his hands beginning to roam. Your face is flush with embarrassment, but you can’t stop thinking about how cold he is, like a body that’s lost it’s heat. It’s really unsettling, but you’d be lying if it didn’t make you want him worse. Something about his non-human qualities draws you in.

“We can’t do this here,” you remind.

“Why not?”

“Besides my folks sleepin’ bout ten feet from us?” You ask rhetorically and Remmick lets out a huff. It almost makes you smile.

“Fine, we’ll go somewhere more private, just give me a kiss,” He grins, and it’s your turn to scoff.

“You’re insatiable.” You accuse, “Say please.”

Remmick looks at you for a long time.

“Please.” He finally answers, and you reward him by pressing your lips to his. He eagerly leans into it, tilting his head a bit, giving your lips a better angle to melt into his. He adjusts in one fluid motion, sitting up with you in his lap now. His kiss is desperate, needy. His hands move up to cradle your face.

He kisses you slowly, wanting to really take his time with you, proving to you just how patient he’ll be for you. He can be good, he wants to say, he can be so good for you.

His tongue lips your lips before he’s pulling away to whisper, “How ‘bout I fuck you in the field behind your house?” he wonders, “Would ye like that, lass?” He asks, and before you can answer, his hand moves up your skirt and between your thighs, his fingers finding your damp underwear. You gasp at the feeling, and he smiles. “Yeah, I recon you would.”

His lips find yours again, and he’s wrapping his arms around you and hoisting you up, carrying you towards the back of the house as you cling onto him, giggling against his lips as he kisses you, over and over again.

When you’re in the field, Remmick pauses, not wanting to put you down, but needing to take off the shirt he’s wearing so he can fuck you on the grass. He sighs, before setting you down so you can stand.

“Don’t you go nowhere,” He advises, and there’s no room for argument in his words. You happily watch him unbutton his shirt, before laying it on the grass. He sits down on the shirt and lays back, holding his hands out to him. “C’mere,” he requests, and he holds your hands to steady as you position yourself ontop of him, your knees resting on his shirt.

You admire his torso. He’s pale, but he looks strong. Rough hands come up to brush hair out of your face before he grips your hips, pulling you down so your clothed cunt is pressing on his growing erection. You groan softly, as Remmick’s mouth meets yours, pulling you in for a kiss.

His fingers find your panties as you kiss, and the way your hips roll against his hard on does not go unnoticed by him. His fingers travel further, beginning to tease your folds as you moan into his mouth. His tongue explores your mouth, like he’s trying to suck your face off.

There’s no fanfare as Remmick’s fingers slip inside of you, except for you letting out a whine as you adjust to the feeling. You wiggle your hips, as if you’re trying to move away from him,

“No, Shh, C’mon, Lass,” He hums, catching your mouth with his lips, silencing the way you whine and moan, “It’s okay, I’ve got ya, just relax for me, yeah?” He says softly, beginning to kiss your cheek, then your jaw, and then your neck. You hum, inhaling sharply.

You can do this, you think. You want this so bad. You move your hips towards him instead of away, and let out a sharp gasp as he moves his fingers,

“That’s it, that’s my clever girl,” he mumbles softly, “You know how to ride my fingers just perfectly, don’t you? You sure this is yer first time?” He mumbles, whispering into your ear, licking sweat off the skin of your cheek. He moves his fingers faster now, edging you on to ride his fingers.

You let out an annoyed huff when he asks that, only to be cut off with a soft whine when he moves his fingers faster.

“You know it’s my first time.” You mumble, and he smirks.

“Well, it ain’t mine.”

Yeah, you had a feeling.

“Whatever,” You whine, continuing to ride his fingers.

“Just let me stretch you out,” he grumbles, “I’ll make you feel so good. C’mon, baby, let me make you feel so good,” His teeth graze your neck, but Remmick takes only a nibble, just to hear you gasp as he bites, before moving his fingers faster, making sure to hit just the right spot to make you see stars.

“Oh, god,” You whine, “Rem, I’m close,” He shushes you softly, guiding your hips to ride his fingers.

“There you go, look at you.. that’s it..” He coos softly, “Let go for me, all over my fingers,” He praises, biting the shell of your ear when you let out a sharp moan, biting your lip hard, enough to draw blood, even just a bit. His tongue is immediately on your lips as you ride your high, panting softly against his lisp. You give him this look and he shrugs. “Can’t blame a man for takin’ a taste.” He grins, before kissing you again, oh so slowly slipping his fingers out of you before he’s pulling away.

Then, he brings his hand up to his lips and licks one of the fingers you just came on, letting out a soft ‘mmm’, before holding the other two to your lips, wanting you to open your mouth. You’re both a little shocked at how easily you comply. You lick his fingers clean, and he’s drooling by the time you’re done.

“I need to be inside of you,” he grumbles, beginning to unlatch his belt, before opening his pants, and pulling them down just a bit to pull out his cock. Then, his fingers move up to your thighs, pulling your panties down.

He rolls them right off your legs, before having you sit back on his lap. He kisses you and stuffs your panties in his pocket while you’re distracted. Then, he’s guiding the tip of his cock towards your slits, teasing your wet, leaking folds. You gasp at that feeling, before rolling your hips forward. He huffs softly, before grabbing your hip with one hand, slowly pushing inside you, groaning softly at the feeling, before kissing you—

He doesn’t want you waking anyone nearby up. Then you might have to stop and Remmick might snap. He slowly pushes you to sit on his cock, and when you’re finally full of him, he gives you a moment to adjust. He keeps kissing you. Then, he feels you begin to roll your hips and clench around him. He begins to thrust into you, grabbing your hips so he can set the pace.

You begin to melt, your hands resting on Remmick’s bare chest, stabilizing yourself as he fucks up into you, your hips beginning to shake as you get close.

“Remmick,” You whimper, and he hums and kisses your head.

Something strange happens as you he fucks you. Suddenly, you have déjà vu, remembering a filmy memory, just like that dreams you’ve been happening. Except in this memory, Remmick and you are in this exact position, his hips thrusting against yours—but you’re in a bed. It’s early morning, and in the memory, you go to look at his face, but he’s flipping you over suddenly, quickening his pace and using his free hand that isn’t on your hips to force your back down, as you moan into the pillows.

When you open your eyes, Remmick is still making you ride him in the field behind your house. The memory was brief, only a flash—but it shakes you to your core, until you realize how close you are.

“Oh, my god,” You whine softly, “Rem, ‘m close, honey,” he moans when you call him that, not stopping his pace as he fucks hard into you, feeling your legs spasm as you cum, moaning into his mouth. He keeps fucking you, and then you begin to pull away, but Remmick grabs your hips and pulls you back towards him, reveling in the way you clench around him.

He cums with a moan silenced by your mouth, but you wrap your arms around his neck, hands playing with his hair as he lays back, the two of you panting as he rubs up and down your sides. He listens to your heartbeat, loud in his ears, while looking at the stars.

Neither of you talk for a long while. You take a break, just laying with one another, appreciating the moment.

As you lay against him, warm cock still stuffed deep inside of you, filling you up perfectly, Remmick whispers in your ear,

“Lass?” His voice is rough, and he’s panting gently. “Will you let me bite you?” He asks, and you know what this is. If you say no, and Remmick bites you anyways, you will die still leaking with his cum.

You hesitate.

He notices.

But he feels the way you clench around him when he asks.

“Not tonight, Rem.” You say, your tone a little too affectionate as you kiss him softly. He lets out a soft noise into the kiss, and he’s grateful for it, because it gives him time to find his patience. You just smell so god damn good.

“’mkay, sugar” he mumbles against your lips. “That’s alrght. I meant what I said, I won’t bite you until you let me.” He offers softly.

“You promise?” You wonder. Remmick kisses your cheek.

“I promise.”

A long moment pauses.

“You know I gotta go back inside,” You mumble against his lips, and Remmick groans, his head falling back against the grass.

“Why you always gotta ruin my fun?” He wonders out loud, and you smile a bit.

“Just lucky, I guess.” You tease as you sit up, starting to fix your hair and your top. “Hey, where the hell are my panties?”

Remmick smiles a bit.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it.” He offers, and you roll your eyes.

“You’re somethin’ else, you know that, Remmick?” You ask. Remmick smiles and looks at you for a long time.

“I wish you didn’t have to go.” His words are honest, as honest as he can be. You just smile at him and press a kiss to the space between his eyes.

“Well, being apart only makes the reunion sweeter.” You remind, and Remmick almost rolls his eyes. He just shakes his head.

“But I hate to be apart from you,” and based on the way he made your thighs shake, you’re inclined to believe him.

“I know,” You hum, leaning in to kiss him again. He loves this playful, affectionate side of you. “But you told me you were a patient man. Besides, you owe me a good night’s sleep.” You recall, and he nods.

“I did. And I am a man of my word, so,” he leans in and plans one long, warm kiss right to your lips, his tongue barely breaching your parted lips. Then he pulls away to say, “Off ye go, lass. I’ll see you tomorrow night.” He promises, tapping your thigh over your dress and helping you up. He stands, plucking his shirt off the ground. You linger for a moment.

“You don’t want to walk me home?” You wonder, and Remmick begins to button up his shirt with a soft exhale.

“Yer pa’s awake,” He grumbles, “Plus.. I gotta eat.” He confesses. You notice, then, the way he moves with a subtle fatigue. He must be hungry. He must’ve thought there was a chance you said yes to being bitten tonight, wanting to really savor the meal he’d been dreaming of for over centuries.

Something about that makes your stomach turn.

“Okay,” you oblige, because hey... he held up his end of the bargain. He isn’t biting you, and you’ll get a few hours. You just wonder what hunger must feel like to him, since the craving for human blood must be vastly different than the hunger you experienced, especially considering his life span.

He could go a few weeks without eating before hunger hit him.

But before you can walk away, he grabs your hand, before bringing it up to his lips, inhaling your scent sharply before dropping your hand.

“Goodnight, lass.” He says softly, and you smile to him.

“Goodnight, Remmick.” You say back, walking a couple steps forward before looking back to him, maybe just to see him one last time before he goes out in search of food. He’s standing there, shirt messily buttoned and wrinkled, covered in grass and dirt. He doesn’t mind. His eyes are fixed on you, just watching.

You keep walking. When you get up to your porch, your face a bit warm, and your hair kind of sweaty, which you’d blame on the humidity, you remember what he said about your father, so you enter after taking a deep breath.

And there he is, your father, having a cup of something that you doubt is water, while sitting at the table. You smile to him, going towards the cabinet to get a cup for water.

“Where’d you get off to?” He wonders, and you shrug.

“I couldn’t sleep. Figured a walk might be nice.” You say, and your father nods.

“Is it a boy?” He asks, and you just smile again. Remmick isn’t a ‘boy’, he’s—well, he’s not like any man that you’ve ever known.

“What?”

“Is it a boy that’s been keeping you up at night?” He asks, and you shake your head,

“No, pa. Told you, I don’t sleep well in this heat.” You take a sip of your water.

“Right.”

“Well, I’m goin’ to bed.” You yawn, “Night, pa.” You hum, and you don’t even hear him as he bids you goodnight, too busy imagining the night’s sleep you have ahead of you. You close the door behind you and flick your leg to kick your shoe off and doing the same thing with your other leg.

You put on a thin silk thing to sleep in before glancing out your window. You can see the field where the two of you just were from here, and you see no sign of Remmick. Poor boy, you think, he must be starving. You hope whoever it is that feasts his hunger is good enough until you can figure out what to do about him. If maybe you should let him bite you.

You fall right asleep as you soon as your head hits the pillow. You’re so tired. And, as foolish as it might be... You trust Remmick to let you sleep.

You sleep soundly that night, completely dreamless—The bright morning sun is shining through your windows, waking you up far too early. But that’s okay.

You feel refreshed, and quite honestly, looking forward to the next time you’d see him. You spend all day thinking about him, wondering what he looks like when he’s sleeping.

By the time you wake up to Remmick’s game, it’s almost too late.

He’s turned you into something you don’t recognize, and he hasn’t even sunk his teeth into you. You find yourself not caring for other people, busy thinking about your sharp toothed lover. Well, not that you ever cared for other people—but even little things like going to the shops and running errands go from mundane to agitating. All you want to do is wait around for the sun to set so you can sit on your porch and make out with him, ride his fingers, and play with his hair.

Sometimes you read to him, other times he fiddles with a smaller four string guitar and plays music. You watch his face as he plays, sometimes humming a tune that sounds familiar and foreign at the same time.

You don’t really sleep. Sure, the sleep deprivation makes you agitated and cranky, but something about Remmick soothes you out of those moods (So it’s torture when he’s not around. You think, in the back of your mind, that this is on purpose. You don’t mind as much as you used to.) And when you do, your dreams are full of those memories that aren’t yours.

Except, they are yours.

There are glimpses of you in a mirror, and you’re met with your reflection as you know it. Sometimes the mirror is a small thing in that wood house where you pulled Remmick in through the window. Sometimes, the memories take place in a grand hall, with lots of candlelight, elegant music, and silk gloves. In those memories, Remmick stalks you, eyes full of adoration as a suitor spins you—mostly, you get glimpses of him out of the corner of your eye in those dreams. Sometimes, the dreams take place in a cramped apartment, where Remmick wipes soot off your face with a rag and a gentle touch.

But there are other dreams too.

Sometimes, you dream of that wood house burning to the ground, and it’s like you’re burning too. Sometimes, you dream of sharp claws cutting across your stomach, ruining a pretty silk gown. Sometimes, you dream of a mean laugh as your hand is crushed in a big power loom, your screams drowned out by the machine’s loud mechanical whirring.

A Saturday deep in the dog days of summer is when everything changes. Well, it started as Saturday, but when it happens, you’re pretty sure it’s early in the morning on Sunday.

The night had started the same as it usually did. With you staying up, and stepping outside, taking his hand when he offered it to you. You had bit his shoulder trying to stay quiet, and your mouth had filed with a bitter, nasty bile, which caused you to pull away, right as you were riding him on the steps to your porch, and he had begged so sweetly, “C’mon, baby, don’t stop, you’re so tight around me”, and you appreciated the dirty talk, really, you do, but the taste of his.. blood(?) on your lips, in your mouth, on your tongue, causes you to mumble out a soft “Is that your blood? Does it even count as blood?” but Remmick didn’t really care about the question, thick drool dribbling down his chin at the sight of your face bloody, but not hurting, deciding instead to catch your lips in his to kiss you.

When you had pulled your panties back on, and he had buttoned his pants, you found yourself leaning against the railings of the porch, your legs extended over his lap as he holds his guitar. As he tunes the strings, his hand rubs up and down your leg, a mindless action full of love.

You had wiped his blood and his drool from your mouth, but the bitter taste lingered. You’d have gone inside to get a drink if you weren’t so infatuated with him.

“Will you sing me something?” You finally ask, your voice cutting through the sounds of late summer, cicadas humming, frogs singing, crickets strumming. The perfect ensemble to accompany his voice.

Remmick, for all his talk, all his humming, all his strumming, hesitates. And he finds himself asking why—why is he hesitating to sing you a song? Probably because his first instinct is to sing a song you know—well, a song a version of you knew, a long time ago.

He looks at you and then smiles.

“’Course, darlin’.” He hums. He puts his guitar to the side, causing you to sit up a little straighter, intrigued. He starts to utter soft words in a foreign tongue, a language you don’t know, a tune you can’t follow, and your hand finds his, your fingers curling around a gold band. You stand, and he keeps singing but his eyes follow you as you readjust, sitting right on his lap. A smile pierces through his voice as his other arm wraps around you. Your forehead rests against his, and his eyes close, then his voice becomes quieter as he gets to a familiar chorus.

A familiar chorus?

Your eyes flutter shut as your fingers mess with his ring, and suddenly you’re not on the front porch of your folks’ shack, you’re somewhere else.

You’re in that wooden house, and Remmick is singing this song as you sit in his lap. You’re wearing a pretty white dress, and when you look down to your hands wrapped around his, you’re taken back by the sight of your hand, a wedding band on your ring finger. You look back at Remmick’s face in the memory, and he opens his eyes, pausing his singing.

“Mo ghrá thú,” and you aren’t sure what unsettles you more—the fact that you know exactly what that means, or the fact that your instinct is to say it back.

Actually, you know exactly what takes the cake for ‘most unsettling’. It’s the fact that Remmick’s eyes are not the dark, sometimes red eyes that you’ve gotten used to. In this memory, fuzzy and filmy, Remmick’s eyes are a soft blue that take your breath away.

Then, you open your eyes, scared. More scared than you had been in weeks. Scared of dying. Scared of Remmick. And honestly, you have every right to be, because Remmick is not only drooling like a dog, his teeth are big, sharp, and his mouth is open, hovering over your shoulder, jaw wide like he’s about to take a bite out of you.

“What the fuck,” You spit, as you push him off you, taking a few paces back (adding another tick to the list of Vampire related mistakes, you’re supposed to be running towards the house, not away!). Your hand comes up to wipe blood dripping from your nose. Why your nose is bleeding, you don’t know, and honestly, you have bigger problems to deal with right now.

Remmick looks regretful. And you’re not particularly sure why, but you can tell that he doesn’t feel bad about almost biting you, he feels bad that he got caught before he could sink his teeth into your skin.

“Lass—”

“You told me,” you recalled, and he wants to curse at you for being so damn smart, so damn hot, for making him want you so damn bad. “You told me that if you bit me, it would be up to me!” You’re angry. Hundreds of years of anger and fear has built up and is now oozing out of every pore.

Remmick knew it couldn’t last forever. That eventually you’d figure it out, that he would push you too far. If he was human, it might make his heart ache.

"I got caught up in the moment," Remmick sighs, “C’mere, sugar, come—”

“Let me see your ring.” You demand.

He lets out a condescending chuckle, that comes across as disbelieving. But you’ve woken up to his tricks.

“My ring?” He scoffs, “Don’t be ridiculous, now, baby, it’s just a—”

You extend your palm from where you are, a few steps back from him. Remmick wants to grab you, to finish this once and for all.. His eyes burn into yours as he pulls his golden band off, before tossing it to you.

You catch it, your eyes never leaving his. You look down, bringing the ring up to your face, taking a long look at it. Your breath catches. Your name is etched onto the inscription, and you suspect that somewhere, a ring just like you saw on your own hand in that memory is inscribed with his name, buried somewhere long forgotten.

You finally look up at him, after what feels like an eternity (Remmick would laugh at that. You have no idea what it is to wait.).

“So,” You inhale, “When were you gonna tell me that when you were human, you were married to me? Well, a version of me, at least.” Remmick doesn’t respond. Not for a long moment. He’s just starring at you, like he’s trying to decide on something. You keep going, “And when were you goin’ to tell me that you’ve found me, time after time, and killed me, over and over again?” Your voice is shaky, uneven, and full of fear.

If he wasn’t so mad at that accusation, your fear might make him hard.

“Nah, now,” he laughs bitterly with a scoff, “that ain’t fair. You know that ain’t fair, because it ain’t true.”

“Which part?”

“Which part?” He echoes, and you nod.

“Yeah, which damn part? Because I know the marriage part is true, I got memories that ain’t mine, memories of your eyes and they’re blue. And I keep getting glimpses of you killing me, so what the hell part of it ain’t true?”

Remmick’s eyes burn a bright red.

“You have no idea how long I have been—”

“Oh, spare me,” You laugh, “I can’t believe you.” You spit, and in one movement, you throw the ring by his feet and start to make your way back up the porch steps, but Remmick is quicker than you, one hand reaching to grab the ring, slipping it back on his hand before he’s kneeling on the step he was just sitting on, and grabbing your leg as you attempt to walk away.

“Don’t,” he says, and you will yourself not to look at him, to not let him trick you into staying, “Come on, Lass,” he leans in and presses soft kisses up your calf, his hand rubbing up and down, “You’re tellin’ me, you can’t feel it? That pull that keeps me around, that helps me to find you, any place, any time?”

You look back at him, because you love him.

And it doesn’t hurt that he looks awful good on his knees. His face is desperate, begging.

You almost give in. Then you think of the memory in the factory, with your hand crushed in that machine. Remmick did that. He’s the one that caused you all that pain, all of this fear. You look back at him and shake your head.

“I’m done, Rem.” You turn and go to walk inside.

Another mistake.

Remmick’s grip hardens, and you attempt to tear your leg from his grip, because it’s going to start bruise if you don’t get away, but as you try and step away, Remmick tugs, knocking you straight to the ground, on your stomach, bruising your knee, hip and arm. You let out a soft groan, glancing back at Remmick, still gripping your ankle.

“I ain’t lettin’ you go that easy,” And Remmick would’ve finished with ‘not this time’, but you kick him in the face before he can respond. He lets go of you with a groan, that dissolves into a laugh, his hand comes up to simply set his nose back into place with a sickening crack!, and you’re already on your feet when he rises from his knees, taking another step towards you. “I tried really hard, baby, I did—”

“Oh, cry me a river.” You spit, already stepping back from him, almost like a dance. You take a step back, and he steps forward.

“Ah, ah—Do not interrupt me, lass,” he laughs, “See, I’ve been a patient man, ya know that, I have been patient for centuries. And every time, yer slip through my fingers like sand, no—not sand. Sugar.” He looks like he’s plotting how he’s going to make you scream, and oh, he is, “And I love when ye make me chase ye, I do, but I do not take kindly to spoiled little brats who can’t appreciate when good is good,” He takes another step forward to you, “So next time I get my hands on you, I’m gonna bite ya. I am goin’ to make you mine, and this time, I will keep you mine. I wanna see you kill your mama and pa too, you’ll do it with a smile, and you and I will be together for eternity, you won’t hardly remember denying me,” Remmick promises, then he moves forward to grab you, to pull you close to him, sink his teeth into that pretty neck of yours, but you step back quickly, and he’s stopped by the invisible shield that prevents him from entering your house uninvited. Remmick laughs bitterly. “that’s a cruel trick, clever girl.”

You smile, but it’s not kind, and it’s not easy.

You can do that too. Make threatening promises.

“I’m gonna kill you.”

Remmick looks at you.

“What?”

“I am goin’ to kill you.” You reiterate, “And I’ll keep trying to until the day I die. And if it ain’t me, it’ll be someone who looks an awful lot like me.”

He lets out a snarl—hundreds of years of anger and shame and waiting has made turned him into something unrecognizable. Something evil.

“I’m patient.” He tells you with a glare.

“Not patient enough.” You glare right back.

A match made in hell, the two of you.

You turn, ready for this to be over.

“Well, sweet dreams, and good luck sleepin’, lass.” Remmick says, just as the door closes behind you.

You don’t dignify him (or humiliate yourself) by looking back this time.

You fall asleep angry. You fall asleep planning.

You get an hour or two before you’re woken up by a nightmare you can’t remember when you wake up. You peer out your curtains, met with blinding sun of a brand-new day. You spend twenty minutes getting ready, scrounging up every cent you can—a birthday card here, a penny there, and a small bundle of savings you kept in a metal box between books under your bed.

You count every dollar. It’s not enough, but it will have to do. You pull a knit bag over your shoulder, and stuff your copy of Dracula inside. You tear out the mostly blank dedication page and begin to scribble a list of things you’ll be needing. Your money and list are stuffed into your pocket. When you’re finished getting ready, you pull your bedroom door open only to be met with the sight of your parents, ready for church.

You must be a sight for sore eyes—apart from the bags under your eyes and the one thrown over your shoulder, you have fresh bruises on your face, your clothes are wrinkled and ragged, and you hold a pair of flats in your hands that are coated with dirt.

“You can’t go to church like that,” are the first words out of your father’s mouth.

“Well, I ain’t goin’ to church,” you respond, moving past them to the kitchen. You search the cabinets for a minute, finding an empty flask and putting that in your bag, too. Then, you begin to scoop breakfast onto a plate without permission. You’re going to have a long day and an even longer night, so you should really eat while you can.

Your folks are looking at you like you have two heads.

“What do you mean you ain’t goin’ to church?” Your ma scoffs, “’Course you’re goin’ to church, it’s Sunday.”

You wonder if they’ll do this the easy way.

“I can’t today, I gotta..” you pause, not knowing how to explain what you need to get ready for. “I got errands to run. I’ll make it up to you guys, I promise,” and your parents share an uneasy look, because they might be two of God’s most loyal lambs, but they aren’t stupid. Their little girl hasn’t been sleeping, and they’re watching you eat like it’s your last meal (and you quietly hope it’s not).

Your father says your full name in a stern tone, the type that men take on when they want you to listen to them, before continuing, “If you’re sayin’ you got better places to be than the house of the lord on his day of rest—”

You slam both hands down on the table. Okay, the hard way it is, you think.

“Jesus Christ! Why can’t the two of you just trust me for once? I will go to church tomorrow, Bible study the day after that, hell, I will join a damn convent by the end of the week, but today, I got things to do that ain’t have nothin’ to do with the two of you or God, so either I can catch a ride to town with you, or I can walk there, which is just gonna slow me down.” You snap, years of pent-up frustration spilling out in your words, brought to a head by two months of barely sleeping, memories that you don’t remember making, and a tormenting, cruel man who wants to kill not only you, but your folks too.

Needless to say, it’s a real quiet drive to town.

You buy ammunition for your pa’s gun, hoping that long forgotten days of watching your dad and uncle shoot the thing would come back to you after ten years. You’re not entirely sure that will kill Remmick, but it’s the best you have for now. You stop at the general store, and you buy two jars of pickled garlic, a spool of string, bandages, and a pack of cigarettes. You do stop by your father’s church in between services, avoiding his questions, only filling the flask you found with holy water.

You walk right past your ma, in the pews, praying for you. You’ll apologize tomorrow, you hope.

You wander off the beaten path afterwards, finding the house of a woman you’ve heard is much more familiar with the supernatural than you are. You’re honest with her, too. You hand her the rest of your money and beg the woman to tell you how to kill a vampire.

And that’s how you spend the better part of your afternoon pulling legs off chairs in your house, then filing them down with a knife. You manage to cut your fingers a few times, thankful that they’d clot before nightfall. You don’t need to give him any advantages. You wrap bandages around your fingers before you hide a few of the stakes here and there, hoping your parents will be home long after this is done. You set one jar of garlic in a trap, using the string to set it up. You turn your small shack into a Remmick mouse trap, planning exactly how you’ll do it. Your final touch is wrapping the rosary around your shotgun, letting the cross hang off the barrel.

Then you wait. You wait for a long time. You bounce between chewing on pickled gloves of garlic and smoking cigarettes. It’s not much of a dinner, but it’s all you can do.

You even doze off a bit, waking up with a start when you hear singing.

Singing?

It’s dark now, darker than it had been when you fell asleep. You peer out one of the windows in the house, and in the distance, you see Remmick leaning against the well where you first saw him, from a time that seems so damn long ago now.

He’s singing the song he sang to you last night, and the one he sang to you on your wedding night, hundreds of years ago.

Motherfucker. You glare at him, flip him off, and then move around the kitchen to make sure everything is ready. You tuck your knife into your pocket, right besides your small flask of holy water. You pop another piece of garlic into your mouth, beginning to chew it as you aim your gun at the screen door. You watch Remmick come closer, making his way up to your doorway. He stares at you, before his fingers become long claws, slicing through the screen door with an unmatched rage- well, unmatched by anyone except you.

His sudden destruction makes you falter, only for a moment, taking a half a step back, as a memory flashes into your mind—of his claws cutting across your stomach, adorned in a pretty silk dress, in a past life. You blink the memory away, before inhaling deeply.

“I’ll give you one more chance to leave.” You call to him. He glares. Instead of responding, he lets out a growl, something animalistic. He’s staring holes into your skin, and drool drips from his chin like he can’t help it. And you suspect he can’t. “Fine.” You snap, cocking the gun. “Come in, asshole.”

Remmick doesn’t hesitate. He slams open the screen door, stepping inside, ignoring the way the screen rattles against the main door. You don’t even pull the string to the garlic jar, just watch as Remmick’s violent opening of the screen causes the jar of pickled garlic resting on the top of the door toppling over and smashing right on top of his head, shattered glass falling all around him. But the best part is the way he yells, the way he curses as the garlic burns him with a violent hiss!, as steam rises off his melting skin.

Remmick is far less pretty like this.

“Son of a—” He curses his hands coming up to his face as he wipes off extra garlic juice from his eyes and hair, skin still steaming—but you see the way that certain parts of his skin are already healing. He snarls at you. “Ye know, Lass, I think this time, I’m really gonna enjoy killin’ yer.”

“Yeah,” You nod, “I figured. Feelin’s mutual, sugar.” You spit, aiming the gun right at him. You watch as melted, goopy skin that hangs off his skin begins to inch back his face, his hair regrowing in the spots it was singed off, as if someone is waving a magic wand over his wounds, fixing it.

“A gun? What, you’re gonna shoot me?” He asks, looking at your gun. He takes a step towards you, but your feet are firmly planted. “Nah, I don’t think so. Little girl like you, probably don’t even know to turn the safety off.. ye ain’t gonna shoot me.”

You click the safety off, voice steady.

“Wanna bet?”

“Yeah.” He huffs, chest to your gun now. He’s close enough to grab you, but you can see he’s having fun; And you, in the deepest part of your soul, are still his wife, and want him to enjoy this last bit of fun. “I think yer all bark, no—”

BANG!

Remmick hits the wall before the pain hits him, now leaning against the wall, flat on his ass. He screams as he’s shot back, cursing at you with a hole in his chest.

“You fucking shot me! I can’t believe you—” You reload the gun and shoot again. “Fuck! Stop fuckin’ shootin’ me, you little—” he cuts himself off with a curse, whimpering a soft ‘oooo’, as he sharply inhales. Black blood like bile seeps into his shirt, a hand over the wound on his shoulder. As he licks his wounds, you reach to where you’ve stored the other ammunition, reloading the gun as he’s distracted.

“You’re in trouble. So much trouble, I’m gonna have to fuck that attitude outta ya before I kill ya,” He snarls, and before you can react, he’s up and moving again, except instead of coming right at you, he grabs the glass vase of wild flowers that sits next to the pitcher you were filling when you first saw him. And then he takes that vase and throws it at you.

He takes advantage of you putting your arms up to block it, shattered glass cutting your cheek, but you’re in better shape than Remmick when he tackles you, bodyweight pressed against you as the gun goes flying across the room. You begin to panic, squirming beneath him, when you feel his one claw digging into your side, the other digging into your thigh, both ripping your clothes and drawing a bit of blood, as his tongue licks the blood from your cheek, dripping out of your fresh cut.

“I really do hate to kill ye,” he starts, “But I always did love the taste of yer blood.. always tastes like lust, and fear.. Desperation and love.” He smirks, and before you could stop him, his mouth is on yours, capturing you in a deep kiss. You appreciate the way it grounds you back to reality, and while you have your mouth on his, one knee comes up to rub against Remmick’s half hard cock. Remmick groans into the kiss, his tongue slipping into your mouth, only to pull away and spit to the side. “Chewin’ garlic? Clever girl.” He scoffs, and you move one hand to curl into his hair, your touch warm and soft, despite the moment. He lets out a groan, “Clever, mean, insufferable girl..”

Your other hand reaches to your pocket, and Remmick’s claws pull out of your thigh to grab your wrist, claws digging into the skin around your hand. You inhale sharply,

“I have a flask! In my pocket—let me get the garlic tatste outta my mouth, then you can kiss me all you want, Rem.” He lets out a sharp exhale.

“Fine.”

Fucking Idiot, You want to say, You’re playing my game now. Learn the rules.

You grab the flask, pull it out, not breaking eye contact despite your shaky hands, bringing it to your lips and untwisting the cap with your teeth. Then you pour a mouthful into your mouth, closing and swishing it around so it coats your mouth. Then, you smile to Remmick, before spitting the holy water at his skin, burning his pretty face again. You kick him right where the sun does not shine, and he groans, rolling off you.

Sharp pain shoots up his groin. He was going to make you cum, too.

“Mother—” You scramble for the gun, ignoring the sound of him groaning in pain. You grab the gun off the ground, pointing it right at him. “Sugar, don’t you shoot—”

BANG!

You cock the gun again, knowing you need to make the most of this last bullet (You’re poor, this is 1932, you can only afford so many bullets). You look at your (kind of) husband, panting softly as he whines and writhers on the ground, holding a new wound in his leg. It doesn’t turn you on like it usually would, well not as much, but it gives your gun a great angle, to aim right for his hard-on, and—

BANG!

Remmick really screams this time, and his blood is everywhere. He’s holding his crotch now, and he’s panting heavily. You’d feel bad if you didn’t know it would take him only a few minutes to heal enough to get you back. Or that he wants to kill you.

“You little bitch,” he spits, “I’m gonna fuckin gut ya—”

You smirk, running to the door of your bedroom before asking, “Was it as good for you as it was for me?”

You slam the door shut as Remmick’s cursing becomes louder, more frantic. It takes him a few minutes to get on his feet again, and another few to find his strength to stumble to your door.

“You have no idea what we were.” He speaks through the door. He turns the knob, and, of course, you’ve locked it behind you. He can hear you moving around, and he takes a moment to imagine you gurgling on your own blood before he begins to jiggle the handle, “I loved you—I have always loved you, everything I have done, I have done because I love you,” he starts to slam his body into your bedroom door, inhumane strength literally curving the wood, on the verge of knocking it down. “And all you have done since that first time you died, is run.” His voice breaks as he slams his body against the door again, “You run, given me a taste at who I was, and die, over and over,” Thud! “and over,” Thud! “and over!”

The door cracks off the hinges and falls to the ground with a thunk! And Remmick stumbles into the room, looking around, and getting his bearings. He’s hurt, even if the wounds heal, the pain lingers—and any humanity left in him is fighting, screaming to stop. To let you go, to walk right outside when the sun comes up, finally putting an end to his own misery—and yours. That piece screams, hasn’t she suffered enough? Is this what love is? Would this really make either of you happy?

But time and time again, that thing he calls his conscious, the thing only you can pull out of him, is drowned out by the sound of the horrible, gnawing, crushing craving for power. This power to know your every thought, to literally suck the life out of you, to feel the warmth leave your body—and then come back, just as hungry as he is.

It’s not a craving that is unique to you—he feels that craving for all people to some degree, but with you, he might as well be sunbathing, that’s how the craving burns. It drowns out everything else within him, even the part of him that wanted to be a better man for you.

He inhales deeply, trying to get a whiff of—

Despite his pain, he smirks. His eyes lock onto your closet. He creeps up. He wonders if you know he’s creeping up, if you’re scared. Of course you’re scared. You’re always so scared in the end. He moves suddenly then, ripping your closet door off it’s hinge and—you’re not there. The only thing he sees when he looks down where you should be cowering in fear, or at least about to lunge at him with a hidden knife or something, is a pair of panties. He laughs then, like, really gets a kick out of this.

“Dirty girl.” He thinks back to what he called you earlier—“Clever, mean, insufferable, dirty girl..” He scoffs, “Too many words.. I’ll write ya a list.” He grumbles, saying it in the soft whisper that echoes in every corner of your house, trying to focus on that thing that pulls him to you, that thing that tugs no matter how far he wanders.

Then, he starts to sing you your wedding song, the type of love song that could make any lass swoon, but Remmick only wants you.

Then his nose picks up on a different smell, and he smirks. Your nose is bleeding, and he knows it’s because that song always brings back a memory, and your nose always bleeds when he does it. He keeps singing as he approaches the window, a smirk on his face.

He’ll have to add clever to the list twice.

Suddenly, your eyes snap open, and you’re running before you really know what you’re doing, running towards the fields that surround the back of your house, right to the edge, where you’ve hidden a stake you want to drive through his heart, as Remmick opens the window, intending to climb out the window after you, when he stops, another sound catching his attention.

The sound of a car pulling up to the front of your house. Your mama and pa are home.

Remmick knows just how to break you. What better way to get you to spend eternity with him, then throwing in eternity with your folks too? Only, the nicest version of them? At the very least, it might make you do something stupid.

And you do.

Your heart is racing as you watch him smile wickedly at you, before turning to go meet your folks at the door. You quickly run through all the ways you could get his attention back on you, and you unthinkingly take your knife out of your pocket, before looking down at your wrists. Then, back to Remmick. Then, you take your knife and make long, deep cuts into your wrists, down to your forearm—The kind of injury Remmick cannot ignore. Not if he wants to turn you before you die.

You let out an inhuman noise, like an animal stuck in a bear trap. Your hands shake as you make cuts into your other wrist. You can’t breathe. Your vision grows fuzzy as you watch him stumble out of the window, running right towards you. He doesn’t want you to die. He wants you to live forever, and the scent of your blood is making him woozy too.

You fall to the ground just in time for Remmick to catch you, and the part of you in the back of your mind, who knows this is how the story is always meant to end, kind of enjoys the idea of dying in Remmick’s arms. On the one hand, you love him. On the other hand, you know this moment will haunt him for a long time.

Your body is shaking, and there is blood everywhere. Remmick cradles you against him, hands smearing your blood as if he could push it back inside of you.

“No, no, C’mere, I got you,” He has an idea. He leans into your neck and tugs you close to him. His claws, covered in blood, cradle you, as he opens his jaw wide, before sinking his teeth deep into the skin of your collarbone, drinking the sweet taste of you. He drinks, and drinks, and for a moment, he forgets that you’re dying, but he eventually comes up for air, beginning to pet your hair. “All gonna be okay, we’re gonna be together for a long, long time,” he rambles.

You don’t want to die. But you’d rather die than give him what he wants. But it’s more than just the way he’s tortured you for the past two month—although, it does feed into your anger. No, If you turn, it means he won. It means that he gets away with killing all those different versions of you, and still gets to be with you. Still gets to invade your thoughts, still gets to spend eternity with you—after doing nothing but hurt you (and, occasionally, fuck you).

Your hand searches until your fingers wrap around something grainy and wooden. You’re not sure you have the strength to stab Remmick with the stake, but you wonder if you could bide your time until the sun comes up. You pull him in for a kiss, right against your lips, and then stab yourself the best you can with the wooden stake.

You can taste blood now, and you wonder if Remmick is as overwhelmed by it as you are, how it coats everything around you. Him, the grass, your clothes. Your ears are ringing, the noises of the world far away, muffled by the fuzziness that overtakes you from your wounds. Your vision begins to fade, and the last thing you see before everything turns white is Remmick leaning down to kiss your head, before getting up, setting you down gently, and going to kill your parents.

Son of a bitch, You think, laying in a pool of Remmick’s and your own tears, and your blood (mostly), I’ll get you in the next life, husband.

Ireland, 1652

The first thing you noticed about Remmick was his eyes. A beautiful bright blue. Like a clear creek on a summer’s day. He took you somewhere like that once. Right before he asked you to marry him.

You had met him when he was just a travelling musician, penniless and preforming songs for lodgings. You were working as a governess to a rich British family who had been given the land on account of the patriarch being a clergyman. Remmick had known the family who used to own the land. He hated the people you worked for, the way they took mercilessly.

You thought the kids were nice enough, if not a little snotty. But they were comfortable. They didn’t have to worry about the fact that the people who used to live there often had to choose between food and firewood.

The two of you fell in love, as deep as any two people could. You fell in love over ale in a pub loud with music, over quiet mornings spent tracing the lines of Remmick’s face, and in between grueling, exhausting day of work. Remmick took your breath away, and Remmick couldn’t go for more than a few hours before itching to see you again. He asked you to marry him and on a warm spring morning, right as the sun rose, you promised to be his forever.

To your credit, the two of you got a wonderful few months before things went wrong.

Remmick never should’ve went out. He never went out on Sundays, preferring to spend his day off kneeling between your legs, eating you out like a starved man. Sundays were for two things—Rest and keeping his wife happy. He tended to get more gigs on the weekend and often picked up shifts at the pub to pay your bills. So, Sunday was his day off. But you requested, oh so sweetly, for him to pick up honey for your evening tea, and he wanted to pick you a bundle of wildflowers, just to show you that he loved you. After all—Sundays were for keeping his wife happy.

He left right after lunch, but didn’t get back until the early evening, just as the sun set.

Remmick would play that night over and over again in his head.

He’d wonder about whether things would’ve been different. If he had left earlier. If he had never went out in the first place, if he had just spent the morning between your legs like he wanted to, if he had done anything differently.

But maybe things were always going to end that way, maybe there was nothing he could’ve done.

With a fistful of white daffodils, Remmick started to whistle your song as he traversed the path towards your wooden house, the one on the property of the family you worked for.

He heard your screams before he saw the flames.

He broke out into a sprint, dropping the jar of honey and your flowers as he dashed towards his wife, hoping against hope that you’d be okay. He was just in time to see the men who set the fire ride off on horses, half drunk and laughing—laughing that the woman he loved was burning alive, laughing that the people they deemed below them were suffering.

You were warm. You were kind, and soft. The hardened edges you did have only emphasized your softness, the way you always gave whoever you were talking to your full attention, the way your hands felt running along his skin.

He knew he couldn’t save you, not without killing himself, and looking back, that’s exactly what he should’ve done. But before he could, as he sat there, sobbing for his wife—someone creeped out of the shadows.

“You’re hurting, lad,” They had said, in his native tongue. But his accent was british. Remmick hated that posh accent. “I can make that pain go away.. Fellowship and love is all you need, but..” They bared their sharp teeth at him, “all you gotta do is let me see that pretty neck of yours, and you’ll have the power to get revenge. Wouldn’t you like that? To kill the men who murdered your pretty little wife?”

Remmick doesn’t remember saying yes.

All he does remember is how much pain he was in, how drinking the blood of those men made him feel better, how he missed you horribly—more than the sun.

This is the truth. Remmick really did love you, and he really didn’t understand what he was getting into—it’s true. It really happened.

But so did everything that came after.

London, 1812

He stood outside Lady Arlington’s grand masquerade ball, waiting, watching. His suit was out of style, stolen from an old bachelor he had bitten last week, but at least he was in a suit. Besides, everyone would assume it to be a costume. He looked nice—or he assumed he did. Damn mirrors.

His mask was fastened onto his face, and he was sure he could convince at least half the people here that his red eyes and sharp teeth were part of the costume. He wasn’t even sure why he was here. He hated London, had specifically avoided Britian in the past two hundred years.

But something ate away at him. It gnawed at him, told him to come here. Something about this damn masquerade is pulling him in, and It’s too loud to ignore. So, he’s happy when the man at the door graciously accepts the invitation he stole, inviting him in with a posh, “Good evening, Sir, right this way.”

Remmick sticks to the outskirts of the crowd, watching as men twirled women, listening to the sound of a string quartet, and he finds himself sipping wine that he doesn’t even like. So why is he here? He searches the room, looking for—

And then, his breath catches as he catches sight of a familiar lock of hair. He blinks, his eyes following the glimpse. He watches as familiar woman dance with a man, and then he realizes why she’s so familiar.

But how are you here?

You died. You died, and Remmick turned into this monster.

But when he hears you laugh, he knows it’s you. He could never forget your laugh, you’re his wife.

His feet begin to move across the room as the music finishes and you curtsey to your dance partner, making your way towards the refreshment table. He says your name to stop himself from grabbing you in the middle of this crowded room.

No one ever called you by your first name at a ball, it was always ‘Miss’ followed by your first name or your last name. You knew you’d need to be married eventually, but you always found these dances boring—although you did enjoy a masquerade.

You turned and blinked. Even though he was wearing a mask, there was something... familiar about the man. And his red eyes don’t scare you. They lure you in.

“Oh, good evening, may I help you?” You ask, and Remmick almost recoils at the sound of your voice. Your familiar, soft cadence is replaced by that posh British accent he hates.

“I just..” For two hundred years, Remmick has longed to see you again. He’s spent hours mulling it over in his head, coming up with a million different things he would say to you if he could tell you anything. All that comes out is, “Yer beautiful.”

Your face flushes.

“Oh,” You giggle a bit. “Why, thank you, I—Oh dear,” a gloved hand comes up to cover your gasp, “You seem to have a bit of,” you motion towards your lip, and Remmick feels drool dribbling down his chin. His hand comes up to wipe it away, but you hand him a handkerchief. He mumbles out a thank you, before taking it and wiping his mouth.

“Thank ye,” he hums, and your head twitches. His accent is rare in a crowd like this, but it pulls your lips up into a smile.

“It’s a lovely night for a walk. Would you accompany me?”

Technically, you’re not supposed to be unchaperoned and alone with a bachelor. But you have a feeling that this particular bachelor is not the man your mother and father had in mind to be your husband. So, if you don’t get caught, you don’t see the harm. At the very least, it’s not a particularly horrible way to kill time.

“Of course,” is his answer, offering you his arm, eyes glued on you as you lead him to the nearest door.

“I never got your name,” you say politely, because it seems he already knows yours, which makes sense—your family is quite popular within ‘society’. Not that you even really believe in that.

“Remmick,” he answers, and you nod.

“Right, and your last name?”

He scoffs quietly.

“Just Remmick.” Telling you his last name seems pointless. He’ll just be Remmick. At least in this lifetime.

“Okay, Just Remmick. Tell me, where does a gentleman such as you find himself when he’s not attending masquerades?” He can tell you know this isn’t really his scene from that question alone—It may not seem like much, but it’s as if he’d forgotten just how clever you were. His clever girl.

And more selfishly, Remmick misses being known. Being known by you. He feeds minimally, and mostly on animals or small critters. His fingers twitch for more, for blood and destruction, but he just couldn’t. His humanity was louder for a long time. But don’t worry, he’ll get it soon, tonight, in fact.

“I play music.” He says honestly, “I’m what ye ma would call a, er, ‘penniless musician.’”

You smile at him.

“I enjoy music,” You tell him, “I think music is a beautiful thing that transcends time and memory. Don’t you?”

His heart would be beating out of his chest if he still had one. He brings your handkerchief to his chin and wipes drool. He’d make something up, tell you he had something wrong with his mouth, or something. He’d figure it out when you asked about it.

“I do,” he nods, but he’s not fully paying attention, if he’s honest. He’s listening to the living, breathing heartbeat that thumps in your chest, quicker when you make eye contact with him. He wonders if you’re wet, but he doubts that your mind is as dirty or depraved as his.

“Well, would you play me something sometime?” You ask, and Remmick smiles a bit, pats your arm in an affectionate matter—he’s suddenly back in the meadow just south of your wooden house, watching the way you shone in the sunlight, like it hasn’t been two hundred years since he’s last seen you.

“Anything ye want, lass.” He promises, and he means it so genuinely that your heart nearly stops. He wipes his chin again.

“What are you doing here, then?” You ask softly. “I don’t mean any offense, but there are so few people who share your accent, I cannot help my curiosity, though I hold no judgement.” Remmick tries not to scoff at how much he likes you, even his disdain for British accents can’t stop the fact that he loves that even now, two hundred years later, you’re still giving your full attention to every conversation.

He’s been in love with you for long enough to know your question comes from nothing except genuine curiosity. So, he doesn’t laugh when you ask him that, but he does think about it.

“Well, ye see, somethin’s been... pulling me, tugging me towards Britian at first,” he starts, “Then to London, and now to this... palace,” he huffs, a part of him a little bitter that he found you in the type of place he couldn’t fit in well, no matter how charismatic. “And I didn’t know what it was pullin’ me towards, but—” he looks at you again. “I think I know what it was pullin’ me towards now..”

You smile.

“And what would that be, Mr. Re—” Someone calls your name as footsteps approach, and you turn to look at the source, only to find your mother approaching, guiding a gentleman only a few years older than you towards you.

“Whatever are you doing out here alone, dear?” Your mother asks, and you turn back to introduce Remmick to your mother, but he’s gone. Nowhere to be found. You blink, confused. Where had he gone?

“Just taking a break from all the excitement, mother.” The lie slips off your tongue easily enough, and it’s all your mother needs before she’s introducing you to a young blonde gentleman, and you intend to give him your fullest attention, but you suspect it will be difficult on account of your mysterious penniless musician.

Remmick watches from the shadows, lingering. He can’t stop glaring at the young eligible bachelor who holds your arm, who’s looking at you like you’re a prize. He waits and waits—until the bachelor closes the door behind you when he leads you into the library of the manor. He tries to reason with himself.

You’re a very pretty girl. The light blue silk of your dress, your posh accent, your skilled dance moves—you obviously come from money. And he knows you’re clever. He looks around and realizes any bachelor at this stupid party would be lucky to have you.

He breaks the door handle before he knows what he’s doing, quickly opening the door and this is what he sees:

You, leaning against the far wall of the library, squirming. Your eligible bachelor with his hands on your sides, bunching up the fabric of your dress, with his mouth on your neck. You’re trying to push him away.

Remmick grabs him by the shoulder before he even realizes he’s stepped towards the two of you, and then he’s swinging at him with a clenched fist. It causes you to gasp, and before you know it, blonde bachelor’s nose is bleeding and he’s shoving Remmick back against another bookshelf. Books fall around him, and he glances down and sees one on Irish folklore and mythology—

Open to the section on the Gancanagh—a male fae known for his ability to enchant and kill young women, often through powerful seduction. The legend of the Gancanagh dictates that he cannot enter a home unless invited. Remmick rolls his eyes and is on his feet again, going after blonde bachelor.

He lunges at him, claws drawn, and then he’s swiping at him, but blonde bachelor, to his credit, isn’t entirely stupid. He grabs you and uses you as a shield—and suddenly there are five distinct, large slashes across the front of your dress. Then, you start to bleed, and Remmick catches you as you fall, blood pooling in your abdomen and soaking his stolen suit.

He sets you down gently, and he goes to move away from you, to fucking kill this blonde asshole, but you grip his arm, pulling him back.

“Don’t,” You let out a soft whimper of pain, gripping his arm, not wanting him to leave. He leans in and kisses your forehead,

“I’m so sorry, I’ll be right back, Lass,” he promises, before moving away from you, your weak protests drowned out by how badly Remmick wants this man dead. How badly he wants to drink his blood.

He grabs the man just as he reaches the door, covering his mouth with his large, now bloodstained claw, and uses that hand to tilt his head, before Remmick sinks his teeth into the flesh of the man who wanted to take you from him. Who kissed you without asking.

And he tastes delicious. Remmick almost moans—it’s like eating a well-seasoned steak after two hundred years of bone broth. He sucks and sucks, draining the man of every ounce of blood. Then he drops his corpse, using your handkerchief to wipe his chin of any excess blood.

He stands, and glances to the corpse on the ground. Whatever. He’ll wake up in a little bit, but Remmick does not give a single fuck what happens to the poor fool. Remmick, on the other hand, feels phenomenal. He feels like he’s strong enough to hold the sky up, and he starts to smile when he remembers you.

“Sorry ye had to see that, lass, but yer friend won’t be—” he turns to you and realizes you’re not moving. He’s by your side in a flash. “No, no, c’mon, lass, wake up,” He listens for the sound of your heartbeat, but he doesn’t hear one. He had let you die. Again. And this time, it had been his fault. Not indirectly, either. He should’ve bitten you when he had the chance. “I’m sorry,” he says softly, leaning his forehead against yours. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, lass,” he begins to cry, and that feels stupid, so he leans down to try and bite you, maybe he can still bring you back—but his teeth get about an inch to your skin, and it’s like something’s stopping him from sinking in the rest of the way—his eyes flicker down to the cross that hangs from your pretty dead neck.

Remmick takes only a few more minutes to kiss you, to whisper his apologies before he slips out of the window, deciding to take out his heartbreak and his anger out on anything else with a pulse that comes his way.

You came back once, he reasons eventually, right before the sun rises the next morning, as he stares at your handkerchief, covered in blood now, since he used it to wipe his mouth four times as he’s drunk the bodies of three different drunk idiots outside a gentleman’s club. He’s sure you’ll come back again. He’ll wait. He has all the time in the world.

He’ll just have to be patient.

New York, 1892

Fucking Sundays. You always die on a Sunday.

You and Remmick have been going out for six months. Remmick lays awake at night, thinking about how this is the longest he’s ever gotten with you, at least since you were married. This is try number six.

Why do you keep dying?

It frustrates him, like an itch he just can’t get to go away. It’s one of the many things he hates about living forever. Another thing he hates is innovation. He’s watched the Industrial revolution happen slowly at first, and then, all at once. He hates it for all the reasons you can imagine, but part of the things he really hates is how it dulls you. You work hours that are too long. You work a job that’s too harsh.

You work in a weaving factory. You spend your precious life in a factory without proper ventilation, often working with dangerous equipment and conditions. You’re so tired when you come home. Remmick just wants you to be safe, just wants you nearby, Is that so terrible?

Or at least, that’s how he had said it when you told him you couldn’t quit your job and stay in the apartment with him forever, like he had asked you to. Remmick figured, what the hell, worst you could do is say no. You had handled him being a vampire so well.

But nothing could ever go the way he wanted it to. Not in any of your lifetimes so far. He just wanted you close so bad, that the thought of you not being with him, it drives him a little insane. To the point of violence. So, he dug his claws into your ankle, threatening to snap the bone as he offered a game—

“Shh, Shh,” he said, a sinister smile adorning his lips, “Wanna play a game, baby?”

“No, you fucking— ow!” You yelped as he tightened his grip, threating to rip his claws up the skin of your calf, “Ow, ow—Fuck, okay, fine! Yes, What game?” You sob, and Remmick’s grip loosened only slightly.

“Hide and seek.”

He was stalking you through the factory, where you worked. No one was here now; it had been too late. But you turned on all the big machines, hoping to throw off his hearing. That was the worst part about being with you for longer. You had more time to know his weaknesses. To hate him.

But he was close. He could smell you. The sweat that beaded down your forehead, the heat between your thighs, and the smell of your blood as it dripped from your ankle. You were hiding, knelt under one of those big machines. Your heart is racing, and your ankle really fucking aches. You creep around the machine to see where he was, when he grabs you from behind.

You struggle against him, yelling, but neither of you can hear each other over the loud industrial machinery. He grabs your arm, before sticking it in the machine, focusing on the sound of your screams—he thinks he even laughs.

He can’t remember killing you.

He just wakes up a few hours later, laying in a pool of your blood, right before the factory opens. He needs to go.

He spends as much time as he can apologizing over your body, as he always does. He was sloppy this time. Sloppier than he had been. He had let any urge he felt win, but he was sure if he could keep his wits about you, and strike when he needed to, and he would finally get to keep you.

He’d just need to be smarter about it. Next time, he decides right then and there, as he limps away from the factory and towards the nearest port, needing to kill a few decades, will be different.

Next time, the story will end a different way.

Indiana, 1982

You twisted your key in the door of the family video, shivering a bit. You hated working the night shift. You rarely ever did. You pulled your jacket close, before fishing into your bag, pulling out your Walkman and unwrapping the cord of your headphones, walking down the sidewalk, towards the path you’ll take to get home.

Your thumb begins to press down to begin your tape, when you hear the vroom, vroom from a motorcycle fit for a man who might be a little butthurt that the last time you saw him, you shot him in the dick, among other places.

But when your head picks up to look at the motorcycle, you pause, because you suddenly realize you’ve never seen this man before in your life. And yet, there’s a familiarity about him. He’s leaning against his motorcycle now, having turned it off and parked it.

“Hey there, Sugar,” he says, maybe a little too sweetly. He doesn’t hide the way he looks you up and down. You don’t hate it. You’re currently taking the summer to enjoy your hometown before you go away to school. So, if a handsome man with a hot motorcycle wants to take you home, who are you to deny him? (No survival instinct, but you’ll catch on quick.)

“Hi. Cool bike.” You say, pulling your jacket closer to your body.

“Why, thank you.” You can’t place his accent. “Wanna ride?” He asks, and you roll your eyes but are thankful it’s too dark for him to see your red cheeks.

“On the bike you mean?” You question, and Remmick offers you the helmet he holds.

“For now.” He shrugs, and you take it, resting it on your hip.

“Well, where are we gonna go?” You wonder, “I know what you’re after, and I expect a nice date before I even think about something like that,” You smile, and Remmick scoffs.

“You have no idea what I’m after,” He starts, before reaching to his mostly non-existent soft side and rephrasing, “How ‘bout you and I go for a drink?” He offers, and you let out a nervous laugh.

“I was just gonna go home and watch a movie,” you tell him, and he tilts his head.

“Oh yeah? What movie?” Remmick won’t admit it, but he’s watched as movies have gone from an expensive, once in a while treat, to something most families pick three of on a Friday and return them the next Friday, and... he thinks that is one small silver lining to this horrible, never-ending existence.

You dig into your bag and pull out a VHS Tape, labeled Dracula, a movie that came out in 1979. You don’t love it as an adaptation of your favorite book, but for what it is, you enjoy it. Remmick laughs.

“What? Not a vampire guy?”

Remmick doesn’t remember it being laid on this thick the last time.

He shrugs.

“I just think that bein’ a vampire,” he shakes his head. “it ain’t all it’s made out to be.”

You shrug.

“I think it’s sexy.”

Remmick’s head picks up at that, a smirk forming on his face.

“Yeah?”

You smile. He’s funny. Too cool, too flirty, and just desperate enough for you to see through his charade. You’re not sure why, but you get the idea that his desperation goes deeper than just looking for a fuck—

“Yeah. A mysterious, handsome stranger, biting my neck and promising me forever?” You wonder out loud, taking a few steps towards him. “What kind of girl wouldn’t think that’s romantic?”

Remmick would laugh if he hadn’t spent the last two centuries figuring out that you are exactly the kind of girl who doesn’t think that’s romantic. Well, maybe he would laugh if he also wasn’t really fucking bitter about it.

He offers you his hand.

“Let’s find out. I got popcorn back at mine.” Remmick doesn’t really eat, but movies have become synonymous with popcorn, and he’s just desperate to get you alone, to get his teeth in your neck. He won’t fail again. He can’t—he doesn’t know if he has it in him. As it is, ever since you slit your wrists, you’re significantly angrier at him by the end.

The last time the two of you met, he had these horrific 60’s style sideburns, and you stabbed him in the eye with a mirror shard from a disco ball and had gotten blood all over what you had described as your ‘dancing boots’.

“Hmm.. I dunno.” You shrug. “I’m not in the habit of going home with a stranger.” You tease, and he scoffs. This again?

“Well, my name’s Remmick. And yours,” he says your name, and a shiver runs down your spine.

“I didn’t tell you that.”

He taps the top left of his chest with the pointer finger of his right hand.

“Yer name tag.”

You let out a laugh.

“Oh, right. Sorry, that was silly of me.”

“Silly girl.” He teases. Clever, mean, insufferable, dirty, silly girl. “So, what do you say?” he extends his hand again. You think about it for a long minute. A really long moment. Remmick holds his breath. C’mon, lass, He thinks, take the god damn bait before I grab you right here.

You sigh, put on his helmet, and take his hand.

“There are worse ways to spend a Sunday night,” you shrug as you climb onto the back of his motorcycle.

As you wrap your arms around him, chest pressed to his back, Remmick finds that he couldn’t agree more.

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