remmick x f.ᐟreader ⨾ ❝ blood made a poor man of him, and you have always liked him poorest. ❞
remmick has spent months learning how to live under your roof without taking more than he is given. he can mend fences, carry feed, and sleep beside you like a man—but blood strips the manners from him. word count : 5k
contents. MDNI 18+ pathetic! remmick ; dom! reader ; sub! remmick ; bloodplay ; mentioned animal death ; references to remmick feeding on an animal ; drool / spit ; unprotected p in v ; messy sex ; oral sex (f! receiving) ; fingering ; creampie ; begging ; praise ; degradation ; humiliation kink ; masochism ; slapping ; implied punishments ; punishment / reward dynamic ; remmick cries during sex ; overstimulation ; possessive undertones ; implied stalking ; power imbalance.
notes. more remmick… y’all already know he’s my most written character and the unpublished fics prove that 😭 more pathetic remmick bc i love
“Remmick,” you call, coming in through the back door with chicken blood drying beneath your nails and the last purple smear of evening clinging to the yard behind you.
The screen door claps against the frame, rattling the loose hook in its eye, and the house takes the sound into itself with a long wooden shiver.
Outside, the pasture has gone dark at the edges, the mares moving in pale, restless shapes beyond the fence line, and the butchered hen lies wrapped in paper against your hip, still warm enough to leave its damp weight through the cloth.
The kitchen smells of iron, cornmeal, lamp oil, and hot wood, all of it made heavier by the wet breath of summer pressing against the windows. Blood has soaked through your apron in stiff patches. It darkens your knuckles, clings under your nails, and slicks the inside of your fingers where the washbasin has not yet had its turn at you.
Remmick sits at the kitchen table with supper cooling in front of him, fork laid across the plate like a prop in some poor play. Cornbread, beans, and a slice of onion sit untouched on the plate, though he had taken care to move his fork once or twice as if the habit of eating could make him seem less unnatural.
He's been better at pretending lately.
Better at wearing a man’s shape around your house.
That pretense slips the moment he sees your hands.
His eyes lift first, then hold. His mouth goes wet. The change comes over him with shameful quickness, a stillness so complete the whole kitchen seems to lean toward it. His fingers curl against the table, nails scraping once, soft and desperate, and he swallows as if something in his throat has gone dry despite the shine already gathering on his lower lip.
“Bring me the basin,” you say, setting the wrapped hen near the stove, “and stop staring like you’ve never seen blood in this house before.”
A sound catches in his throat, too low to be a laugh and too eager to be shame, but he rises quickly enough, chair legs dragging hard across the boards.
Months ago, when he first came to your land, you would have taken that quickness for threat and reached for the shotgun you kept by the pantry.
The first night he came to you, pale as a corpse in the moonlight and smiling like something raised wrong from the marsh, you had been in the stable with your sick mare, her flank hot beneath your palm and her breath sour with fever.
He had stood beyond the open doors with rainwater silvering his hair, asking after the road to the nearest town, then begging for a cup of water in a voice too soft for a man who looked as though he might open his jaw and show you a wolf’s hunger.
You had given him directions and your flask because you were not cruel, then told him to leave because you were not a fool.
Night after night afterward, he returned to the porch with some new misery tucked under his tongue; a stone in his boot, dogs in the distance, fever in his head, a weakness in his knees, any excuse that might win him a chair by your fire.
You let him speak to the locked door until dawn thinned the trees and drove him away.
Then he came bleeding.
You think of it now when he brings the basin from the sideboard and sets it down too near you, close enough that his sleeve brushes your elbow.
That night he had sagged against your porch post with one hand pressed to his ribs, shirt torn, mouth trembling with a pain you later understood he had chosen for himself.
Mercy had gotten him across your threshold. Mercy, and your own hands, and the foolish human pity he had learned to pull from you like a thread from cloth. And after mercy came habit, then want, then the strange arrangement of a dead thing living in your house as if marriage vows had been exchanged under the kitchen rafters instead of hunger.
He mended fences after dusk, hauled feed in the bruised light before sunrise, kept his hat low and his hands busy, and in return he crawled into your bed each night because he begged so sweetly for it, and because his body never held heat unless he stole yours.
By the time you found him in the yard one night with one of your hens torn open between his hands, his mouth red and his fangs hooked deep into the limp, feathered body, you had already let him kiss you. You had already let him climb into your bed. You had already slapped him once for nearly putting those teeth in your throat while his cock was inside you, and watched him go rigid with hurt, hunger, shame, and pleasure all tangled together until he looked as ruined as any sinner caught at the altar.
His hand hovers over yours, not touching, but every part of him strains toward the blood.
“Remmick,” you warn.
“I know,” he says, though his voice has gone thin and ragged. “I know, I know, I only—”
“You only what?”
He looks from your hands to your face, and the lamplight makes something red move behind his eyes before he blinks it back.
His tongue touches the corner of his mouth. He looks wretched with wanting, dressed in the same shirt he wore to mend the smokehouse latch, the sleeves rolled past his forearms, his suspenders loose, his hair damp at the temples from the heat. There's dirt beneath his nails, a smear of dust along one cheekbone, and for all his sweetness around the house, for all the way he carries himself when he wants to seem harmless, the sight of blood has peeled him down to the thing you know he is.
“Please,” he whispers.
“You’ve had supper put in front of you.” You tilt your head, searching for any changes in his expression.
His eyes flick toward the plate with no interest at all. “That is supper for a livin' man.”
“And what are you?”
The question strikes him low. In the tremor that moves through his mouth, and in the way his gaze drops from your face to your fingers again. “Whatever you tell me to be.”
The answer is pretty, pathetic, and practiced only because every true thing in him has begun to sound like begging.
You lift your hand and let your bloodied fingers hover near his mouth, and his lips part.
The sight of it sends a slow warmth through you, power sinking into flesh.
He has torn through men, animals, God knows what else, and yet in your kitchen he waits for permission with his cock already swelling in his trousers because you might let him lick chicken blood from your hand.
“Open,” you tell him.
Remmick obeys with such speed that his shame seems to arrive after the hunger, following it across his face in a red wash. His mouth closes around two of your fingers, hot and wet, his tongue moving with careful greed over the dried blood.
He sucks gently at first, trying to make a show of restraint, but the effort fails as soon as the taste reaches him.
His lashes lower. His breath shudders. Drool gathers where your fingers press his lower lip, and the sound he makes around you is obscene, a low, grateful hum that vibrates through the bones of your hand.
You watch him take what you allow, watch the stain disappear from your knuckles, watch his hands grip the table because he knows better than to seize your wrist.
That lesson had taken several nights to settle into him, several bruises, several warnings, and the pleasure of it still lives in the way he trembles when you call him greedy.
“You’re filthy,” you murmur, easing your fingers deeper until his throat works around the pressure. “Sitting here drooling over chicken blood like I starve you.”
His eyes lift, red flickering deep behind the brown, and the word filthy nearly finishes whatever restraint he has left.
His hips press once toward nothing. A thick shape pushes against the front of his trousers, plain beneath the lamplight, and when you glance down at it, he gives a muffled whine that turns wetter around your fingers.
You pull back slowly, but his mouth follows before he catches himself, lips chasing the taste, and then he does it: the smallest tilt of his head, the slightest flash of ragged fangs, an attempt to catch your thumb and nick the living blood beneath the skin.
Your palm cracks across his face before his teeth can close.
The blow rings through the kitchen and leaves him turned with one hand braced against the table, mouth open, cheek already flushing beneath the mark.
He breathes hard, almost panting. Shame folds through his expression, but pleasure rises with it, sick and immediate, his body betraying him so plainly that his eyes squeeze shut. His fingers flex against the wood as though he needs something to hold or he might sink to the floor.
“I told you not to bite me,” you say, quiet enough to make him listen.
Remmick nods quickly, his voice rough when he answers, “Yes.”
“You tried anyway.”
“I was only—” He stops himself because the lie would insult you more than the disobedience. His throat works, and the red print on his cheek deepens. “I wanted more.”
A slow look down his body makes him shift like he can hide what the slap has done to him. “And now look at you.”
His gaze drops, and you follow it without mercy. His cock strains against his trousers, obscene and thick beneath worn fabric, the front of him tented as plainly as if he had meant to show you. He looks down at himself and makes a sound that is almost pain.
“One little slap and you’re fit to spend in your pants.”
Humiliation bends his head, but it does not soften the hunger in him. If anything, it makes him worse.
His lashes flutter, his lips part, and a shine of spit gathers again at the corner of his mouth as though the slap has loosened something in him that hunger alone could not.
You take the clean side of your thumb and press it to the reddening mark on his cheek. He leans into the touch like a whipped dog seeking the same hand that struck him.
“You’ll fetch water so I can wash,” you say, letting your thumb drag once along his cheekbone. “Then you’ll go sit in the bedroom and wait for me. You will not touch yourself.”
His face twists with need. “I can’t—”
“You can.”
He nods slowly, too eager and too miserable and, when he turns for the pump, his gait is wrong with arousal, stiff through the hips, one hand hovering near the front of his trousers before he snatches it back like he remembers your command by pain alone.
By the time the basin is filled and your hands are clean, the water has turned a cloudy brown-red that seems to grieve him when you pour it out.
He watches the blood vanish into the yard through the back door, his jaw tight, his gaze hollowed by want, but he goes where you send him.
The boards in the hall complain under his steps, and you take your time with the kitchen because you know every ordinary sound will torment him. The knife is washed and dried. The wrapped chicken is set aside. The apron comes off stiff with blood and hangs from the nail by the door.
In the bathroom, you clean yourself with warmed water by lamplight, dragging the cloth over your arms, your throat, the sweat-slick hollow between your breasts, the places where blood had soaked through the cotton and touched skin.
The house is quieter there, close and damp, yet you know his hearing catches the water wrung from the cloth, the shift of your dress loosening, the soft fall of your stockings.
Letting him imagine is its own punishment, and you enjoy it more than you care to name.
The bedroom is dark except for the low lamp on the dresser and the moonless weight at the window when you finally step inside.
Remmick's sitting on the edge of the bed with his suspenders hanging loose, shirt open down the chest, hair damp at the temples from a sweat his body has no honest reason to make. One hand grips his thigh. The other is pressed over the bulge in his trousers, just holding himself through the fabric as if pressure alone might keep him from splitting apart.
His gaze lifts to you, then drops to the thin shift clinging to your freshly washed skin, and the sound that leaves him is half-starved.
“You touched yourself,” you say, crossing the room slowly.
“I held it,” he answers, breathless with the need to explain. “Only held it. It hurt.”
“Poor Remmick,” you say, and the false softness of it makes his hips twitch beneath his hand.
He stands before you reach him, crowding close but not quite touching until your eyes give him leave.
His hands settle at your waist with a tremor. His mouth lowers to your shoulder, kissing through the shift first, then nudging the loosened neckline aside to taste skin.
The kisses come wet and scattered, down your throat, along your jaw, over your cheek, each one leaving a shine behind. He is always too messy when want has burned through his manners, too open-mouthed, too eager, too grateful for anything your body allows him.
When you catch his chin and make him look at you, his pupils are wide, his lips swollen from biting back whines.
“I said not to touch yourself,” you remind him.
“I only held it,” he says, pleading already. “I swear, I only—Christ, I needed something.”
"Poor you," you repeat.
His hips push forward before he can stop them, the hard length of him grinding against your thigh. He chokes on the sound that follows and tries to pull back, but you keep him there with your hand on his jaw.
“You like being pitied?” you ask, letting your thumb rest at the corner of his mouth where spit has gathered. “You like being made small?”
The shame in him answers before he does, running down his throat in a swallow. “I like when you say anything to me.”
The answer is so bare that it would soften you on another night. It does soften you, somewhere deep and unwise, but you do not let it reach your hands.
You stroke your thumb over the red mark on his cheek, and he turns into the touch with such helpless hunger that your own body answers, heat blooming between your thighs.
“Get on your knees, then.”
Remmick sinks down so fast the floorboards creak beneath him, hands sliding to your calves, face tipped up with a hunger that looks nearly devotional.
Your back settles against the wardrobe as you gather your shift in one fist and lift it, the old wood cool and solid behind your shoulders.
When he leans forward, you raise one thigh over his shoulder, making room for him between your legs while his hands come up to steady you at the hips. He stops with his mouth hovering inches from you, breathing against your inner thighs while he waits, and the restraint costs him badly enough that his fingers dig into your skin before he catches himself and loosens his grip.
His eyes flick up for permission, and when you give it, he falls on you with a groan that nearly buckles the leg still planted beneath you. His mouth is hot, wet, and shameless, licking into you with the desperation of something denied too long.
He drags the muscle through your slickness, circles your clit, then sucks with enough care that his fangs never touch, though the danger of them stays present in every breath. Drool slips down his chin and cools against your thighs while his hands clutch under your shift, holding you open as he eats you like praise might be found there if he works hard enough for it.
Your fingers push into his hair and pull him closer, and he makes a grateful, muffled sound, tongue circling your clit before flattening, then dipping lower to taste where you are opening for him.
His nose presses against you. His fingers dig bruises into your hips. He breathes harshly through it, rutting once against nothing before he catches himself and stops, shaking with the effort.
“No,” you say, tightening your hand in his hair. “You don’t get to rub yourself on my floor like a dog.”
The words break a rough sound out of him, humiliation moving through him like fever, and he moans into your cunt as his tongue flattens against your clit again, then slips lower while two fingers stroke up the inside of your thigh.
Your free hand braces against the wardrobe, and he feels the shift of your weight, feels the way your raised thigh tightens over his shoulder. He always knows when he has done well, and he turns ravenous with the knowledge, licking you with long, desperate strokes until pleasure gathers low and heavy in your stomach.
“That’s better,” you say, breath thinning. “Good boy.”
The praise wrecks him worse than the insult. He pulls back just enough to gasp, “Again.”
You look down at him, at the wet shine all over his mouth and chin, at the way his eyes have gone glassy with need.
“Earn it.”
Remmick earns it with his tongue, with his mouth, with his fingers sliding up the inside of your thigh only after you nod.
When he presses two of them into you, they go slow at first, crooked carefully, finding the place that makes your breath catch. He watches your face as he does it, his mouth still working your clit, eyes almost fever-bright with the pleasure of being used.
The room thickens around you, close and hot, the lamp smoking faintly on the dresser, the quilt twisted on the bed behind him, the open window letting in all the wet green rot of summer.
You can hear his fingers moving in you, and you can hear him swallowing your pleasure as if he is starving for that too.
Your orgasm gathers, and he seems to sense it before you tell him, pressing deeper, sucking softer, giving you his mouth as steadily as he can while his own body shakes.
Pleasure rolls through you hard, making your hand fist in his hair, your thigh tightening over his shoulder as you bow against the wardrobe and come on his tongue.
He groans as if your pleasure hurts him sweetly. His fingers keep moving until you shove at his shoulder, oversensitive and breathless, and even then he kisses your inner thigh once, twice, wet open-mouthed kisses that beg forgiveness for stopping and permission to start again.
By the time you pull him up, Remmick’s mouth and chin are shining. His cock strains so heavily against his trousers that the fabric is damp at the front, and the sight of your pleasure on his face has made him glassy-eyed rather than proud.
He looks debased, beautiful, and miserable with restraint.
You rub your thumb over his slick lower lip, and he opens for it without instruction, tongue touching your skin with a shiver.
“You did that well,” you murmur.
Praise hits him harder than the slap. His eyes flutter, and his hands curl uselessly near your waist, not daring to grab. “Again,” he whispers, though it is unclear whether he means the praise, your mouth, or the chance to get between your thighs until he stops shaking.
“Bed,” you tell him, and he nearly stumbles in his hurry to obey.
The mattress gives under you with a familiar rope-and-frame complaint as you lie back, shift bunched around your hips.
He kisses you on the way down to it, or tries to. His mouth finds yours in broken, greedy attempts, too eager to be smooth.
You taste yourself on him, salt and heat beneath the faint copper memory of the chicken blood he had cleaned from your fingers.
He whimpers when your tongue touches his. He whimpers again when you bite his lower lip hard enough to warn him but not hard enough to bleed.
Remmick’s hands make poor work of his buttons. He is too aroused to be graceful, too eager to be quick, and by the time he gets his trousers open, his cock springs heavy and flushed into his palm.
He grips himself once by instinct, then snatches his hand away at the look you give him. The remorse on his face is immediate, but he doesn't cry; his eyes only shine, wet at the edges, his mouth tightening as he fights the ache.
When you finally part your thighs, the expression on his face changes so sharply it borders on pain as he climbs over you with care, one hand bracing near your head, the other gripping the base of his cock because even now, with permission, he's trying not to spend too soon.
The head of his cock drags through your wetness, and his face tightens as if the pleasure has teeth. He pushes in slowly because you told him once that you liked to feel him try not to lose himself, and he remembers the things that torment him.
When his hips finally settle flush against yours, his forehead drops near your collarbone with a low, broken moan.
“No teeth,” you remind him, turning his face away from your throat with two fingers at his jaw.
“No teeth,” he repeats, voice rough. “I know.”
“And no coming until I say.”
Remmick’s whole body tenses above you, then obeys by force of will alone.
He begins with slow strokes, dragging out of you almost to the tip before sinking back in, the rhythm careful and reverent until care becomes impossible.
His mouth moves everywhere it can safely go: your shoulder, your jaw, the curve of your breast through the shift, the place beneath your ear where he trembles from keeping his fangs away.
Each time his hunger gets too close, he turns his face aside and curses softly into the pillow.
The restraint makes him rougher through the hips, less polished, more desperate, and the bed starts to knock against the wall in a steady wooden pulse.
“You’re trying so hard,” you say, nails dragging down his back.
The praise makes him shudder, and one thin tear slips free despite his effort to hold it back. It cuts down the slapped cheek, catching the lamplight before disappearing near his jaw.
That's all he gives you at first, that single sign of being split too wide by pleasure, shame, and obedience. He doesn't fall apart the way he has before—he keeps moving, breathing hard through his nose, mouth open and wet, eyes fixed on your face because looking away would feel like failing.
“You like being kept like this,” you say, wrapping your legs higher around his waist. “Being made to wait. Being told no. Being put in your place.”
His hips stutter, eyes squeezing shut, and the next thrust goes deeper. “Yes.”
“Say it proper.”
“Yes,” he says again, hoarser, his hand fisting in the sheet beside your head. “I like it.”
“You like being treated like something that needs training.”
A sob catches in his throat. He thrusts harder, then whines when you tug his hair in warning.
“Careful,” you say. “Don’t get stupid now.”
“I am stupid,” he says, the words falling out in a rush, all dignity gone. “I’m stupid for it, I can’t think when you smell like this, when you open for me, when you look at me like that."
The answer pulls a sound from you before you can swallow it.
Remmick hears it and gives you that angle again, his body learning yours in the filthy, faithful way it always does.
The room fills with him: the slap of his hips, the damp heat of his mouth against your skin, the faint copper ghost of blood still hidden somewhere in his breath from your fingers.
Your hand slides between your bodies when the second climb starts, and the first touch of your fingers to your clit makes you tighten around him so suddenly that he chokes.
“Christ,” he gasps, eyes dropping to where your hand moves, hips rolling into you while your fingers rub tight circles over your clit.
His mouth hangs open, drool shining on his lower lip, and his cock jerks inside you each time your body clenches around him.
You touch yourself harder, matching the rhythm of his thrusts, using him and your own hand together until pleasure spreads hot and heavy through your belly.
Remmick's breathing turns ragged.
“That’s it,” you breathe, gripping his shoulder with your free hand. “Right there. Don’t change it.”
His jaw locks with the effort of keeping the pace.
The bedframe hits the wall harder, rain beginning at the window in a sudden silver rush, and the scent of wet earth rolls through the room with the smell of sweat and sex.
He drives into you exactly as ordered while your fingers work your clit, and the second orgasm breaks through you in a deep, pulsing wave.
Your back arches from the mattress, your thighs tightening around his hips, your cunt clenching hard around every inch of him.
Remmick makes a strangled sound and nearly follows, his rhythm collapsing into short, frantic thrusts before he catches himself.
“Not yet,” you say, still shaking from it, your hand leaving your clit to grip his face.
Agony flashes across him. His eyes go wet again, and this time the tears gather because he's too close, because your body is still gripping him, because obedience has become almost unbearable. “Please,” he says, the word cracked and low. “Please, please—I can’t hold it—”
“You can hold it until I tell you.”
His mouth trembles, but he nods, fucking you in broken strokes that keep him buried deep without letting him finish. Every muscle in him strains. His fangs show, not from threat but from the force of clenching his jaw, and he turns his face away from your neck as if the very sight of your pulse might break him.
You stroke his cheek, softer than before, and that gentleness ruins him more cleanly than cruelty.
“You did well,” you tell him.
The first true sob comes then, quiet and torn up, his face crumpling with relief before pleasure swallows it. “I tried.”
“I know.”
Remmick comes with a hoarse cry, hips driving in deep as his body bows over yours.
His cock pulses hard, filling you with heat while his breath breaks against your mouth. A few tears spill down his face at the force of it, not the endless weeping of earlier nights but something sharper, dragged out of him by release and the awful sweetness of permission.
He keeps whispering your name into the damp space between your mouths, each repetition less like speech and more like surrender.
You hold him through it, fingers in his hair, nails resting against the marks you left on his back, and his weight lowers carefully once the last tremor leaves him.
After the storm opens fully over the fields, the bedroom settles into a humid dark sweetened by rain through the window and the low smoke of the lamp.
Remmick stays buried in your warmth, softening by degrees, his face tucked near your collarbone without touching his teeth to your skin. The monster in him has not gone anywhere. It lies quiet under his skin, fed and chastened, listening to the blood in your throat with the same devotion he gives your voice.
You know what he is, what he had planned when he first crossed your threshold bleeding on purpose, what he could still make of you now that the house has accepted him.
He could turn you whenever he chose if you grew careless enough to let him.
He knows it too, and maybe that's why he clings to obedience so fiercely, why his mouth trembles when you stroke his hair, why the palm-mark on his cheek seems to comfort him as much as it shames him.
“You hit me hard,” he murmurs, voice rough against your skin.
“You earned it.”
A faint shiver moves through him, and even spent, he presses closer, seeking your heat like an animal crawling toward a hearth. “I know.”
“If you try to bite me again, I’ll do worse.”
Remmick’s lips touch your shoulder in one careful, toothless kiss, and his answer comes low, reverent, and still a little hungry. “Yes, ma’am.”
Rain batters the sill, the pasture disappears beyond the dark glass, and the blood has long since been washed from your hands, though its memory remains in the damp shine of his mouth.
You let him lie there, half corpse and half supplicant, the devil you allowed inside because mercy had once looked too much like need.
When his arm tightens around your waist and his breath slows against your throat, you do not tell him to move.
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