It starts innocently enough, just the two of you sitting on a crate outside the mess tent, watching stars blink into existence over the 4077th. The bottle between you was a gift from Klinger, who swore it was “liberated” from a general’s private stash. You raise your brow. Father Mulcahy hesitates.
“For morale,” you say with a grin.
“For morale,” he agrees, uncertain, but smiling.
The first sip burns. So does the second. By the third, the gentle priest is already buzzed. And he giggles. Giggles, at nothing at all. It’s a charming sound, you think.
You nearly drop the bottle. “Are you already drunk, Father?”
“I believe I may be…lightly anointed,” he says with a hiccup and a proud nod. “Divinely spirited.”
“A lightweight,” you corrected. He nods.
You’re both in stitches after that, laughing harder than you have in weeks. He starts humming a hymn, then pauses halfway through and sings the last verse like it’s a bar tune. You join in, slurring the words as if you knew them anyhow.
“Is it wrong to feel happy,” he asks suddenly, voice quieter. “In a place like this?”
You glance at him. His smile is softer now. “No,” you say. “It means you’re still alive.”
He nods, looking up at the sky, stars blurring just a little in his watery eyes. “You know,” he whispers, “I love them all. Even Frank Burns. God help me.”
the human mind is prone to catastrophizing when left unoccupied. And that’s why it’s important to always have a little Blorbo to rotate in your head. It acts as a protective charm of sorts to redirect your imagination away from harmful spirals
thoughts without Blorbo: oh my god I was so cringe in seventh grade why did I do that
thoughts with Blorbo: I haven’t considered the interactions with bleebus; I must rectify this immediately
saw an elderly woman walking around with a tote bag whose design were the four AO3 fic category squares and she very excitedly asked if i was a reader or a writer bcs nobody else at the con had recognized it, and after telling her that i've been writing fic since fanfic.net, she solemnly nodded and explained that she'd been reading fic since "the days of personal websites" but that she only started writing fanfic when she was 47 and oh my god when i tell you that i genuinely teared up on the spot!!!!! like!!! HELL YEAH???? LITERALLY NEVER TOO OLD TO START WRITING. NEVER TOO OLD TO WRITE AND SHARE YOUR FIC.
her enthusiastic "i'm a very nice and bubbly person, i swear! but i love writing angst and major character death :)" nearly took me the fuck out.
icon. legend. diva. i wish her nothing but a kajillion million comments and kudos. i hope her fic updates crash AO3. i hope she knows i'm promoting her to my personal patron saint of AO3.
Inspired by an Ella Fitzgerald & The Ink Spots song
Summary: When an old friend of his is transferred to the 4077th, Father Mulcahy must confront his past and reconsider his future.
Pairing: Father Mulcahy x Nurse!Reader
Rating: Mature
Expected Content: There are no sexual acts depicted in this work. However, these are the following disclaimers: intended female reader, a “healthy” amount of pining, potential sinning and breaking of vows, scandalous thoughts for a priest, suggestive material and religious imagery
Word Count: 2,614
Notes: I am unsure whether this was cleared in the show, but I am assuming that Francis is his given name while John is his confirmation name.
To @mash4077confessions, thank you for answering my question and helping me decide to finish this work.
To @i-shall-abide, I hope you enjoy this work and thank you for asking to be tagged.
———
Faint rays of sunlight swam in the murky skies, a dying sunset fading into ephemeral twilight. With it, the stars and their endless luster peered through the evening veil, a familiar stillness settling in time. Amidst this comforting silence was a man sequestered, dwelling in his solitude. At this hour, Father Mulcahy was in his bed, skimming through the book in his lap.
It was an old Bible he used to carry, the size of it fitting into most of the pockets he owned. Although he had taken great care of the book, its condition showed its true age and wear. From the covering alone, one could see how its color had faded into an ashen shade, its bindings in complete tatters. At some point, a few of the pages had fallen out of the shell, rendering the New Testament incomplete. Despite this, Father Mulcahy considered this his most precious possession—a gift he had received from an old friend.
Along with the Bible came a bookmark. Unlike the book itself, this little sliver of paper and card-stock maintained its original color, gleaming with a peaceful yet vibrant shade of blue. Though, what made it special to the Father were the words written on it, words written in that same delicate hand in ink,
“The Lord directs the steps of the godly. He delights in every detail of our lives. Though they stumble, they will never fall, for the Lord holds them by the hand.”
- Psalm 37: 23-24
Underneath the dim glow of his lamp, Father Mulcahy sat still, reading those words again and again. Besides your choice of hymns, what captivated him most was the way you had written them. From the artistic curve of your letters to the hint of personality, he admired it all. With a careful hand, he closed the book and set it aside, flipping the switch of his lamp.
Yet, as the minutes spun into hours, the chaplain lay in his bed disturbed. As he tossed and turned, troubled with notions that disagreed with his piety, he found no semblance of respite—especially within his aching mind. This incessant hounding exhausted his conscience as it soon faded into the depths, memories he had long fought to suppress now resurfacing. It was as if he was caught in a sudden riptide, pulled into its merciless current until he inevitably sank. Still, he struggled and fought, flailing against the whims of his innermost desires.
Even as the temperature lowered to a comfortable chill, it felt as though his skin was ignited—ravaged by a heat with no comparable intensity. Underneath the linen sheets, Father began to sweat, his hands trembling at his sides. Temptation swallowed him whole, his mind turning into a feverish haze as his memories gnawed away at his resolve.
From the pleasure of your touch to the softness of your lips, it cultivated an unbearable want from deep within. Each imagined sensation stirred a yearning so incredibly sinful, consuming his flesh to the border of pain. Yet, Father Mulcahy resisted, barely fleeing from this latest bout of temptation.
Still, several of his days carried on with the same persistent problem, where he would lay awake at night suddenly ensnared by an unbearable urge.
However, the height of his plight only began when you arrived.
After reveille, it came as a surprise to the chaplain when he saw a jeep driving into camp, a pair of nurses sitting at the rear. At first, he thought nothing of it, assuming that they were transferring into the unit. He later made note to introduce himself to the women, hoping to gain another parishioner. Yet, as he turned to the direction of his tent, it was then he heard that laugh—a sweet yet sound that echoed in his mind.
For what felt like an eternity, Father Mulcahy remained still, debating on whether he should introduce himself. But, the way he had left you, after saying he was still planning for priesthood… the tears streaming down your cheeks, the pain in your voice as you called out to him, his train already departing—it pained him to remember.
Even now, he could still feel the slightest pang in his heart, an ounce of regret despite his love for his faith. But how he loved you, his little darling. You were the best thing to happen to him, a small-town girl falling for a passing missionary boy.
But the chance to see and talk to you again proved too much to pass, and so, he decided to introduce himself.
…
For the better part of the day, Father Mulcahy remained in his tent. In some capacity, he still performed his duties as a chaplain: taking the occasional confession and offering guidance to those in need. Besides your arrival, he would have considered it another day at camp, spent in the comfort of his tent. As he planned out his evening, he thought it best to see you during dinner. Yet, with an hour left before chow, he heard a knock at his door.
“Come in!”
He called from inside, placing down the book he had in his hand. As he turned in his seat with a pleasant smile, about to say something in greeting, he saw you. His expression then faltered, shifting into quiet disbelief.
Both of you were evidently stunned, lost for words as you stared at the other. You could only watch as his steady hand removed his hat, placing it on the desk beside him. Still, his entire attention remained on you, pleasantly perplexed.
“Francis..”
You uttered, your voice softening at the name as a small smile crept to your lips. Despite a decade having passed, the sound of it was a familiar comfort, reminding you of the affection you still carried from years before.
Meanwhile, Father Mulcahy only stared. To him, he thought of your voice as a wondrous sound, marveling at how it soothed the pains in his heart. For so long had he yearned to hear you say his name again, to hear that voice say anything to him at all.
Then, he said your name in return, a sound so quiet yet reverent.
Without delay, you threw your arms around him, burying your face into his chest as you breathed. There was a sense of urgency in your actions, hands grasping and clawing at his back, fearing you would lose him again. The thought of it made your embrace tighten, not wanting to let go of him so soon—not when you haven’t seen or felt him in so long.
“I thought I would never see you again..”
There was a noticeable break in your voice as you spoke, unable to contain the rush of relief that swelled in you. Soon, you felt his arms encircle your waist, pulling your body close to his as he rested his chin on your head. Despite appearing collected, Father Mulcahy was anything but, for this is only the beginning of his unraveling.
“I prayed that we would..”
…
As another peaceful night returned, Father Mulcahy found himself lying in his cot, his discipline strained. Like many times before, he awoke from a sudden pressure building in his core, stirring a carnal need he had no intention of fulfilling. Yet, as the minutes progressed into hours, his mind berated his already waning sanity.
Again, he turned on his side, his imagination threatening to consume him. Despite his efforts, he could hear your voice exalting in ecstasy—saying phrases he would never repeat in company. These fantasies only worsened as he memorized your touch, recalling the graze of your hand or the caress of your fingers. He now considered himself an utterly ruined man, one who wants and yearns.
In place of his devotion, what arose was desperation, fueled by a great corporeal need. Father Mulcahy knew that the human body could only endure abstinence for so long—and in his case, it’s been months—before he surrendered. Still, he was not about to be tempted, not when he had to face you in the morning.
Yet, as he remembered the scent of your lavender soap, flitting in the morning air, it led to an indulgent vision: his hands sliding across your wet skin, your hair clinging to your neck as the water poured over—a playful glint in your eyes as you tempted his hand lower.
That was enough to break Father Mulcahy.
…
The following morning…
After ten hours of rigorous work, you were about ready to drop on the nearest cot. The muscles in your legs were practically weak, aching with every step. Yet, you managed. As you made your way through camp, you thought of visiting Father Mulcahy, missing his company. With that, you pivoted to the direction of his tent, excitement brimming.
Once there, you happily knocked, waiting for his answer. It took him another beat to open the door and as he did, you saw a man in silent distress.
He was not himself that morning. From his disheveled appearance to his bothered conscience, you saw an expression you never thought the Father was capable of: guilt.
“Father, you alright?”
Instead of a greeting, you made your concern known. You noticed how his eyes had averted from your worried gaze, as if he was afraid you would see through his shame.
“I’m fine.”
Father Mulcahy hurriedly murmured, stepping aside so that you could enter. In his hand, you noticed his signature Panama hat, clasped almost too tightly at the brim. Instead of prying, you decided to take a seat on the edge of his cot.
Meanwhile, the man was anything but fine. For the last hour and a half, he was in constant prayer, kneeling on the floor and begging for the Lord’s forgiveness. What he had done in that cot, what he had envisioned and enjoyed—it was the unmaking of a man who lived by the cloth.
He stood still for a moment, keeping a respectful distance from you. Yet, despite himself, flashes of his fantasies began to resurface, testing his resolve.
“You look tired. Were you just at work?”
He asked in that same kind tone, trying his best to make polite conversation. Yet, as you sat on top of his linen sheets, the same ones where he came undone hours ago, he couldn’t help but shudder at the filth he had thought.
God Almighty…
“Yeah, my shift just ended. I thought I could lie down here and keep you company for a while. That okay with you, Father?”
“Oh! No, no! I don’t mind!”
You were surprised by the sudden burst of his reply, noticing a hint of nerves in the way he had reacted.
Yet, unbeknownst to you, the man was practically fraying at the seams—shedding every layer of discipline he had once earned. For the first time in his life as a priest, he was overwhelmed. He had experienced sensations he thought impossible, pleasures he would have considered fantastical. Yet, with the taste of carnality on his tongue, he developed a need—a demand for release.
Then, he looked away, setting his gaze on the door. His thoughts were becoming immoral, radical even. He was now acting against his own principles, and worse, his own vows.
Without needing an invitation, you decided to lie on his cot. At a glance, you noticed how his fingers fidgeted with his hat, flickering with the brim as he sat himself down. From his posture alone, you knew he was tense.
“You look like you need some rest too, Father. Come, lie down with me. We have enough space.”
Even with your delicate delivery, your words were more of a demand.
Before Father Mulcahy could object, you moved to the other side of the cot and gestured for him to come.
Without much of an argument, he decided to comply. Besides his own desire to join you, he learned many times before how difficult you were to reason with. So, he removed his glasses and boots, the cot dipping under his weight as he lay beside you.
“You know, if anyone were to see us, they would consider this improper.”
He reprimanded, though he kept his tone light. Despite his recent lapse, he was still a priest and he intended to maintain his vows, even if he was currently falling short on one.
“I hardly think you could be capable of anything improper, Father.”
You mused in a teasing lilt, turning your head on the side to see him. Though, before he could even make a retort, you cheekily added,
“Besides, if you wanted me, you would have never become a priest.”
A small snicker fell from your lips as you straightened your back. Yet, beside you, Father Mulcahy lay still.
It was a sentence that stung him deeply, both in truth and in slight offense. He knew what you were insinuating, how he had chosen his faith over you. Yet, it was not right for you to cast blame on his decision. He had explained this to you before, and sometimes, to himself.
Without thinking, Father Mulcahy muttered, unable to stop the words from forming in his mouth,
“I still want you.”
At his confession, silence fell, the weight of his words suffocating.
At the slightest tilt of your head, you caught a glimpse of the man, a broken expression written across his face. In his eyes, you saw his restraint beginning to fray, a tempest of emotion churning from within.
Then, with little distance to close, you moved to his side, pressing your head against his chest. You expected the man to make an excuse, a reason as to why you should keep a distance. Yet, he never said a word or pulled away.
So, you leaned in closer, faces an inch apart as he breathed against your skin. Gently, you brought your hand against the side of his face, cupping it as you brushed your lips against his. Softly, you tested him, wanting to see how far he was willing. Yet, before you could break this innocent kiss, you felt his arm circle around your waist, pulling you even closer.
As the kiss deepened, his other hand traveled down to your hip, resting his palm above it before squeezing. He was humming in delight, lost in a state of bliss as he tasted and savored you. With every rumble and hum he made, it traveled straight to your core, blossoming a heat that made you press your thighs. Your head was already spinning from excitement, your heart pounding in your ears.
Yet, reluctantly, you pulled away from the kiss, rasping,
“Fa-Father, I—“
“Don’t call me Father when I am about to sin.”
There was a sharp edge to his voice when he muttered, almost in warning. In that moment, he wanted nothing with his title, not to hear or be addressed by it. He only wanted to hear your voice say his name, again and again.
As he rested his forehead against yours, you saw a man torn between his desires and duties. Yet, with the taste of sin still fresh in his mind, you knew that the battle had been won.
“What man of you, having a hundred sheep, if he has lost one of them, does not leave the ninety-nine in the open country, and go after the one that is lost, until he finds it?"
isn't it kind of crazy that mulcahy is enlisted. he isn't even drafted. do you think he enlisted because he's such a man of action that he saw where he was going to be the most needed and went, both entering the most hypermasculine space possible after being abused growing up about how he isn't man enough & risking life and limb, while hanging onto his softness and decency. a move that he keeps echoing throughout the show when he does stuff like stare down the soldier with the gun or deal with the black market to get supplies & echoing his people's devotion to continuing to secretly preach in the hills on rocks under threat of death by english priest-hunters. isn't it kind of crazy how he gets there and is basically the acting chief mourner as the sole person around for miles who is responsible for giving every dying soldier's last rites and spiritually processing the dead. isn't it kind of crazy to enlist as a psychopomp. isn't it kind of crazy how he does that and is so insistent with continuing to be helpful and assists in OR so much that the surgeons trust him to take over in triage or stand in for a nurse when there aren't enough hands to go around. isnt it kind of crazy that he does all that and still doesn't think he's useful
father mulcahy has gotta be one of my favorite fictional characters of all time. just imagine. you're a priest in the middle of a war. you're surrounded by doctors and nurses working day and night to patch up hordes of wounded soldiers. everyone knows how futile it is - at the end of the day, these soldiers, these children, are just being fixed up so they can be sent right back into combat again. and what is your place in all this? you were sent here to heal the soul rather than the body, but few people in camp attend your sunday services, and confessions are sparse. the doctors have a nice clear number to tell them how good they're doing - 97.8%, the highest survival rate of any army hospital in the country. but there's no such way to measure spiritual healing, and so your invisible work weighs on you. you question whether you're even helping at all. and you become so lost in your feelings of inadequacy that you can't see the good you're doing. you can't see how much everyone depends on you. you can't see that in the middle of this violent, nonsensical theatre, your soft words, open ear, and quiet optimism are what gives everyone the strength to make it through each day. your mere presence has shaped this mess of a camp into a brilliant parish, and you're too humble to ever realize it.
Most of my posts are about Remmick, but my favorite character was actually Delta Slim, and people are definitely not talking about him enough
Delroy Lindo played this character amazingly. He was a comedic relief without it feeling very out of place which is a pet peeve I have with movies. A lot of movies have someone as a comedic relief (which isn’t the issue) but they’re usually very unrealistic and unnatural a lot of the time
You can also see how good of a person he is, especially when he was encouraging the men who were working while they were driving through the fields and then sacrificing himself so Sammie, someone he didn’t even know until that day, could escape and live.
People don’t talk about that enough and I really think Sammie wouldn’t have survived without Delta Slim, because Smoke, Sammie and Pearline (am I missing someone else from that scene?) could barely fight off Remmick alone, imagine ALL the other vampires on top of that
I have a remmick x gender neutral!reader request (I hope you do those, if not it’s okay!). Reader is a lone, fledgling vampire - perhaps they became a vampire through being cursed, or whatever strikes your fancy. I’m dying for more Sinners vampire lore.
Anyways, reader is on their own, not knowing how to vampire, barely surviving, throat on fire with thirst because they don’t understand their new afterlife until they meet Remmick. The two can be companions, which they so obviously need.
Rotten Blood
☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*
A/N; Thank you for the request!! I absolutely love this idea and can 100% do a gender-neutral reader :) Of course Remmick still calls them the usual pet names (darlin’, baby, etc.) since I believe those can be for anybody so interpret as you will!
Summary; As a new vampire, you have no idea what to do but don’t worry, Remmick will help you.
Content; GN reader, fledgling vampire reader, getting turned, vampirism, suicidal ideation, hive minds, starvation, death, Remmick is weird and a smartass (what else is new), blood and injury, fighting Remmick, Remmick gives you your first meal, vampire bonding, very dependent relationship
Wc; 4.2k
☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*
You’ve never before known a hunger like this.
You feel it within every cell of your immortalized body as you stumble through the moonlit forest in a daze. Roots catch the toes of your boots, intent on dragging you down and keeping you there with them as they consume your flesh that’s so inherently wrong. You know it wouldn’t be difficult, you know that if you fell you wouldn’t be able to get back up. Starvation is like a beast stuck in the confines of your form, growling within your stomach and creating a tightness like a clenched fist in your chest. Your lips are dry and cracked, your face sunken, skin sallow, throat burning like you swallowed acid.
The teeth in your mouth feel unfamiliar, sharpened at the ends and crafted with the purpose of tearing into flesh. They create an ache in your gums, full of a desire to rip and devour and drink the warm life of God’s creations, the same ones you’d been taught to cherish. They’ve refused to retract since that night, your own body ignoring your commands in favor of the hunger steadily consuming you.
It was two weeks ago now, the time that passed feeling like an unbearable blur tracked through the moon’s cycle. She was full when your family was killed in front of you, and now she’s merely a crescent sitting amongst the stars.
You hadn’t known the man, neither did your parents. All they’d seen was a person in need of help and god bless their hearts, they’d welcomed him in so he could have a place to rest. You’d merely been visiting, something you did every month now that your parents were getting older, having no idea it’d be the last time you ever did such a thing. You were in your room finishing your work, oblivious to the monster that had just stepped foot inside your childhood home. It was three minutes after when the screaming started and you ran out to find your momma and papa laying in pools of their own blood with that man standing over them.
His beady eyes locked on to you and you’d tried to run but oh, do those things love a chase. You’d been shoved to the ground so hard your chin busted and you’d punched and kicked with all your might, but it wasn’t enough against a creature with snapping teeth and claws digging into your shoulders. In an act of desperate frenzy, you felt those fangs sink in and rip your life right from your neck.
You don’t understand why you were the only one who woke up again.
When you came to on the kitchen floor, you found you were alone and covered in your blood. It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes based on the warmth of it, but the man was nowhere to be seen and your back door was left swinging open. It made you sick how alien your body felt, like you’d been picked up out of your original one and plopped right into a new one. There was something unusual that crawled under your skin, your limbs felt foreign, and every sense was heightened to an inhuman level. You could hear the critters far off in the woods, could smell the iron of your parent’s blood, could see perfectly in the darkness of the house.
You didn’t know what to do. You wanted to scream, to cry, to puke, to chase down that vile man and kill him—with the claws that protruded from your fingers now, you probably could. But you didn’t do any of that. You merely stood on unsteady feet and walked out the door, something within you telling you that you couldn’t stick around any longer.
From there you continued to wander in a state of shock, unable to muster a single thought, your gleaming eyes wide and lips parted in disbelief. You kept going until the moon began to fall, until some secondary, old voice inside of you hissed that you needed to seek shelter. You’d gone deeper into the woods, managing to find an old hut that was falling apart inside and out. It was completely abandoned, meaning you got to just walk inside and curl up in the furthest corner from the door, making yourself as small as possible on the wooden floor that gave you splinters.
You laid there for hours as the world seemed to pass you by, only noticing when the room lightened with the sun, rays breaking in through a hole in the roof or gaps between the boards. You were far enough from them that you didn’t burn but you still felt the kiss of their heat on your sweat soaked skin. You were more than content to just remain there, to listen to the sounds of the outside as your body rotted away in some unknown hut. Then the voices started.
Screams and terrified voices of those long dead, of people who suffered your same fate, creating a cacophony within your mind. You’d groaned like you were in pain, clutching your head as they continued to wail. It was your connection to the man that did this, the souls of those he’d damned come to torment his newest victim. You could feel him so faintly within you, his frayed emotions and frantic thoughts, and if you branched yourself out, you knew you’d be able to rifle through a couple of his loose memories. It was clear he had no care for anyone but himself, he was barely a century old, and he lived in a state of constant panic. It spread to you, anxiety kicking in your chest, making you feel as though you were being hunted by something unseen.
“Please… just stop…” You’d muttered, your first words since your parents were killed. Your voice was cracked and weak, a mere whisper to whatever cursed god reigned over damned things like yourself. The screams quieted, but they were still there in the back of your mind, a constant echo while you drifted through fitful bouts of sleep.
Those voices became your companion while you walked through the forest like a ghost. Your hunger reared its ugly head after two days, your vampiric mind running in circles around the idea of fresh blood. The human part of you that still remained refused, the thought of taking a human life all for your own needs making you ill. You’d tried to eat the normal food you were able to scrounge up, had tried to drink water from a stream, but it just ended with you throwing it back up in violent heaves until there was nothing left but bile. You’d cried then, sobs wracking your body in frustration and horror, your tears tinted red.
Your days and nights continued to drag on much the same. You pulled yourself back into your hut as the moon set, you withered away on the floor, and then you’d spend the night roaming in search of some kind of purpose while desperate pleas and screams bounced around your skull. There were some days where you’d simply stare at the sunlight coming in through your hut, the specks of dust dancing in the rays acting like a taunt. You wanted nothing more than to walk into them, the human part of you begging for freedom, rattling the bars of the cage you’d been forced into. However, just as you’d reach forward, just as the sun would make your skin bubble and blister, you’d yank yourself back. That twisted sense of self-preservation continued to keep you from ending it all, kept you trapped in your prison of flesh and bone.
Sometimes the voices even urged you to do it. Some of them went out the same way, they just walked straight out into the sun and burned with nobody to stop them. They murmured that you should join them in their torture of the man who turned you, their spirits locked to him in an act of defiance, restlessness, and anger. You could never escape them until the one night they just… went silent.
It was like a radio being abruptly shut off, pure silence following. It felt like you could breathe again, could think again, at last left with just your own thoughts and emotions. You knew what it meant—the man that did this had finally been killed. You weren’t surprised of course, based on his old memories it seemed he was a fucking idiot anyway. With quiet finally in your mind, that was the first day you were able to sleep properly.
The cycle continued, hunger eating away at you with each sunrise and sunset. It’s why you’re still walking the woods now, like you’re hoping some solution will present itself to you and relieve you of this problem. You haven’t even been able to catch an animal, your heavy limbs too clumsy and your mind too distracted to get your claws on a mere rabbit. It’s led you to wander farther than you ever have before, starvation leading you on an invisible leash to what’s undoubtedly your own demise. Your mouth hangs open, your fangs peeking out from behind your lips, desperate for something, anything, to ease the pain twisting your stomach.
Your shoulder bumps into a tree and you find yourself sticking there like a bug would get stuck to sap, leaning your weight against the trunk with panting breaths. Your knees threaten to buckle beneath you, unable to keep holding up your shrinking weight. You would’ve sunk to the ground right there and made that your resting place if something strange didn’t break you out of your stupor. The forest had gone quiet. It’s not the kind of quiet of night time when all the birds have laid to rest, it’s the kind that’s followed by something dangerous, every creature and insect too scared to utter a single peep.
Your ears perk, your abnormal eyes widening in an attempt to get a better view of your surroundings. You can feel it. The hairs along your arms raise with goosebumps, a shiver runs down your spine, your teeth ache in response, something new is hissing in your mind to be ready, like it knows something you don’t. You think you hear whispers in the branches above, passing things that you can’t make out but proceed something that has you shoving yourself off that tree with newfound strength, your claws extending even further.
“Thought I smelled somethin’ good.”
You whip around at that southern drawl of a voice, finding the source of it in a man leaning against a tree not even ten feet away. You can see the way his eyes gleam red in the darkness like rubies, lazily looking you over. His scent comes to you on the breeze—ancient earth, rusted metal, and old leather, with an undertone of something that doesn’t belong in this world. In other words, something like you. His posture is relaxed, hands in the pockets of his trousers, sleeves rolled up, but it does nothing to shut off the alarms blaring in your mind. It’s a constant loop of things like danger, threat, new vampire, too strong, run-
He shifts, taking slow steps towards you. “Ain’t never seen you ‘round here before.” He says curiously, hands falling from his pockets to reveal long claws stained with blood. His fangs show when he speaks, glinting under the moon and undoubtedly sharper than yours. His head tilts. “What’s yer name, sweet thing?”
You can’t find it in yourself to answer as you stumble away from him. You want nothing to do with another vampire, not after witnessing the one who turned you. Though this one seems vastly different, more experienced and sure of himself, like he’s been around long enough to figure it out. He hums. “No need to be scared, darlin’. Here, I’ll go first. Name’s Remmick.” The name itself sounds old and foreign, a piece from a time long ago, from lands far away. His eyes narrow when he looks at you, assessing. “Ya look like skin and bones. When’s the last time you ate?”
“Stay away from me.” You finally manage to bite out, the first thing you’ve spoken in days. The words burn your throat, thick and clunky on your tongue. Your fingers twitch, your muscles tense, and Remmick notices. He smiles knowingly.
“It’s okay, darlin’, I can help ya. Ya feel that hunger eatin’ you from the inside out, don’t ‘cha?” He says, seeing it plain as day on your face. He’s seen it plenty of times in other fledglings, even in himself. That original denial to feed, the unbearable wrongness of your desire, the desperation to cling to your humanity, even if it kills you. He forced himself to overcome it with defiance, to give in to the new monster raging within his body. He can tell there’s nothing like that in you though, instead filled with misery and depression and skittish instinct. Hell, if he had to guess you’re probably a day away from dropping dead.
Before you can even blink, he’s on you; your hunger-induced sluggishness is no match for his speed. Your breath whooshes out of you in a gasp when he grabs your face, those claws of his just lightly pressing into your skin like a reminder. His hold on you is tight as he tilts your head from side to side, his brows scrunching. “Yeah, ya ain’t one of mine. You get left all alone then, darlin’? Abandoned by yer maker?” His tuts in disdain. “Y’know, I killed one of them a few days back. Real young, spazzy fella, got too in my space.“
Your eyes widen with recognition. So he’s the one that did the other guy in. You’d honestly thank him for it if you weren’t terrified. With mere inches separating you, you’re able to more clearly see his strong features, the curls of black sitting on his forehead, the lines of a human life gone by just barely etching his face. There’s something eerily charming about him, something that makes you want to give in to his promises.
Still, there’s a part of you that refuses, that won’t fall prey to another one of these beasts, that has you raising your claws and slashing them across his arm. He yanks back with a hiss, red irises flashing dangerously like sparking embers. He holds his wound, four gashes along his forearm, the blood beginning to seep through his fingers. You nearly choke on the scent of it, staggering back a step as it wraps around you, thick and cloying. For the first time, you feel the drool pooling in your mouth, made from moisture you didn’t even know you had left in you. It seeps from the corners of your lips, it coats your fangs as if in preparation.
Remmick grins. “Ohhh yeah, that smells good, don’t it?” He lifts his hand, covered in his own blood, taunting. “Poor thing like you ain’t have anyone to show ya the way. All alone out here, no idea what to do… let me help ya, darlin’.”
“Leave me alone.” You practically beg, trying to distance yourself from that god damn smell, clenching your teeth so hard they could shatter. Hunger claws at your insides, begging to come out, to get a taste of the meal in front of you, tainted as it may be. His blood smells rich with history, full of stories and different lives lived, laced with earth older than you could imagine. There’s something in your mind howling for just a drop of it, begging to know what something that ancient would feel like on your tongue.
For every step you take back, Remmick takes another forward, never letting you get far enough from that scent. “Aw c’mon now, I can’t let a sweet thing like you go to waste. It’ll be okay, baby, I promise.” He coos at you like a frightened animal, getting closer still. “You don’t have to be all by yourself no more. Don’t have to keep bein’ in pain.” There’s something about you that draws him in, that makes him want to know more, to tame that frenzied panic within you. He’s already decided he won’t let you waste away for a second longer, no matter how much you fight him on it.
Oh, you sure do fight him on it. As soon as he gets too close for your liking, you’re growling again, lunging at him. Your claws want nothing more than to dig into him, especially as he laughs lightheartedly. He stumbles back as your weight slams into him, as your hands reach for his face and neck. He moves with an inhuman speed and strength that you lack, easily gripping your wrists and keeping you at a safe distance. “Easy now,” he says, almost teasing, “don’t wanna hurt ya.”
His tone serves to piss you off more, and you use that anger and your final pump of adrenaline to struggle, to try and kick and hit, to burn off the rage that’s been simmering within you for two weeks. Remmick sidesteps you with a lazy confidence, watching you wear yourself out. There’s a point when his own claws just barely nick your arm like an accident, a thin strip of blood beading at the surface. It makes him pull back, his nose scrunching. “Whew baby, yer blood is potent.” He whistles, nearly wincing at the scent that makes his mouth water. It smells so human, not yet flushed out by feeding on other’s blood, by the wrongness of being a vampire. His eyes gleam. “Still got all that mortality in ya.”
With the grace of a cat, Remmick sweeps your legs out from under you when you try going at it again, leaving you to fall to the forest floor with an oof. You groan, your head pounding, your limbs feeling unbearably heavy, chest heaving. You go limp against the cool grass, your remaining energy at last spent, more than content to lay there until the sun comes up and burns you away. You hear a click of the tongue above you, Remmick looking down at you. “You done, sweet thing?” You don’t respond, making him huff. “Alright, c’mon,” he says, scooping you up by under your arms and forcing you back on your feet, “don’t die on me just yet.”
He nods towards the trees beyond. “Let’s go. Got somethin’ for ya.”
He starts walking without even looking back, like he fully expects you to follow him, like he knows you will. He’s right of course, and you find yourself stumbling after him without a second thought; it’s not like you have much else better to do than follow this weird, ancient vampire.
His steps are steady and light, traversing the forest with the experience of someone who’s done it hundreds of times. He barely rustles the bushes he passes, as if he doesn’t exist to the world around him, or he doesn’t want to disturb it lest it turn the wrong eye on him. You, on the other hand, make enough noise for the both of you. You can barely stay upright, your legs shaking, every tree root feeling like a death sentence.
The further you go, the stronger a certain smell gets. At first you think perhaps it’s Remmick’s wounds from you bleeding again, but they closed up a while ago. No, this scent is fresh and full of life and human. Hunger slams into you tenfold, sent into a frenzy at the idea of a true meal. You begin to hear noises too, garbled cries and pleas and sobs.
The undergrowth parts around you, leading you into a small clearing where blood has smeared across the grass, eerily illuminated by the moon above. Lying amidst it all is a young man, his clothes dirty and bloodied, his face bruised, and tears running freely. He’s on his stomach like he’d attempted to crawl away, drawing attention to the fact that both his Achilles tendons have been brutally sliced. When he spots you both, he goes into a full blown panic, begging and pleading for mercy. “No, no, no- please- I don’t know what I did just spare me please-“
“Oh hush up.” Remmick says roughly to him, grabbing him by the collar and dropping him against a tree, then keeping him there with a boot pressed into his leg. Remmick looks to you, nodding towards the guy. “Now I left this poor feller waitin’ all cuz of ya so ya best be nice and put him outta his misery”
You stand there confused for a moment, in disbelief at the fact that you’re being offered someone else’s meal just like that. Drool coats your chin, your fangs fully extended and sharp as razors, the hunger inside you howls. You know better than to reject a gift when it’s given to you so Remmick watches you with both intensity and fascination as you stumble forward, your lips already dropped open. The scent of blood coats the roof of your mouth, your eyes gleaming while the man struggles and sobs.
You fall to your knees in front of him, clawed hands coming up to shove his head aside to bare his untouched neck to you. You can feel the way his blood pumps beneath the skin, his heartbeat so loud in your ears you could mistake it for your own if you had one. There’s still something human in you that struggles against this, that screams at the horror of it all, but it’s ultimately drowned out by the desire and temptation. You can’t find it in yourself to apologize before you’re leaning in, before your teeth are sinking deep, deep into his flesh.
The man’s scream gets cut off, his body going still beneath you. When those first drops of blood hit your tongue you moan, the sound coming from you without control. It feels like a puzzle piece has finally been snapped into place, everything suddenly feeling so unbelievably right, despite your actions being so wrong in every way under the eye of God. That burn in your throat at last goes away, strength already returning to your limbs, your mind clearing with each gulp. Remmick grins, satisfaction and pleasure blooming within him just from watching you. He crouches down, his hand coming to pet through your hair, brushing it back from your face. “That’s it, good, good. Drink it all, baby.” He says in whispered awe.
You do just that. You take and take and take, sucking every drop of blood from the man’s veins until there’s nothing left to be given, until the flavor starts to lose its vibrancy. When you finally feel satisfied, you pull back with a loud pop and a tear, your fangs leaving one last mark by ripping some of his skin. Your breath comes in heavy, iron-tainted pants, your eyes bright and you feeling like you can think for once. The blood has made a mess of your front, smeared across the lower half of your face and down your neck to your chest, ruining your shirt. Your hands haven’t been spared either, the red running from the tips of your claws to your knuckles.
You look up at Remmick, at the creature who finally fed you, who gave you just what you needed without hesitation, who saved you. Where there was once alarms ringing, there’s now just whispers of devotion. Whispers of Remmick being safety, a provider, a savior. He sees that shift in you clear as day, something he’s seen countless times before—it’s just that this time he didn’t have to turn you himself for it to happen. It makes his smile widen, his red gaze lidded.
He takes your face in one hand, and this time you don’t flinch away from his touch. “Gorgeous.” He murmurs before his tongue is on you, dragging across your chin, collecting the combination of blood and spit in rough licks. You whimper under his ministrations and he swallows down that sound with his lips on yours, his kiss starved and desperate. He groans at the taste of blood, taking every bit he can from you, the weight of his body pressing hot and heavy against your own. He licks across your neck, teeth grazing purposefully along your skin as a tease for you and him both. There’s small nips when he can’t control himself, when there’s a spot properly drenched with blood.
The combination of the man’s human blood mixed with the scent your own is intoxicating, and if Remmick didn’t force himself to pull back, to exercise some form of self restraint, he believes he would’ve found himself with his fangs in your neck.
He sighs, running his thumb along the corner of his lip to clean off the drool that began to form. “Now let’s find another one ‘fore I eat your sweet self whole.” He says, voice low and scratchy at the edges.
You’re eager to follow him, to have him show you the way of this new life. You both leave behind the mangled body of the man, his blood now flowing through your veins and giving you the energy you’d been so sorely lacking. You feel reborn, fresh and rejuvenated, excited to see what else may lay on the moonlit path with Remmick as your eternal guide, neither of you ever being alone again.
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