dam…….. that website “you feel like shit” (it’s like a questionnaire / troubleshooting guide for when you feel like shit) really works………………….. im not even all the way thru it and i even half-assed a lot of the suggestions and i already feel loads better
My divorced cousin is asking me for tips on how to ask his trans coworker out and I'm like.... I don't know my friend the LGBTQ doesn't actually share a hivemind
Summary: You are a southern girl emanating from wealth—adored, envied, and pursued. After a failed attempt to enter your family’s grand estate, an Irishman begins to pay you frequent visits, night after night. It's only a matter of time until you cave into his taunts.
wc: 6.1k
Smut warning: (18+) MDNI dom!remmick x female!reader. southern gothic, somewhat loss of virginity, fingering, slow-burn, he is a huge bully, second person pov, humiliation, manipulation, corruption, dirty talk, blood, biting, coercion, mentions of violence, mentions of death, some brief religious connotations, mentions of knives
a/n: just for clarification purposes, i love the idea of a big bad remmick corrupting someone expected to become a respectable girl in high society. she however does not live on a plantation though, forgot to mention that in the fic itself. her dad’s in the banking business and that is where her family’s wealth comes from. happy reading!!
‿̩͙‿ ༺ ♰ ༻ ‿̩͙‿
August, 1932. Mississippi Delta
You hadn’t slept.
Not for days.
Was it the sweltering heat or the incessant thrum of cicadas that had been keeping you up?
You couldn't quite place your finger on which was worse. How your lush sheets of what was meant to be the finest quality of cotton stuck to your tepid skin, or how it was never completely quiet. Be it the buzzing ensemble coming from outside, or the creak of the varnished porch of your family's manor.
No. No, it wasn't any of those things.
It was him.
The quilts spilled from your body as you sat up, sluggishly wiping the beads of sweat that dribbled on your hairline, your thoughts racing.
There, in the midst of your moon-stricken bed chamber, you disdained yourself for letting him live within you so freely.
No matter how much you tossed and turned, he clung to your thoughts like the whirring cicadas in the shrubs outside — constant, grating, always there. Yet, instead of the relentless hum, it was a low, honeyed drawl that kissed your ears, the wicked smile of sin.
He was the warmth in your belly this late at night, and the buckle of your thighs.
Remmick. Remmick.
It was humiliating how intense the thought of him felt to you. How real your fingers could make it be, brushing over your body, pretending they weren’t your own.
And how disgusting it felt.
To fantasize over a man you know almost nothing about.
To fantasize over a dead man.
Remmick had been the subject of your nightmares since he first visited three weeks ago.
The parlourmaids weren't allowed to just let anyone in your family's estate without the approval of your father, or in his absence, your elder brother.
When they'd had gone to your aunt Carol's birthday party, you had remained bed-ridden with the grippe.
Joanne the maid had looked after you. When a strange man came knocking in the early hours of the evening, she hurried to you, rambling fiercely.
"Said he's a doctor and that your father called for him to come treat your fever." Jo had told you, shaking her head, "I ain't hear anythin' 'bout no doctor comin' to visit this late at night. Said to him: get off my porch before I sic the bulls on ya'. You shoulda' seen him. Handsome he was, and gosh did he give me the spooks."
You remember the intrigue, how it pulled you out of bed and to the cushioned seat under your bedroom window, your sickened face searching for him on the dimly lit pathway leading up to the manor.
You had watched him — lean in stature, clad in the rough clothes of the labouring-class, tresses of dark hair. Though it was the slow stride of his walk that unnerved you, as if he owned the soils beneath him, from the surface clear down to Hell itself.
You knew at once he'd been lying about who he was — no doctor carried himself like that. Like a man used to taking what wasn't freely given.
And before he was lost in the fields, he had turned back, as if he knew you had been watching. You remember the way your heart tumbled when he caught you.
And oh, how he revelled in it.
His triumph came in the form of a slow, devilish grin; the glint of what appeared to be a set of fangs in the moonlight, and the flash of red in his eye, so bright you saw it from the second floor.
He stared at you from the glade, drank in your face as it twisted into a look of sheer horror. The grin, as if to say, look what you damn almost got inta’.
Since then, you saw him every so often.
In the late hours, you'd cast a look through your bedroom window and there he was - sometimes, leaning against an oak tree, a banjo cradled in his hands, strumming a tune. Waiting. For what, you couldn't have known.
You knew he had gotten under your skin when you would deliberately peer out of your window on other nights, and he wasn't there.
He was toying with you.
So, on the nights he was there, you had begun to oblige.
It was always safe. You met him at the back door of the manor, the one the parlourmaids used, but you never stepped out, oh no. You were smart. You stayed inside, careful not to cross the threshold, not even by an inch, and Remmick stood on the other side, posted on the creaking porch that surrounded the manor.
Your meetings were always brief. He was never forceful or aggressive, but he was mean. He'd taunt you, throwing out words meant to rattle you, believing they'd somehow compel you to let him in — things suggestive enough to get your stomach all tight. He'd never met a girl so stubborn that each time you refused, he'd simply retreat, and leave with the same knowing smirk that said he'd be back to try again.
Recently, you avoided the window. You didn't know how much longer you could deny him.
But you were so lonely.
Tonight, you relinquished all that discipline you had built over the past few nights. A defeated groan escaped you as you rolled out of the canopy bed, your bare feet kissing the cool, polished floorboards. It sent a chill up your legs.
With two fingers, you pulled aside the lace curtains draping over the window and swallowed the hump in your throat.
You silently hoped he wouldn't be there - you wanted, oh so badly, to turn around and get back into bed where the night would continue to torment your sleep.
Yet there, cast under the deep shadow of one of the many oak trees lining the manor, stood the Devil, wearing the silhouette of man.
And you found yourself at the backdoor again.
When Remmick heard the door unlatch and creak open, he didn't shift from his place against the tree trunk. The upper half of his body remained in the shadows, unscathed by the moonlight. Deft fingers continued working the strings of that banjo, so tenderly. A melody unknown to your ears drifted all the way to the porch like a lover's call, and the night felt whole.
He paid no mind to you at all, standing in the doorway, a bare body adorn in a cotton dress that draped to your knees. As if it were you that was the uninvited, and not the other way around.
When Remmick plucked the last note, and the night fell silent again, you saw something flicker in the shadows. Twin red orbs shone in the darkness, unblinking, like some primal beast was out there, not a human being — something otherworldly.
And that's how you knew his eyes had finally settled on you.
A chill wriggled down your spine. The pressure to speak pressed hard against your chest. "That was beautiful," you managed, your voice thin, laced with a tremor of unease you hoped he wouldn’t notice.
He noticed, alright.
Remmick stared at you for a good moment, as if thinking of something savvy to say. All that came from the darkness was a low, unsettling chuckle.
Smoothly, he pushed himself off the tree trunk, letting the banjo fall from his hands, dangling in front of his body on a makeshift strap. Even from the doorway, you heard the crunch of leaves under his shoe as he emerged from the shadow of the oak tree.
The moonlight bent down to greet him. You never thought the Devil would reveal himself to you in a blue dress-shirt and a pair of suspenders hitched over shoulders, yet there he was, in the flesh.
You noticed sleeves rolled up lazily to his elbows, forearms shining in sweat and dust.
Stopping before the small set of stairs, one arm gripping the wooden handrail, Remmick looked up at you, a smile playing his lip.
"Why you always doin’ this to y’self, darlin’?" was all he said in his thick, candied drawl. As southern as it could get.
Naturally, your jaw tensed. "Doin' what?"
He ascended the porch steps slowly, eyes unmoving. Even in the soft glow of the moon, his eyes shone at you in red hues.
"Comin' out here." The wood squeaked under his feet. Stopping before you, his eyes fell down to your body, "Wearin' that."
There was something about the way he looked at you that made your breath deepen. Maybe it was the hunger in his eyes, or the slow, deliberate steps he made towards you, reminiscent of the way a hunter stalks its kill — gentle, slow, like he had all the time in the world.
And he did.
"I don't—“ you tried to answer, but Remmick didn’t let you finish.
"That…lace?" he murmured, tilting his head as his eyes lingered on your nightdress. His fingers drifted absentmindedly across his chest while his gaze traced the delicate embroidery at the hem of your bust. Heat rose to your cheeks beneath the sudden weight of his attention.
Then, with a soft, almost pitying click of his tongue, he frowned. "Oh, sweetheart..." he sighed.
As if he felt sorry for you.
You pressed your lips into a thin line and turned away from Remmick. Beauty had never been a question — you wore it like a birthright.
The parlour had long echoed with the voices of suitors, drawn in by your well-maintained looks, your practiced laughter, the way you upheld a demure gaze. You were a Southern belle through and through, bred for admiration and a life of glamour.
Your parents, ever practical beneath their genteel airs, had already secured your future with a steel tycoon who owned an empire of mines trailing northward to Michigan. You had everything.
So why did you feel insecure now?
The shift in your demeanour made the lines around Remmick's lips twist a little. He was good at breaking people down as much as he was at building them back up again.
He leaned back a little, hands resting lazily on the banjo in front of him as he watched your reaction.
"What do you want from me?" you breathed. Suddenly, the thought of shutting the door in his face and heading back to bed wasn't such a terrible idea.
Remmick stirred and let out an exaggerated scoff, "What do I want from ya'? I was jus' enjoyin' the fresh air, playin' a lil' somethin'..."
"Every night?"
"Now," his smile faded, feigning concern, as if what you said was deeply wrong. "I wouldn't go n' say every night... maybe every second night. Don't get ahead of yourself, darlin'. "
You felt a cool breeze rustle through the coils of your hair. The humidity of Mississippi was long gone, and dare you say you felt... cold?
When you didn't answer, Remmick took the banjo back in his hands and pulled it back over his head, then let it rest against the white-pillared balustrade. He turned back to you, his arms now hanging freely at his sides. He waited for you to say something.
But he only looked at you with that usual smug expression — the one where his eyebrows arched just so, creasing his forehead in that familiar way.
Remmick shook his head in mock disbelief, "You been lonely, lambkin? Is that it?" He teased, "Mommy and daddy don't wanna let y' out the playpen? That why you come out here like some lass in rut, blushin' and poutin', when you're nothin' but chicken?"
"I ain't chicken," You shot back.
"That a fact?”
"I know what your weaknesses are, so I'm playin' my cards right.” Your arms folded against your chest, “I'm the one in control here. Me. I'm bein’ smart."
“Well, standin' at the door like that makes me think you ain't so smart after all."
"And why's that?"
The corners of his lips quirked into a sly grin. He shifted his gaze down to your feet, and then swept slowly around the doorframe.
"Why's that, sweetheart? Well, for starters, you been bouncin' on your feet so much you ain't even realise you outside with me."
Your gaze snapped around.
He was right.
Somehow, without realising, you had edged past the threshold. It was more than enough for Remmick to just... grab your wrist and pull you out completely.
In a heartbeat, you stepped back into the doorway, stumbling so far back you hit the kitchen counter. The floor beneath you swayed, a sudden churning sensation in your stomach.
You watched Remmick peer inside the kitchen, head momentarily dipping back as he cackled at your skittishness. Even in the blue-ish overcast of the night, you could see his lip twitching up as he laughed, the tips of his fangs winking at you.
The look on your face did bits for him.
He wagged his forefinger at you. "Oh, I coulda' had you. Coulda' had you real good."
You let go of the counter in an attempt to compose yourself, your breathing irregular. You scolded yourself for being so thoughtless.
"You wanna know somethin', sugar?" He continued, "I was feelin' honourable today. Ain't nice to be layin' hold of girls like that, 'specially classy ladies, like you. An' believe me when I say — it took a whole damn lot not to.'"
Hands balling into fists, you slowly made your way back to the doorway once you had regained yourself.
Remmick seemed to beam at your reappearance, as if he found your defiance amusing.
"But, one of these nights, you gon' make the same mistake... gon' teeter a bit too forwards... and I won't be as honourable."
The threat rolled off his tongue so casually.
Yet, you couldn't shake the thought: he didn't do anything to you.
You shook your head in frustration, "There's plenty of girls in the city. And yet, you always come by here."
He sucked his teeth.
"Loose legs and loose blood," he said disdainfully, "You're right. It's a goldmine up there. But I ain't forcin' you to come down here and keep me company, little lamb. Aincha' tired of playin' at sainthood?"
"I ain't playin' at nothin'..."
"Then let me inside."
Your lips parted — only one word, and it'd be done.
But your silence hung loud. You were still afraid.
And in the lift of his brow, you could tell he knew it too.
Slow as a funeral march, Remmick dragged himself forward, until he was as close as he could muster. He leaned in, and raised one hand to rest against the door frame, his fingers curling around the wood.
You caught a whiff of his scent — mahogany, smoke, and something else you couldn't quite place.
Death.
Something shifted in his face. The usual smugness he wore like a second skin peeled away, leaving him looking almost… needy. There was a hunger in his eyes, deep and devouring.
His gaze fell to your chest.
Waves of heat swept over you as he undressed you in his mind, but not in the way you'd think.
It was not your breasts that appeased him, nor your hips or behind, like they had with other men.
Instead, he watched the dainty collarbones that writhed under your skin, bones fit for lips as sullied as his, and the way your lovely neck contorted with your breathing. That long, slender neck, gleaming with sheets of summer warmth, thrumming with life all over.
The little valley in your chest, carved for confession, trailing down in soft descent until it vanished beneath the hush of your night dress.
And the lace? Well, there was a reason it was one of the first things he noticed about you tonight. There was something so delightful about the the white meshwork against your skin, like a secret begging to be revealed.
His fingers itched with the thought of tearing it apart.
Because you were everything he wasn't — soft, untouched, and alive.
And God help him. He craved to feel the pulse of something alive again.
"You're...drooling." you gawked.
His eyes settled back onto yours. A thread of saliva clung to the corner of his lip, slipping down his chin.
He smiled.
Remmick leaned in a little more, just a little, the wood of the doorframe groaning under his weight, until his voice was low enough for your ear to catch.
“I know you ain’t been sleepin’ right.” He admitted.
You stilled. How could he know something like that? Momma had told you the other day you were growin’ bags under your eyes and that your soon-to-be-fiancé wouldn’t like his woman sleepin’ ‘till noon.
But it didn’t matter. Remmick’s voice sung into your ear like he were your lover:
“And… I know, deep in my heart… oh, that cunt stays wet thinkin’ about me.”
The slight buckle of your knees did not go unnoticed. Lips, parting with the ghost of an exhale as your heart sank to the stomach.
Another twitch in the corner of his lip, "Don't it, baby?"
He pulled back slightly, just so you could catch a glimpse of his teeth bared beneath a sharp grin. Watching your face carefully, following your eyes as they shifted away uneasily.
Remmick continued, his voice merely a rasp, "Them rich fellas'... they don't know what t' do with you..." he murmured lowly.
You felt beads of sweat roll down your temple. The cicadas were screaming, and your stomach was betraying you.
"...don't know how t' touch you."
Your heart slammed against your ribcage.
Those lines in his forehead were creasing as he looked at you, at all of you.
"But I do, darlin'."
You knew you had lost when his words settled into your core like poison. Tantalising and greedy and evil.
You looked up into the face of the Devil as a breathless 'oh' escaped him, as if the surrendering look on your face pleased him more than fucking you ever would.
Then, Remmick tilted his head, momentarily peering past you, as if he were looking inside the kitchen.
"Your folks asleep?" He asked softly.
You had forgotten all about your family. Upstairs, asleep, oblivious to the fact that their only daughter was downstairs caving into a stranger's sweet seduction.
Even through your flustered state, you managed a nod.
The lines around Remmick's lips seemed to deepen.
"Then best you come out then."
Thoughts came to you in muddy clusters and any form of reasoning went out the window. You were a mess. There, without him even laying a finger on you, he had managed to crack you just a little. It was only a matter of time until his hands would wedge in and split you apart completely.
Your sigh was a shaky one, filled with defeat. You looked into the red-tinged eyes of the man who had been haunting you these past few weeks and, willingly, you handed your life over to him.
Remmick pulled away from the doorway and allowed you enough room to step outside, your bare feet making contact with the wooden floorboards of the porch.
A breeze rattled your dress, your hair, and any ounce of self-restraint you had left. Through it all, you came to terms with one thing:
Loneliness doesn't keep you safe.
It hands you the blade.
"C'mere," Remmick beckoned you, "Come closer."
Anchored by his voice, you shifted further to him, until you were more than an arm's length from the door which was left ajar. He hummed in approval.
His hand reached out to stroke your face with the back of his fingers - his touch was cold as winter's breath, even in the Mississippi heat.
But he was oddly tender. Loving. Brushing your clean, porcelain cheek with dirtied fingers.
Then, in a heartbeat, Remmick grabbed you by your shoulder and spun you around with otherworldly force, pulling your back flush into his chest. His hands clamped down onto your hips — unyielding, possessive — as if he meant to brand that moment into your flesh.
You let out a small cry as he held you with an iron-grip.
You felt his breath on the side of your face, his other hand crawling up to your neck. He spoke into your ear.
"That little sound?" He crooned, "Ain't even close to what I want outta' you."
The hand that crept up your neck cupped you by the jaw and turned your face to the side, just enough to face him.
He peered down at you through lowered lashes, lips almost brushing against yours. You tried to move your face but his grip on your jaw tightened.
Then he leaned down and kissed you.
Rough.
Greedy.
Starved.
Remmick kissed like blasphemy. Meant to burn, meant to ruin. Teeth gnashing against each other, you felt his fang graze against your lip, drawing blood, and once he got a taste of that, he was feral. Growling and clawing at your hair as he held you, like you were water about to seep through his fingers.
You let out a moan, muffled by his mouth.
He sucked on your lip, drew it back between his teeth and let it go.
Pulling away, he looked at his handiwork with half-lidded eyes, seeing nothing but a panting, flustered mess before him. Your lip was red and bloody, and the pain began to slowly settle.
Sweat-slicked locks of dark hair stuck to Remmick's forehead, his lips wet with your blood.
He, too, was out of breath. Admiring you, at how you've fallen from grace, scruff and bruised, and wanting more.
You tried to lean in, tried to catch his lips again, but that coarse hand was still clamped on your jaw. He yanked you back, restraining you, holding you like a dog on a short leash.
He made an 'o' shape with his mouth, his brows knitting in mock sympathy.
"What was that you said? Somethin' about bein' in control?" He reminded you, those fingers pressing into your skin, as if to keep you anchored and compliant. "Playin' your cards right, wasn't it? Ahh..."
You gaped at him, the familiar rush of humiliation at your cheeks.
“I...I didn't...”
The words were lost, and you looked a fool. He waited for you, amused you couldn't even string together a sentence.
“All that bark, sugar, but you come undone mighty easy..."
Then, he scooped you up in his arms, forcing your legs to wrap around his waist, your chin buried in his shoulder, the scent of sweat and smoke ever so strong as he headed towards the white pillared railing surrounding the porch.
As he did so, Remmick felt your heartbeat against his chest, humming in anticipation. God, your life was singing for him.
Lowering you down on the top of the wooden railing, the hem of your nightdress hiked up your legs as Remmick positioned himself beneath them. His fingers fumbled with the sleeves of his dress shirt, rolling them up his forearms further.
A hand dropped down between your legs, trailing up your inner thigh, ever so slowly.
You felt yourself lean back a little, shaking in need.
He watched you intently as he reached for the the soft fabric of your panties, upper body leaning in to steal the breath straight from your lips. And once he felt you....
"Ah, sweet Jesus..." a low rumble came from his throat, "Soaked to the bone, are ya'?"
He massaged you a little, that delightful cotton hiding what was his.
A thick digit curled over the edge of your panties and peeled it to the side. He ran it firmly across your folds, feeling the sweet nectar brimming your slit, his thoughts spinning with all the ways he wanted to fuck you stupid.
Naturally, your legs nestled deeper into him, a cry hidden in your throat as you forced yourself to be good for him. Remmick's lips parted as he groaned, his warm breath crashing against your face.
Then, without any warning, that same finger pushed itself inside of you, firmly, eliciting a jolt from your body.
You nearly toppled over, your balance slipping on the railing—until Remmick’s free hand shot out, catching you before you could fall, pulling you rough towards him with his middle finger still thrusting inside of your cunt.
"I gotcha', angel." He murmured softly in your ear.
As he worked you, he watched you struggle, your hands flying up to his broad shoulders as you steadied yourself.
In the soft overcast of the night, you watched the gold chain around Remmick's broad neck, glossy with summer sweat. It shifted slightly with each thrust of his arm, and even amidst the carnal surrender, you couldn't help but wonder how something so delicate was tethered to someone so wicked.
Keeping a steady rhythm, Remmick gave a pleased hum as you mewled, his thick finger breaking you in nicely.
Your head lolled back, teeth sinking into your lip still throbbing with the bruising kiss Remmick had left there to fester. His face was inches away from yours, watching you steadily.
He added a second digit, his ring finger, stretching you out even more, and you felt the presence of a cold object plugging in and out of you alongside his digit, something resembling metal.
There was an actual ring on his ring finger.
And it was inside of you.
God, you wanted to scream.
You buried your face in his shoulder, the rough fabric of his dress-shirt against your cheek.
Naturally, it thrilled him. Watching you unravel, after weeks of hanging around your porch, haunting your sleep - a catch o' the season, he'd triumphantly think.
"Ever wonder somethin'?" Remmick began with a mischievous lilt, the grin in his voice unmistakable.
That hand kept working your pussy. You couldn't focus on his words. You couldn't focus on anything, really.
"Ever wonder how I came 'bout this big ol' house that night? You, up in that window… well, you were a vision, weren’t ya’?”
He spoke in your ear, the faint scrape of his stubble grazing your face like a warning. Your thighs began to tremble, the squelching sound of your cunt growing louder by the minute. You'd never heard yourself like that.
“And I ain’t sentimental. I don’t show up without a reason, sweetheart,” He added his forefinger, “Y’see… your daddy likes to run his mouth, talkin’ all ‘bout his beautiful darlin’ daughter, ‘specially at your auntie Carol’s party. What was it he said? Mm, a nice dowry. Yeah. The sumbitches loved that.”
You dug your teeth into your lower lip, stifling a cry. You couldn’t wake your family—not like this, not with you straddling the porch railing, the devil's hands lost between your thighs.
“Know what else? Well, your aunt Carol told me the darndest thing. Said her sweet niece was stuck in her fancy house on Cypress Creek, in bed, sick as a dog. Oh, quit tryna’ hold it in baby, go on and make those pretty sounds—“
He picked up on your heavy breaths, and how you held yourself back from moaning. But that hand just kept going.
“—yeah. Mm, so I had to, uh… had to pay you a visit. See what this southern beauty is all about.” Remmick continued, momentarily peering down to catch a glimpse of his fingers coated in your residue. “Jus’ a shame your maid wasn’t so nice.”
Your thighs were wet and shaking. A certain knot coiling inside of you. You felt... you felt it simmering in your belly, and Remmick was slowly undoing it.
“But maybe you was jus’ lucky. Thank… thank God for her, right? Y’see, angel… I was gon' kill you.”
Even amidst the newfound bliss, you lifted your head from his shoulder.
"Wha...?"
"Now don't go givin' me that face," He added, catching your expression, "Y'know damn well—"
Remmick felt your insides clench around his fingers, your hips twitching. He slowed his pace down, careful not to tip you over the edge just yet. It had been weeks since he had first caught sight of you, and now your cunt was just there, served on silver. He was taking his fucking time.
He continued, "Y'know damn well what I am, darlin’. I ain’t one o’ your silk-wearin’ gentlemen. That night... I was fixin’ to have my way with you. Willin’? Sure. But if you weren’t… well, that’d just make it a dull way for you to go. ‘Cause, I was gonna tear you apart like meat off the bone jus’ the same."
Your heart sunk down to your belly. There you were, body twitchin' and shakin', but the fear swept over you once again.
You knew what he was — night devil, neck nibbler, vampire. You grew up with those stories, you grew up with your nana telling you all about haints and marsh crawlers and the like.
And there you were, with your trembling legs wrapped around one.
"I was real hungry that night, and you were somethin’ nice to look at. Not a lotta' girls these days... so clean...”
But he wasn't talking about your scent, or how well-bathed and kept you were.
He glanced at your chest. At your heart.
You saw him frothing at the mouth, strings of glistening drool trickling down the corner of his lip, still red with your blood, and the most feral eyes you had seen in something most would mistaken as man.
Somehow, reality found its way back to you. You gave him a sudden shove and hopped off the porch railing, the night dress falling over your legs once again.
Beads of sweat dribbled on your hairline, your chest still bobbing for air.
You needed to get back inside.
But Remmick didn't fight you. He let you pull away from him, sure enough, his hand falling back to his side. He didn't step away, nor did those red-hued eyes falter.
He simply angled his head slightly to the left, just enough to study you anew.
“That pretty head of yours finally catchin’ up?”
The ghost of his fingers playing you like his banjo was still between your legs, a shiver still dancing on your spine, all macabre.
"You want me afraid," Your voice came out in a whisper, "Is that it?"
He gave a little tsk, head still tilted, like you’d disappointed him somehow.
"No. No, that ain’t what this is, darlin'." He muttered, "I know you're afraid, can hear your heart doin' laps."
But something in his face softened a little. Like he was trying to be sympathetic, trying to understand whatever human-driven-emotional-logic you had.
And honestly, you actually would have believed that he was capable of feeling, had you not known he was a vampire. There was something unnerving about the way the creases in his forehead deepened, and how sharp those fangs appeared under his frowning mouth.
What kinda' games are you playin'?
And then he stepped aside, hands in view.
“Go on then,” he drawled, voice low and thick as molasses, “Ain’t stoppin’ you. Door’s right there if that’s what you want.”
And it was. Lower back pressed against the porch railing where you once sat atop of, your eyes shifted to the door left half ajar.
Remmick, who held his hands defensively, coaxed you with a look of innocence so human-like you briefly forgot what he was.
"Go on." he repeated, the soft hue of the moonlight was painting him like some backwoods saint.
It was quiet for a while.
Because you didn't move.
The moonlight flickered over his face and suddenly, all traces of sainthood fled him. A slow smile spread over his lips, like he knew—
"Oh... you ain't goin’ nowhere, are ya'." he mused under his breath.
Your hands curled into fists. He was shaming you.
You scoffed. "Don't flatter yourself."
"I could break you in half ‘fore you even take your next breath." Remmick once again closed the gap between you two, "Could snap your neck like a twig, drain you dry, leave your body rockin’ in that porch swing ‘til sunrise. Easy.”
"I know."
Licking his bloody lips, "You know?"
"Yes."
A pang of silence.
Remmick looked at you differently. No longer in hunger, or greed, but with something quieter. Something dangerously close to reverence.
His eyes flicked over your face like he was trying to memorize it — the way your jaw tightened despite the fear, how your chin lifted just so. Proud. Defiant. Still trembling, but standing.
“Well, I’ll be,” he murmured, almost to himself, “Ain’t that somethin’.”
The porch creaked beneath his shoes as he leaned in to you, a finger slowly tracing the side of your neck in a way that was almost loving. His other hand came around to settle on the railing behind you, trapping you in.
You didn’t know the dead could breathe. Not until his face lowered to meet yours, and your eyes swam in the pools of oil and ember that coaxed you deeper.
The warm air you breathed in. His breath.
It wasn’t life, you thought, his breath was empty and cruel and you were intoxicated.
You gave your life to him. You gave yourself to the banjo-playing devil at your door. Spread your legs for him when other men had adorned you with gems and jewels, fed you, loved you forever in your waiting grace. And he had only whispered in your ear what others could not do to you.
You had been so lonely. How good does the blade feel when wielded by a man who knows precisely where your skin is the thickest? You needed him.
You needed him.
You needed him.
As if reading your thoughts, Remmick tutted. His lips momentarily hovered over your face before he pressed a kiss onto your temple.
He saw it. Everything. Remmick drooled from his mouth, but oh you drooled from your eyes. Wet and wide like a doe’s, he saw everything from the sadness in them to the desperation and the innocence — he wanted to take it all away.
He straightened up, his face now burying itself in your hair. You smelled like forsakenness and macadamia nuts.
Gently, he murmured, lips moving against the coils of your hair.
"You need me, baby... oh, yes you do..."
You gave a soft hum of acceptance. Of truth.
You felt the same hand on your neck slide up past your chin and to your swollen lip. His thumb gently caressed the padding of it.
"... need me to give it to you. Fuck you real nice, like you was made for it.”
The tip of his thumb pushed through your lips.
“Say the word, lambkin...” You heard him say as that thumb felt up your tongue, “...and I'll break you in jus' right.”
There was a croon to his voice, lulling you as your mouth parted further by the second, making space for his digit wedging further inside, a soft choke etched at the end of your throat.
With his fangs tucked behind open lips, he leaned in and let his mouth graze your skin. He watched you struggle to take his thumb, your lips around him like you were sucking honey off a spoon.
His other hand found itself on the thick of your hair. He pulled it aside like a curtain, brought it back behind your shoulder.
Seeing you like this: trembling, and undone.
Lord help you.
Remmick pulled his thumb out of your mouth slowly, wiping the excess spit on your lower lip.
"Please." the word came from you like surrender and confession.
With charcoal eyes ablaze, you felt Remmick shift. He, who carried himself with a lethal suave, and a careful restraint — it was never about inviting him in your family's estate, the ever so glorious Cypress Creek manor.
You’d already let him in.
You’d invited him into your soul.
A deep, guttural sound came from Remmick's throat as he kissed you whole, wet and wanton. Across your jaw he went, down your neck to its nape, licking the hollow of your collarbone.
He grabbed your hips, that cotton dress tearing gracefully in his hands as he tasted your skin, warm and bustling with life. He clawed at you, your flesh caught in his nails.
Your head tipped back in bliss.
You felt him press up against your side, his cock hard under his slacks — a vampire he may have been, but the appetite of man always remained.
A low, bone-rattling chuckle. A grin against your nape, "Oh, we gon' have some real fun, darlin'."
You exhaled. There was something else in the air. Something you had never tasted before.
And then you felt it — the clean, searing puncture of his fangs splitting your skin like silk.
cw: 18+ mdni, dub-con, fáuxcèst, Dad(dy) kïnk, smut and plot, fíngering, hándjob, age gap (20s reader, 40s John), John calls you ‘kid’ , morally gray!John, reader with cooter hair :]
last chapter, masterlist
John is really good at inserting himself in your life.
It's not that you were pushing him out, it's just- having someone so close all the time was- hard to get used to. Drunk words were simply sober thoughts to you that you attempted to ignore and wave off, but John made it known he was genuinely there to stay. Setting rules about how he wants the house and how you both should treat it, putting almost everything that was in the living room in storage and dragging you along with him on a Saturday morning, in a large second hand store he found online, to shop for new furniture.
""Nothin wrong with something a little lived in, right dovie?" He asked and you were tired, naturally, leaning on him because you were in no way an early bird. Neither was John, but he'd rather get it out of the way now than later. When he told you the other day, you rolled your eyes to yourself, such an old man. Cute, yet annoying.
"Nothing is wrong with a little broken in," you yawn, tilting your head up to look at him, the material under the both of your buts can’t even be considered a cushion, “but this couch is shit Price."
It shouldn't be taken as long as it did, an hour and a half to find a good couch, sitting and laying down on all sorts of couches, till you you both agreed on one, and then another thirty because John bargained down the price of the that was already low. He's got that glint in his eye after getting it down for $200, climbing down from the truck and dusting off his hands as he walks up to you, "You probably think I'm sum cheapskate-"
"Oh I do," you hum while leaning against the car, making John chuckle, "It was just $600. Not too bad."
"Yeah? And it was $500 on Facebook market place."
"Then why not get it there?" You scowl, and John traps you in with his large figure, towering over you, too handsome of a smirk on your face it makes butterflies fly in your stomach. "Because I knew I could get it cheaper here." He playfully squeezes your nose together with two fingers and you swat his hands away from you,
"First learning experience with your old man, 'You can always get a better deal somewhere else.' Let's go kid."
And he calls you that, 'kid' "kiddo' more now, you're not sure if it's because he's fond of you or just wants you to have to parental support for once in your life. You just know this man can practically smell it on you for your lack of reliance on him. It's hard for John too, he's used to being Mr. Reliable. Someone always needing or wanting something from him, always ready to get the job done and then there you, who would rather wait in the bus stop in the rain than to be let down or be held up by five minutes. Stubborn, John likes that.
But it's the small moments you gained over the the month of your mother being gone, quickly rushing home from work or classes, managing to whip something up and nestling yourself on the couch to watch some shitty show at 7 pm that you both spend the commercial breaks talking shit but you’re both too invested to quit the show. You’re close. Closer than you should be for hanging around you mothers ex. You'll be cuddled into John's side, legs over his thighs as he holds you close, patting or rubbing your knees or thighs. Worse, he's laying on top of you like a weighted blanket, head just below your chest as you run your fingers through his hair, you're more than scared he can heard the speed racing of your heartbeat.
Small touches shared in the mornings when John becomes your alarm clock, climbing into your bed and giving you the five extra minutes you need, maybe ten, pulling you close, his hand slowly gliding up and down the curve of your back, so low to your hips, his breath ticking your ear about how you’ll both be late at this rate, breakfast can’t be made if he’s there taking care of you, rubbing the hairs at your nape and laughing at how your scarf has slidden off—
“Lovie? Love, you listening?”
You’re not fathoming how you’ve gotten so wrapped up with John, giving him two hard blinks to focus back on what’s happening. Right, it’s movie night. John’s set it spontaneously, said you needed “quality time” since you’d been “keeping space.” Keeping space between your mom’s ex only made sense, it’d make sense to anyone outside of your home, but between the two of you- for John- he hated it.
You’re not some sort of replacement, filling the hole of the damage your mother made, John liked spending time with you just as you are before the breakup. But after the breakup, the lines between you two swiftly became blurred in his head. The older man could be what you needed since no one was around.
Just needed someone a little older, a guiding hand to not push, not have to feel like you had to do everything yourself and by yourself, to not have to be in fight or flight constantly. And if that included calming you down closer than he should be, finding reason to share small touches, letting you lean on him as he tiredly made his evening tea, getting lost in your pretty mahogany brown eyes, your smile, too beautiful for the human eye—
Then so be it.
Your turn your head back to the tv, shoving your head into your hand as your arm rests on the more than comfortable sofa of the cozy space you and Price created, “You said something about dishes right? My bad I’ll wash them tonight-“
John watches from the other end of the couch, hesitating, “—It’s not what I’ve said lovie. I asked why were you so far away?”
“Isn’t this comfortable space between us as is? I’m pretty okay over here.”
“Sweetheart,” he croons, voice deeper, sweeter and softer, “You know what I mean.”
That’s the problem. You know exactly what he means, taunting you to blur the lines even more. Act like what you’re doing is okay.
But your mom is the one who gave him the backhlanded break up, not you. Could you really be in the wrong?
You huff, pushing yourself off the plush of her couch that comforted you and onto John who catches you in his arms with an ‘oof’, a chuckle to follow as he squeezes you tight against his chest.
“You’re fuckin needy.” You grumble, letting him kiss the top of your ear, up to your hairline. Your hands going around his torso.
“Yeah I am.” He gleefully admits, one hand going to the back of your nape to rub his thumb there, pink lips coming back down to nibble at your ear, then sucking it. His beard hairs tickling you.
He breaths out, pressing your further into his chest, perfect tits pressed onto him, “It’s what all good Dads want, time with their kid.”
And those words shouldn’t have made you feel the way you do, squirming in his hairy and beefy arms, hiding your face into his shoulder. It’s like he’s begging for a reaction out of you. Your nipples growing hard through the fabric of the oversized shirt you had on.
You know John feels it.
The movie continues on the tv without another word for about fifteen minutes, letting John press your body fully against him, restless, with little hitches of your breath, feeling the bump in his sweatpants, again your thigh, the older man’s calloused hand needing your ass so intricate but such nonchalance on his face.
Your head rests on his shoulder, hand slowly reaching into your shorts, you gulp, “Price…”
He only quietly hush’s you, sliding your sticky underwear to the side, pads of his fingers brushing through the hairs of your mound, touching your pussy lips. He grunts as you squirm in his hold, “Movies still goin love, thought you said you wanted to watch it?”
Goosebumps roll up your arms, muffled ‘mmpf’ and hushed ‘ah’s as the older brunette dips his two, fat digits in your dripping hole, slowly taking them out till only the tip is in and then thrusting then back inside of you. He’s taking his time, working his fingers in and out of your tight pussy as John holds you tight, hand wrapping around the back of your neck, steadying you while you grind against his hand. “So wet honey,” he coos softly, dragging his fingers through your walls, the loud squeal of your juices louder than the tv, “You like this don’t you? Getting finger fucked by your old man, huh?”
You keen, clawing at his beefy bicep, your clouded eyes can’t even comprehend what movie is playing anymore, mouth in the shape of an ‘o’, “L-Like it so much Price!”
John hums, fingers reaching deeper inside you that make you want to close your legs together. The older man stops you though, lifting your leg around his waist with his . “Easy now sweetheart, y’can take it.” He chides, kissing your forehead.
Your hips buck as you whine, a small gasp escaping you as you feel the growing print in Price’s grey sweatpants against yout thighs. “Think you can help me out lovie? Cocks been throbbing all day just thinkin about you.”
Youre dizzy at his words, head turning into his neck so your hand goes down his plush stomach, pulling down the grey sweatpants to reveal his cock. It’s heavy in your hand, can barely wrap your hand around it as you slowly start to stroke from his pubic hairs to the fat mushroom tip. John presses you against his chest, your harden nipples brushing against him as he shudders, “Fuck lovie, you’re good at this, aren’t you? Shit- wrap it tighter- Fuck me honey.”
Your thumb rolls around his cockhead, starting a steady pace as you pump your hand up and down his veiny shaft, “Mm- I-I’m not a fuckin- fuck- a child John.” You scuff between a moan, both of you panting as you watch the filthy things you’re doing to each other. Pre oozing out of John’s dick.
“My kid though,” he grunts sternly, he’s informing you, all his. Always will be, “So watch your fuckin mouth, yeah?”
Your jaw goes slack, Price curling his two digits inside you, pounding right into your spongey spots that make you cry out. Your hand goes limp around Johns stiff member, clutching onto his wife beater, “Dad! Shit- aangh! Dad!”
It’s music to John’s ears, grinning as he lets his lips meet your plump ones, your loud mewls and moans filling his mouth as your tongues wrap around each other. So sloppy, wet, your walls squeezing his fingers, spasming so harsh you have to squeeze this older man’s shoulder. You’re a mess, feeling John’s fingers slip out of you and wrap your hand around his cockhead. Tugging and stroking his dick, frantic, leaving kisses on your face, down to the corner of your lips. Groaning and grinding against you till you see his strawberry red tip pulse, gushing milky white out of his cock.
Both of you are left panting, coming down form your highs, Price sits up on the sofa, getting between your thighs and rubbing the meaty flesh. He glasses to the tv, the credits rolling, then down at in your withering state.
He lifts his chin, “Wanna cum again,” then nods towards the movie, “or you wanna watch the movie?”
You’re trembling still, dazed eyes looking into the deep blue ones staring down at you, “Wanna cum again Daddy.”
The end of John’s lip curve upward, lifting your calf’s to his shoulder and kissing them, “Good choice kid.”
a/n: lol this shouldn’t have taken this long to write. Inspo song Sofa Joy by Natanya. Also, Inspo @/superhoeva, you probably won’t see this from my back up but if anyone loves you & how you write almost dad! John, it’s me🫂
something something john price running out of cigars, refusing to subject himself to gaz’s rollies because that man is skimpy as fuck with the baccy (seriously, the baccy to rizla ratio is diabolical), and knowing that ghost will refuse to roll for him, so he ends up morosely using soap’s triple mango vape something something
Reader coming across him while she's out scavenging for food and resources. they stand across the road staring at one another for a time, neither of them saying a word to the other, before she scurries back home, heart beating wildly in her chest because it's been ages since she last crossed paths with another person and she knows that it isn't safe to trust anyone these days. barricades herself in her shelter and prays that he'll move on.
only for her to open the door to her shelter the next morning and find him sleeping there on the welcome mat. he must've followed her all the way back home, like a stray dog with an empty belly.
and he's so good to you after that. brings you food and water and helps insulate the shelter as the colder months approach. all he asks is that you let him inside with you. you're wary at first (in fact, that first day, you figure it's better to just abandon your shelter altogether and try your luck at finding a new one, but Soap gets on his knees and begs you to let him stay, and it throws you for such a loop that you just. let him.), but he proves himself over time. pulls his weight and keeps you fed.
the only problem is that he's...clingy. you try to keep him out of your bed, but unless you stay awake the whole night, at some point you will wake up to him curled around you, his face smushed between your tits, drooling onto your shirt. sniffles when you try to push him away because he hasn't had anyone to hold since the world ended. he's been going crazy out there on his own. months without anyone to talk to or touch - and the people he did come across always reacted violently at the sight of him, forcing him to put them down.
it's no wonder that he craves anything soft now. reaches his hand between your legs to rub his fingers over where you're soft and wet, and looks up at you all woundedly if you try to push his hand away. he doesn't need anything in return, he says (almost desperately, still pawing at you with those big hands of his), he just needs to remind himself that there's still good in the world.
After months of darkness and uncertainty, a seasoned detective returns to the precinct, only to find that the cases are no longer the only thing weighing on their heart. As the familiar buzz of the precinct fills the air, the presence of their partner, Price, pulls them in like gravity, drawing them into a new, uncharted territory neither of them expected. Their partnership, forged in the fires of solving crimes, has blossomed into something far more complicated—and infinitely more dangerous.
In a world where trust and danger walk hand in hand, this isn’t just about solving cases—it’s about facing what’s been hidden in the shadows for far too long. Will their new connection survive the case, or will it wilt like a dying flower?
Join me on 01/20 to get to the bottom of this killer thriller!
This community feels a little weird to me and i'll explain why (i don't think theres anything wrong with wanting a transmasc space mind you and no hate to the community, this isn't about the members of the community in the slightest.)
when you advertise the description as "for all the trans people on tumblr!" yet its for tmascs and ftm, it's blatantly excluding xtm, xtf, mtf, mtx, ftx, and everything in between including intersex amabs who may feel trans towards a more masculine gender, it's blatantly exclusionary because it's not in fact all trans people, it's for a very specific demographic and it literally says so in the name and tags. AGAIN, there is NOTHING wrong with wanting to hear other ftm experiences. it's the description and advertising about it being for all trans people. It's not, really.
As someone who is TMA (transmisogyny affected) and doesn't fit into the regular gender standard (in both looks for trans people and cis people, in either '"direction"') it just feels like sooo outcasting. ykwim?
Again I just wanna say this isn't me outwardly bitching and hating. This is me just saying, it's a bit weird, and feels a bit misleading and exclusionary. Not outwardly or intentionally bad.
