Soul Crumbler🧸

black | i 🫶🏾 fictional men| she/her

[soulsnatcha3000]

MASTERLIST ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥

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Sammie “Preacher Boy” Moore

-Devour You

-Eternal Embrace (coming soon)

Remmick

-Let Me In

-Second Glances (chapter 2)

Bo Chow

(I need requests guys plsss🙏🏾)

Bo Chow & Remmick

-(ff coming soon)

Smoke

soonnnn

Stack

soonnnn

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[soulsnatcha3000]

guys..

credit: z3mbpix3 on tt

[snailsfall]

I’m no better than a man

[gydima]

Some of the hottest moments (IMO) in a movie full of sex (Lady Chatterley's Lover 2022): Oliver licking his fingers, pulling Connie to the edge of the table, going down on her while his suspenders frame his ass SO spectacularly, putting his hand around her throat like that, and the suspenders and hat coming OFF for the first time.

[soulsnatcha3000]

THE LICK OF THE FINGERS OH MY GOODNESS. THE KISS IN THE FOREST?!

[ihyastrid]

we dont talk about this scene enough.

[soulsnatcha3000]

we really don’t like omggg

[soulsnatcha3000]

@vcmpbyt straight banger after banger with your edits I swearrr😣

Credit: halbrnds on tt!

LIKE AHHHHH

[soulsnatcha3000]

me after reading the absolute MOST FREAKIEST CREATIVE fanfics about remmick, smoke, stack, Bo chow, and preacher boy

[soulsnatcha3000]

I need to see Sinners again, IMMEDIATELY. the visuals? immaculate. the atmosphere? suffocating in the best way. the music? 10/10 broooo omg

i just haven’t been the same since i watched it. I deadass have not seen a movie that good in a min

[dollykitty333]

Nobody understands how much I yearn for this man.😖

[faestunna]

me too brittany me too

[soulsnatcha3000]

Second Glances II

Summary: As Liana heads off to work, Remmick lands a job at the local garage, settling further into town life. That evening, their neighbor Willow invites them to a backyard dinner—good food, nosy neighbors, and just enough wine to loosen conversation. Liana tries to play it cool, but between the strong glances and Remmick’s quiet charm, the tension crackles, hinting at something neither of them is ready to make just yet.

a/n!: hii, i apologize for such a long wait! This chapter is like really long I lost track of how many words it is

Content Warning: This chapter includes detailed flashbacks of a fatal car accident involving children, as well as descriptions of injury, blood, and emotional trauma. Reader discretion is advised. If these topics are difficult for you, please take care of yourself while reading or skip this part. This story is meant to explore grief with sensitivity and respect.

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Liana and Remmick walked side by side down the sidewalk. Birds chirped overhead, and the breeze offered little relief from the sun still shining hot above them. On their way to the next food spot, a comfortable silence stretched between them—until Liana broke it.

“You know, I forgot to ask—are you allergic to anything?” she asked with a soft chuckle.

Remmick glanced over at her, hands tucked into his pockets. “No, ma’am. Not allergic to a thing.”

“Okay, cool. So you can eat anything?” she replied casually—maybe a little too casually.

Shit.

Her brain caught up with her mouth, and she immediately winced inwardly. Okay, so what if she meant it in both contexts? The woman was lowkey desperate. She could admit that. Just not out loud.

“In… uh…” Remmick chuckled, eyes narrowing slightly as he rubbed at the scruff on his chin. “Yeah. I can eat everything.”

“I-I didn’t mean it like that,” Liana said quickly, eyes wide.

“Oh?” he grinned, full of mischief. “And in what way did you mean it, Liana?”

Shit.

Damn.

Send help.

Liana groaned and looked away, face hot. “You know what? Forget I said anything. Strike that whole damn sentence from the record.”

Remmick let out a deep, amused laugh, the kind that rumbled up from his chest and lingered in the air. “Nah, it’s too late for all that. It’s already out there now. The universe heard you. I heard you”

“Well you and the universe can mind its business,” she muttered, biting back a smile.

“You nervous now?” he asked, leaning just slightly closer as they walked, his tone dipped in teasing but not cruel.

“Boy, please,” she scoffed, waving him off. “Ain’t nothin’ to be nervous about. I asked a simple question.”

“Mmhm.” He nodded slowly, grinning. “Simple and suspiciously loaded.”

Liana shook her head, her laugh slipping out before she could stop it. “You such a menace.”

“Only a little,” he said with a shrug. “But I like how you said it. Got a nice ring comin’ from you.”

She gave him a playful side-eye. “Don’t get used to it.”

The smell of fried something drifted through the air, cutting through the moment like a well-timed cue. Liana pointed up ahead at a little hole-in-the-wall spot with a faded awning and a line that curved around the side.

“There. That’s next.”

Remmick tilted his head as they approached. “Place look like it ain’t been cleaned since the ‘20s.”

“And yet,” she said, pushing the door open and nodding him inside, “they serve the best fried catfish po’ boy this side of town. So hush.”

He stepped in, laughing. “Yes, ma’am.”

Inside was cramped but alive with sound—sizzling grease, murmured orders, the soft hum of a fan overhead. They slid into a booth near the back. Liana grabbed a couple menus from the edge of the table and passed one to him.

Remmick opened his but barely looked at it. “So… what do you do, Liana? If you don’t mind me askin’.”

Liana smiled softly, folding the menu closed. “I’m a teacher. And I manage a small community nonprofit—trying to help folks around here get access to some decent programs.”

Remmick nodded, impressed. “That’s a good thing. Not everyone cares enough to do that.”

“Some gotta,” she said simply. “Especially in a town like this.”

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I get that.”

They ordered their food, and the banter continued, the easy rhythm settling between them again.

Then, after a while, Remmick glanced up, eyes sharp but casual. “So… what about your husband? What does he do?”

Liana blinked, a little caught off guard, then shrugged like it was no big deal. “He’s in politics. Local council, mostly.”

Remmick’s grin deepened, a teasing glint flashing in his eyes. “Ah, a politician, eh? Sounds like a grand mess waiting to happen.”

Liana chuckled softly, shaking her head. “I don’t really know what he’s up to these days. We don’t talk much lately. Things have been… distant.”

He gave her a quiet nod, sensing the weight behind the words. “Sounds like there’s more going on than what you’re sayin’.”

She glanced away, fingers tracing the edge of her glass. “There is. But I’m still tryin’ to figure it all out.”

Remmick’s voice lowered, sincere now. “If you ever wanna talk, or not talk, I’m here. No questions, no judgments.”

A small, grateful smile tugged at her lips. “Thanks, Remmick.”

He smiled softly. “Anytime, Liana.

Remmick scanned through the menu before looking back up at Liana. “So… still not gonna tell me what you meant earlier?”

Liana sighed dramatically. “Let it go, Remmick.”

“I could,” he said, resting his arms on the table, “but then I wouldn’t get to watch you squirm like this. It’s entertaining.”

“You know, I came here to eat, not be interrogated.”

“Fair. But if the food’s half as good as you said, I might behave. Temporarily.”

She smirked, eyes flicking up to meet his. “You gon’ need a mouthful of that sandwich to shut you up.”

“Or somethin’ else,” he said under his breath.

She blinked. “What?”

“Hmm? Nothin’,” he said quickly, raising the menu like a shield. “Just talkin’ ‘bout this sauce.”

Liana stared at him, half-exasperated, half-impressed. “You bold.”

“And hungry.”

The two locked eyes, and for a second the banter paused—just long enough for a different kind of heat to pass between them.

“You forget I’m married?”

Remmick didn’t flinch. Just held her gaze like it owed him something.

“Nah,” he said after a moment. “I remember.”

She blinked, caught off guard by the honesty. No stammering. No backpedaling. Just that same calm, steady voice.

“I just don’t think you forget,” he added, quieter this time.

Liana looked away then, jaw tight, breath slower than before. Her gaze dropped to the table. She reached for her glass of water, fingers curling around it like it gave her something to hold onto.

“Um…” she cleared her throat softly, then forced a small smile. “Let’s order.”

Remmick noticed it—of course he knew she was married, but there was something in her, a quiet echo of longing, as if a part of her still remembered the taste of desire.

Just like that, the heat between them cooled to a low simmer again—still there, still burning, but buried under the clink of ice and the rattle of silverware. She didn’t deny it. Didn’t argue. Just pivoted.

And Remmick? He didn’t press. Didn’t smirk or gloat. He just nodded, slow and thoughtful, like he understood exactly what that shift meant.

And he let her have it.

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The Next Day ❧

The sun was barely up when Liana stood at her bathroom mirror, twisting her braids into a low bun. Her phone buzzed with a reminder: Staff meeting @ 7:45. She muttered under her breath, pulled on her cardigan, and grabbed her keys, coffee in one hand, tote bag in the other. And headed down the stairs.

And that’s when she saw him out the window.

Remmick.

Shirtless.

Liana stood at her window, sipping from her thermoflask, the one with the little crack near the handle. Morning sun spilled across the front lawn—and then she saw him.

Sweat glinting off his back as he hauled something heavy out of the shed behind his house. His jeans hung low, his hair still messy from sleep, and that damn towel slung over his shoulder like he was posing for a calendar he didn’t even know he was in. He then looked up wiping the sweat from his forehead and caught her gaze, smiling a bit while shaking his head before continuing with what he was doing.

Her eyes widened. Then narrowed.

She ducked back from the window like it had burned her. Stared at her coffee like it had betrayed her.

Then—

“Ugh!” she groaned, hopping in place like her body couldn’t contain the frustration. “He’s doing that shit on purpose!”

She peeked again.

He bent down, slow and easy, muscles flexing with every movement.

She groaned louder this time, slapping her palm over her face. “Lord. You really testing me, huh?”

And with one last look, she spun away from the window, muttering, “I need to get outta this house before I make a fool of myself.”

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She gave herself one final shake, grabbed her tote and keys, and marched out the front door like she hadn’t just been five seconds from climbing the damn window like a cartoon character.

The morning air was crisp and warm. Birds chirped. Peaceful.

Then—

“Morning.”

His voice.

Remmick.

She froze halfway to her car.

He was leaned up against the post of his porch like it was casual, like he didn’t know his entire upper body was still bare, like the man wasn’t actively breaking the laws of physics with those forearms.

She turned slowly, lips pressing into a strained smile. “Morning,” she replied, sliding on her teacher-voice like armor.

“You always jump around like that before work?” he asked, one brow raised, playful.

Her face went still. “You saw that?”

He smirked. “Window’s not tinted, love.”

She narrowed her eyes. “That was a warm-up stretch.”

“That right?” he asked, arms crossed now, towel still slung over one shoulder. “Didn’t look like no stretch I’ve ever seen.”

She squinted at him, annoyed. “Okay—how about not watch me through my window?”

He chuckled, a real one this time, low and easy. “Could say the same. You were the one spying first.”

“I wasn’t spying,” she said quickly. “I was observing.”

“Right. Observing.” He grinned, stepping off his porch. “Stretchin’. Jumpin’. Observing. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

She huffed and yanked open her car door. “Some of us have jobs to get to.”

“And some of us just got hired at the garage,” he called after her, wiping his hands on the towel. “So I guess I’ll see you around, yeah?”

“Also start closing your blinds!” He called out again.

She slid into the seat, muttering as she slammed the door shut, “Smug, shirtless menace.”

Still, she glanced once more in the mirror before backing out.

And yep—he was still smiling.

She glanced in the rearview mirror—and of course, he was still watching, that crooked smile on full display like he’d won something.

As she pulled off down the street, shaking her head, she mumbled to herself,

“Need to get them damn windows tinted.”

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Liana’s phone buzzed sharply against the quiet hum of the classroom. She glanced down—Willow’s name lighting up the screen.

“Hello?” Liana answered, keeping her voice low so she didn’t disturb the students.

“Liana, baby, you home?” Willow’s voice came warm and familiar, a little too early for a neighbor visit.

Liana smirked quietly. “At work, Willow. What’s up?”

“Just wanted to remind you—dinner’s still on for tonight,” Willow said, voice cheerful.

“You ain’t tell me until today, Willow.” Liana said through the phone her voice plain as she can hear her typing away.

“Welllll, I’m telling you now so you gotta come. And I invited that guy what’s his name again—.” Liana quickly cut Willow off.

“You invited Remmick?!” Her tone a little more harsh.

“Uhhh yeah? And let me tell you that man…is..mm fine as fuck.” Willow said into the phone laughing a bit.

“Willow—.” Liana said sternly.

“Mark agreed so.” Willow said matter of factly as she drawled on. Liana let out a loud laughing covering her mouth her students looked up at her.

“Sorry guys! Sorry keep working.” Liana said quickly before putting the phone back to her ear.

“I’m sorry..your mark?.” Liana asked smiling a bit.

“Yes my mark! He went to take the garbage out came back in the house and said “I get the appeal.” Willow said mocking her husbands voice.

“Buttt, my husband is the finest man in this town so—.” Liana quickly cut Willow off.

“Mm have a nice day Willow, bye bye.” Liana hung up.

And Willow called right back.

“Bitch let me tell YOU motherfuckin somethin—.” Liana hung up again, and Willow texted her right after.

“I gotchu at dinner don’t worry.” Liana read the message to herself.

Sureeeee.

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The night had settled easy—voices mellowed by full bellies and red wine, laughter rising here and there from different corners of Willow’s cozy dining room. The dishes were half-cleared, napkins a little crumpled, forks abandoned. The scent of peach cobbler lingered in the air, sweet and thick.

Liana hadn’t said much since dessert hit the table. She kept her face composed, sipping slowly from the same glass of tea, nodding along to whatever light story Willow’s husband was spinning next. Remmick, from his end of the table, noticed. She was quieter now, not cold, just… gone a little inward.

He didn’t blame her. These types of gatherings could feel like too much.

It was Doris, the older woman who lived two houses down, who brought it up—meant well, probably. That sort of soft, maternal tone people use when they’re trying to ask something awful without sounding like they are.

“So, Liana,” she said gently, dabbing the corner of her mouth with a napkin, “how’ve you been holding up? I mean… especially after the accident?”

The table went still. Someone shifted in their chair. A spoon clinked against ceramic.

Liana didn’t answer right away.

The word accident stretched like a rubber band in her mind, tight and sharp.

Her body was still in Willow’s dining room, surrounded by the low murmur of neighbors and candlelight, but her mind… her mind was somewhere else entirely.

A wet road. Headlights. Screaming tires.

The world spun like a top in slow motion.

Then the crash—

Metal screamed. Glass burst like stars. A snap of bone, the crack of something vital breaking.

Her voice ripped from her throat—raw, feral—as the wreckage folded in on itself.

Then silence.

Not the peaceful kind.

The kind that pressed against her ribs, lodged behind her eyes.

The kind that made it feel like the whole world had been turned down to mute.

Liana tried to move—but her legs wouldn’t work.

She looked down and saw blood soaking through her jeans, glass glittering in the flesh. Her knees were bent wrong. Her ankle twisted like a snapped branch.

Didn’t matter.

She clawed at the pavement, dragged herself forward—skin tearing, palms slick with blood.

The other car—their car—sat half-crushed against a pole.

Steam poured from the hood. Something sizzled underneath.

She was almost to the back door.

“Aniyah!” she cried out, voice cracking. “Baby girl!”

The crumpled backseat came into view.

A tiny pink sweater still clung to the seatbelt.

A juice box lay crushed on the floor, leaking into the carpet.

No movement.

Her stomach turned. Her soul dropped.

Footsteps pounded behind her. Bystanders. Someone dropped to their knees beside her. Another shouted into a phone.

“Call 911—now!”

“Oh my God—Ma’am, stay with me. Are you okay?”

“Don’t check on me!” she sobbed, clawing at the asphalt. “Check on my babies! Please! Oh God—my babies!”

She reached for the door, arms trembling, but her grip slipped. Blood coated the handle.

From the front seat, Devin’s screams cut through everything.

“ZAY—ANIYAH! GUYS, ANSWER ME—!”

The world swam in front of her eyes.

All she could see was stillness.

Two small faces that didn’t move.

And the unbearable weight of what she already knew.

Then.

A hand touched hers, warm and heavy.

Liana blinked, snapped back into the room. Devin, sitting beside her, was squeezing her hand with that too-tight grip he always used in public. The other hand smoothed across her back in slow, gentle circles—like they were still something they hadn’t been in a long time.

Her stomach turned.

He always did that. Played the grieving husband when people were watching. Like he hadn’t already checked out months before the crash. Like he hadn’t started sleeping in the guest room before the headstones were even ordered.

“I—we’ve been doing okay,” Devin said, answering for her with a somber nod. “One day at a time, y’know?”

Liana looked straight ahead, face neutral, body stiff beneath his palm. She hated this part. The act. The damn performance he always put on.

It made her skin crawl.

Remmick, across the table, didn’t say anything. But he was watching—quiet, unreadable. Not nosy. Not pitying either. Just… watching.

Liana slowly pulled her hand back and reached for her tea. “Thanks for asking,” she said finally, voice calm, practiced.

Doris nodded with a soft, apologetic smile. “We’re all thinkin’ of you, baby. Always.”

The conversation picked back up, awkwardly at first, then with a little more ease. Somebody cracked a joke. Willow served up one last slice of cobbler. Devin leaned away, distracted now by someone asking him about work.

Liana just kept sipping her drink. Her back straight. Her shoulders squared.

But inside, she was still on that road. Still staring into the dark, hoping to wake up.

And across the table, Remmick’s gaze hadn’t moved.

A few minutes passed.

Liana managed to sit through two more half-hearted attempts at small talk, one refill of tea, and Devin’s long-winded answer about his latest contract work. But her jaw was tight, her skin too hot, her breath catching just enough to remind her she needed space.

She set her glass down with quiet care and offered Willow a polite smile.

“’Scuse me for a second. Just need some air.”

No one stopped her. Not even Devin, who barely paused in whatever he was rambling about.

From the corner of her eye she noticed Willow immediately stood up but she already stepped through the kitchen and slipped out the side door, the screen groaning a little as it shut behind her. The porch was dim and quiet, save for a single flickering bulb overhead. Crickets hummed somewhere in the dark. A slight breeze tugged at the hem of her dress.

Liana braced her hands on the porch railing, fingers curling around the wood. It was old and a little chipped—like everything else in this town—but solid.

The ache in her chest wasn’t new. But it felt sharper now. That kind of pain that didn’t always scream—sometimes it just sat, heavy and still, like wet wool on the bones.

She hated how her throat still closed up when people asked. Hated the pity, the silence that always followed. And most of all, she hated that Devin could lie so smooth, so easily, like he hadn’t left her alone inside that grief over and over again.

Footsteps came softly behind her. She didn’t turn around.

But she knew it wasn’t Devin.

Remmick didn’t say anything right away. Just stepped out and stood a few feet back, one hand in his pocket, the other holding the screen door open for a moment before letting it fall shut.

“You alright?” he asked gently.

Liana nodded once. Then shook her head.

They stood like that in the dark for a moment longer. Not saying much. Just letting the silence settle between them like something known and mutual.

Then, after a beat, Liana spoke again, her voice a little hoarse.

“You not gonna ask what happened?”

Her eyes flicked to his, expecting maybe the usual tilt of curiosity, the fishing for details like folks so often did when they pretended to care.

But Remmick didn’t take the bait.

He just looked at her with that same quiet steadiness. No lean, no reaching. Just real.

“Nah,” he said. “Ain’t my business to know.”

Liana blinked.

He went on, voice low but firm. “If you ever wanna tell me… I’m all ears. But that’s gotta be your choice. Not mine.”

She stared at him for a long second. Not because she didn’t believe him—because she almost did. And that was scarier somehow than the fakeness she’d gotten used to.

“So…” she began, tilting her head his way, “you know how to do the jig or…”

Remmick blinked, then let out a sharp laugh, genuine and loud. “The fuck—” he grinned, wide, surprised. “Man, fuck off.”

She bit back her own smile, eyes dragging over his features like she was reading something only she could understand.

She scanned his face, letting her gaze linger a little too long.

That smile—crooked, boyish, and careless—looked like it had gotten him out of trouble more times than it should’ve. His lips looked soft and delicate, but a little chapped at the corners like he chewed on them when he was thinking too hard. And up close, she could see the freckles. Faint, scattered across the bridge of his nose and the tops of his cheeks—like the sun had kissed him once and never really let go.

They stood near the porch steps, the quiet stretching, not uncomfortable—just full.

Liana glanced at him, her voice lower now. “Why’re you bein’ like this?”

Remmick looked over, brow tugging slightly. “Like what?”

“I mean…” She gave a half-shrug. “We’ve known each other, what, a day? Not even. And you out here talkin’ soft, checkin’ on me like we’re old friends.”

His answer came without hesitation. “Didn’t think bein’ decent had to come with a timeline.”

She didn’t say anything at first. Just studied him. Maybe trying to find the catch. The angle.

Then she nodded once, almost to herself.

Remmick cleared his throat, eyes drifting toward the house. “Alright… ready to head back in?”

Her lips curved, small but real. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

They walked back together, side by side. No rush. No pressure. Just the steady rhythm of shoes on dirt and distant laughter spilling from the house.

She pushed the door open, warm light and the hum of voices washing over them.

And for the first time in a long while, the weight on her chest didn’t feel so sharp.

Not gone.

But maybe not so lonely.

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[vcmpbyt]

⊹ REMMICK X FEM!READER

⊹ A/N; i swear to god something is in the summer heat here i always come back to write straight up FILTH aha;; ha,,, might stay consistent,, ⊹ WARNINGS; smut. porn no plot lol. no specific descriptions of reader.

⊹ WC; 704

=͟͟͞͞ ✧

“goddamn it, remmick-”

you hissed, body shivering when he slipped out mid-thrust, a low, slick pop echoed off the wet mattress, slick and heavy against your thigh, wet with your cunt and the sweat both of you were swimming in. "shit, ah, hold still, darlin’" he drawled, voice all gravel and heat, lips brushing sticky against your cheek. “you’re squeezin’ me like you tryna snap it clean off.” his hand, big and calloused, slid up your thigh to grip just under the swell of your ass, his fangs had grazed your inner-thigh earlier, but he hadn’t bit, not yet, just licked you slow and dirty. "pussy so damn wet it spat me out." remmick shifted, big hands guiding himself back to your slick entrance, cock ruddy and thick, the blunt head gleaming in the moonlight. he grunted when it almost slid right back in "ah, shite."

"stop jawin’ and fuck me proper,” you bit, breath warm against his ear. he didn’t answer with words, he leaned in and kissed your cheek, wet and soft, slow and juicy, like he was thanking you for a home cooked meal. then, slowly, he pushed back inside, thick and full, the head catching just enough to make you squirm before sliding deep. the stretch making you both exhale at once. he hissed through his teeth, nosing against your cheek again, lips brushing the corner of your mouth in a filthy, affectionate kiss. your bodies met again, slow grind, quiet slap of wet skin, rhythm steady throughout the blue heat. you arched your hips into him, matching his pace, your breath hitching every time he bottomed out, completely. he had one hand braced above your head, the other gripping your thigh, his mouth trailed your cheek again, not just kissing this time, he licked you like you were fruit he's been starving for, tongue tasting salt and sweat, maybe a touch of copper.

“you gonna bite me?” you whispered, voice hoarse, eyes gleaming half-lidded in the dark. he leaned in, licked a line up your jaw, let the spit trail down your neck “not unless you ask real nice.” another grin. another thrust. “but i might just lose my manners if you keep squeezin’ like that.” you didn’t answer, only rolled your hips harder, daring him, and he rose to meet it. one of his hands slid between your legs, working you over in rhythm, thumb circling your clit while he filled you up, over and over. there was nothing polite about the way he fucked. the grind turned rougher, the slick push of him inside you louder now, no longer careful. you clenched around him with every thrust, milking him, knowing full well he wouldn’t last long when you did.

and then it happened again.

pop.

slipped clean out with a curse, remmick let out the most pitiful sound you’d ever heard, a soft, drawn out whimper. your slick heat chasing after him like it didn’t want to let go. he gasped, hips stuttering forward, blindly rutting against your slick folds like he was lost. “she’s so goddamn slippery. i can’t- fuck, hold on.” he spat, loud and filthy, right onto his fingers and slicked it over your folds his spit dripping down your entrance, fingers spreading you open. you sighed, breathless, eyes flashing as you reached between your bodies, grabbed his cock, running the tip of his head along the soaked seam of your sex and guided him right back in with practiced ease. he groaned like you'd blessed him with the touch of the divine and buried himself to the hilt again, forehead pressed to yours. you moved together again, slower now. his cock slid in deep and sure, your skin soft around him, greedy and hot. every time he kissed your cheek, you gripped him tighter. every time you clenched, he gave you a little more of himself.

“remmick.” you whispered, almost a moan.

and when you said his name like that, he slipped again- not out of you this time, but over the edge. he came with a groan, burying his face deep into your throat, hips stuttering, hand clenched in the mattress as it squelched beneath you.

[soulsnatcha3000]

HOLD ME BACKK

[spikedfearn]

Across the Threshold

one-shot

remmick x fem!reader

summary: you've never let him in. Not once. And still, every night without fail, he comes crawling back to your doorstep. Thirteen centuries old and rotting with want, Remmick worships you from the porch, drooling thick onto the floorboards, begging for permission to taste. And you? You watch. You love the power. Love the ache in him. Love the way he weeps when you denies him again and again.

But the night you finally say come in—he breaks.

Now that he’s inside, he’s never leaving. Not quietly. Not gently. And not until he crawls all the way inside you and makes a cathedral of your skin.

wc: 5.4k

a/n: based off this prompt that blew up!! It's been exactly one month since I released my first Remmick fic Mercy Made Flesh so it felt fitting to release something today, as a thank you for the tidal wave of love and support I've received since!! Seriously it's insane!! So, as a further thank you, I'm hosting a giveaway for followers here if you're interested, as a way to give back to all of you <333 thanks to @ddlydevotion for finding the photo refs for the banner!! and thanks to Liz @fuckoffbard for once again beta reading for me!! credit to Diana @hyoscyxmine for the photo of Remmick she initially edited <333

warnings: vampirism, blood kink, obsessive behavior, feral begging, oral (f! receiving), sub!remmick, somno-adjacent sleepiness, religious undertones, predator/prey dynamics, begging kink, worship kink, voice kink, monsterfucking, marking, blood drinking during sex, degradation, dark romance, possessive partner, crawling kink, aftercare, bite kink, creampie, power imbalance, bodily fluids (drool, blood, etc), control kink, manipulation by omission, mildly blasphemous themes

likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated, please enjoy!!

Masterlist

You've never let him in. Not once.

And still, every night without fail, he shows up like clockwork—barefoot and bloodstained, wife beater stained and torn, revealing a sliver of lean muscle beneath, reeking of smoke and obsession.

Slouched on your porch like a dying dog, scratching at the threshold with dirt-caked nails, mouth open and drooling thick, almost foamy, like hunger’s rotted him from the inside out. His voice is raw from begging. But tonight? Tonight he’s feral.

You've got one leg draped over the door frame, robe hitched up just enough to taunt, a cool glass of iced tea sweating in your hand while he writhes just inches from your feet.

“You cruel little thing,” he rasps, drawl dragging slow and syrupy, his tongue catching on the words like they hurt.

“Y’gon’ make me crawl again, huh? ‘Cause I will. I’ll fuckin’—I’ll get on my belly like a damn animal, just for a taste. Just for a breath of you, sugar.”

His jaw’s slack, saliva roping down his chin, staining the porch dark beneath him as he grips the floorboards hard enough they creak.

“Let me in,” he whimpers, voice cracked and desperate, eyes blown wide.

“Please, I—I cain’t stand it no more. I cain’t fuckin’ breathe without you. Let me in. I’ll behave. I’ll worship you. I’ll—I’ll starve if you don’t.”

Your just watch him, tilt your glass.

“You've lived thirteen centuries, and you're on your knees for a girl in a nightgown?”

He nods, drooling harder, trembling.

“Yes ma’am. I’d beg for thirteen more if it meant you’d finally say the word.”

You don’t answer him at first.

Just lift your drink—slow, lazy, like the heat has made you sun-warmed and lethargic—and watch the ice swirl against the cylindrical sides. Your lips part only enough for a sip, sharp and cold on your tongue, as his voice frays at the threshold like an unraveling thread.

The porch groans under his weight when he shifts, mouth still hanging open, chin wet with the thick rope of saliva that’s already puddled beneath him. He doesn’t even wipe it away anymore. Doesn’t flinch at the indignity. If anything, he leans into it. As if the sloppier he gets, the more beastly and broken, the closer he’ll be to what you want.

Not human. Not civilized. Just yours.

Your bare toes flex against the doorframe—propped up, exposed, painted peach—and his breath stutters when he sees them. His jaw works open wider like he might sink his teeth into the wood instead, like he’s fighting the animal thing in him that wants to bite something until it bleeds.

“You gone quiet, sugar,” he drawls, voice like gravel scraped against wood. “You plannin’ to kill me out here?”

You hum. Just a little. Low in your throat.

Then finally, finally, you lean forward just a bit, letting the hem of your robe fall loose from your thigh, letting him see the curve of it where the porchlight catches golden on your skin. You know what you’re doing. You always know.

“You look like shit, Remmick.”

He moans—moans—like the insult made him hard.

“I—I know, baby. I know,” he gasps, crawling an inch closer on his knees, voice choked with some terrible, trembling reverence. “I’d tear out my fuckin’ ribs if it meant you’d give me one more breath. Just one. I’m—I’m so close to bein’ bones out here.”

His hands drag slow across the floorboards, smearing blood and spit as he chases your shadow like it might feed him. His claws are cracked and dirty, black at the edges, clacking like dull knives as he reaches for you.

But he won’t cross the threshold. Can’t.

Not unless you say the word.

You drag one foot down, let it press lightly against his chest, the ball of it nestling into the place where his heart doesn’t beat. You feel the way he flinches at the touch like it hurts him, like your skin is too holy for his body to bear. He makes a sound deep in his chest—part growl, part sob—and his head drops forward.

He presses his forehead to your ankle. Worships it.

“You’re a goddamn sickness,” you whisper, soft and cruel.

“I am, baby,” he breathes. “You made me sick. Ruined me good, didn’t you?”

And oh, how he sounds ruined.

You tilt your glass again, watch the last ice cube swirl and crack, watch his tongue dart out as if he could taste it from the air. His pupils are blown, wide and dark and endless, and his mouth keeps trying to form the word please like it’s the only one he remembers anymore.

A breeze rolls over the porch, stirring the trees, carrying the scent of you—hibiscus lotion, clean skin, cool linen and blood beneath it all—and Remmick shudders like a dying thing. His hips roll into the floor like he’s fucking the air, like scent alone could push him to the edge.

“Let me in,” he begs again, softer now. “Let me in before I do somethin’ wicked.”

You lean closer, dragging your foot up his chest and under his chin, tilting his face up toward you like a command.

“You already are wicked.”

He smiles, wild and ruined.

“Yes ma’am. And I’d be worse for you.”

You let the silence stretch just long enough for his breath to hitch.

Then you pull your foot away and stand, letting the robe slip an inch lower on your hips as you do. He tracks the movement like an animal locked on prey, hands gripping the wood, teeth bared like he might bite the air between you.

But you say nothing.

You turn, walk back into the house, and the door swings shut with a slow, echoing click.

And Remmick?

He stays there on the porch, slack-jawed, drooling, whispering your name like a prayer he wasn’t meant to know, his muscles flexing as his arms come up over his head in desperation, thick and defined, his face pinched in pain, fractals of dying light dancing off the worn gold of his chain, off the sweaty creases highlighting his biceps.

| six months ago |

You didn’t move here expecting silence.

You expected a little mold, sure. Some creaky floorboards, maybe a wasp’s nest under the porch or a possum in the crawlspace. You expected the gnats. You expected the heat. You expected the isolation.

But not the silence.

Not this bone-deep, split-the-world-open kind of silence. The kind that settles between your ribs and listens to your heartbeat like it’s trying to time its own.

The house—your house now, left to you by some long-dead aunt you don’t remember—is old and sagging at the edges. It leans a little to the right. The paint is peeled and sun-faded, the porch boards bow like a tired back, and the front screen door barely stays shut unless you wedge a rock into it.

But the bones are good. The land is wild and wide and humming with secrets.

And the silence? You’ve started to like it.

Until one night, it breaks.

It’s not thunder. Not a tree branch. Not the slam of a car door or the high bark of a neighbor’s dog. It’s slower than that. Heavier. Like footsteps made of velvet and grave dirt, deliberate and soft, but too certain to be harmless.

You hear it just past dusk, when the sky is soaked in pinks and bruised purples, and the porch light buzzes weakly behind you. You’re sitting on the front step, knees up, the sweat from your lemonade collecting in droplets between your thighs. Your robe’s open at the chest. The heat has stuck it to the small of your back. You haven’t seen a soul all week.

And then—

“Evenin’, darlin’.”

You look up.

There’s a man standing just past the gate. Barefoot. Broad-shouldered. Dressed like a memory from somewhere you’ve never lived—boots slung over one shoulder, sleeves rolled to the elbow, and a face that looks like it’s been carved from heartbreak.

You can smell weathered leather. Wet pennies. Something faintly intoxicating.

You don’t move. Neither does he.

He’s handsome, you think, in a way that feels off. Like he walked out of a photograph too old to be yours. His hair is a mess, dark and sweat-matted at the temples. There’s a thin scar along his throat. He looks...starved. But not in the way that makes you pity him.

In the way that makes you want to keep your distance.

Still, you don’t get up. You don’t speak. The air between you thickens, trembles.

He tips his head slightly, a crooked smile cutting across his face.

“You look like you could use some company.”

You don’t invite him in.

You don’t say much at all.

Just glance toward the horizon, murmur something about supper, and let the screen door slam behind you before he can take a step forward. You watch through the curtains as he lingers at the gate, hands tucked into his pockets like he’s trying to look harmless.

But you saw the way his eyes followed your legs. You saw how he noticed the sweat beading at your neck. How he inhaled when you passed him.

You lock the door that night. And the next. But he keeps coming.

First, it’s flowers.

Not from a store. Not anything wrapped in plastic or tied with ribbon. Just a bundle of wildflowers laid gently on your porch, still dusted with dew. You find them in the morning, no note, no explanation.

Then it’s peaches. Sun-warm and soft, their fuzz still clinging with bits of leaf and dirt. You bite into one and taste sweet nectar.

Then it’s a knife. Clean. Sharp. Ornate.

Then a book of poetry. Tattered, spine cracked, pages dog-eared with a name you don’t recognize scribbled inside the cover.

Then the sound of humming—just past the treeline. Low. Gentle. Almost...worshipful.

You don’t see him again for a week.

And when he returns, he stands on the bottom step like he’s been summoned.

You sit in the doorway this time, robe slipping off one shoulder. You’re not afraid. Not curious, either. Just...ready.

Ripe.

He keeps his eyes low. His voice is softer.

“You ain’t said my name yet.”

“I don’t know it,” you say.

He smiles like that hurts him.

“You don’t need it,” he says. “You already own me without it.”

It’s hot enough to peel the paint from the porch railing.

The air hums with crickets, thick as syrup, the kind of Southern heat that presses down on you like hands. Nothing moves. Not the trees. Not the wind. Not even the birds. The silence is alive—dense and waiting, like the breath before a confession.

And there he is. Again.

You hear him before you see him: the soft scrape of skin on wood, the faintest creak of a loose board under bare feet, the hitch in his breath when your scent hits him like perfume and punishment all at once. You left the door open tonight—not all the way, just ajar—and the porch light off. A single candle burns on the windowsill.

He doesn’t knock.

He never does anymore.

Just leans his weight into the frame, like even that much closeness is enough to tide him over for another day. But it’s not. You know it’s not. You can feel it in the way his fingers twitch. In the way he shifts his hips. In the way the wood creaks beneath his knees when he starts to lower himself.

You don’t speak.

You just watch.

The hem of your robe rides high on your thighs, your legs bare and smooth against the old floorboards, one knee bent, one foot outstretched. You could shut the door. You don’t. You could invite him in—but that’s not the game.

You’ve seen how he suffers.

And you love the way he suffers.

He’s filthy tonight. Shirtless and sweaty, streaked with soot and dry blood that canaled in the defined avenues of his abs, a bruise blooming along one side of his ribcage. His hair’s a mess. His eyes look hollow. His lips are parted, pink and trembling, like he’s been mouthing your name into the dirt all night long.

When he drops to his knees, it’s not a performance. Not anymore. There’s no seduction in it. Just ache. Just need.

He whispers something you don’t quite catch—your name, maybe, or the shape of a prayer that lost its way. You hear him drag his nails against the porch, slow and rhythmic, like he’s trying to carve your initials into the floor.

“I dreamed of you again,” he rasps.

His voice is shredded. Used up.

“You were wearin’ that white thing. The one with the lace at the top. You smelled like vanilla and thunder. You called me darlin’ and I almost cried.”

You breathe through your nose, slow and even, but your thighs shift. You don’t think he notices, but he does.

His eyes flick to the motion and he moans—soft and low, broken at the edges. He presses his forehead to the floor like it’s consecrated ground. Like maybe if he can just touch it long enough, you’ll take pity.

“Please.”

The word is wet in his mouth. He says it again.

“Please, I—I don’t care what you do to me. Don’t even have to let me in. Just talk to me, sugar. Just say somethin’. Let me hear your voice. Let me see you.”

You shift in the doorway.

Then you speak—finally—voice quiet and even, your glass catching the candlelight as you raise it to your lips.

“Why do you keep coming here?”

He whimpers.

“‘Cause I cain’t not. ‘Cause you’ve got me chained up in here—” He presses a palm to his chest, hard enough you can hear the bones creak. “—and I like it. I fuckin’ like it, baby. Ain’t that sick?”

You don’t respond.

Instead, you lean forward just enough to let your fingers curl over the frame of the door, letting your robe fall slightly open at the neck. His mouth opens wider. His pupils blow black like a hungry shark.

“You want to come in?” you murmur.

His breath catches.

Then he nods. Frantic. Wild.

“Yes. Yes ma’am. Please.”

You tilt your head.

“Why?”

He blinks. He’s confused by the question. Then hurt. Then desperate.

“Because I—I need you. Need what’s inside. I cain’t smell nothin’ else but you. You’re in my fuckin’ blood, sweetheart, and I ain’t never tasted you but it’s killin’ me just knowin’ you’re behind that door.”

He leans forward, mouth brushing the frame. His tongue darts out—not quite licking it, but close—and you see the briefest flick of the forked tip, glistening and trembling with restraint. He pulls it back like he’s ashamed of it, like he wasn’t supposed to let you see that part of him.

Your stomach flips.

You almost say it. Almost.

But then you pull back.

And he breaks.

He wasn’t always like this.

You remember that. You remind yourself of it often—because it makes this part better. Sweeter. Sicker.

Because once upon a time, he tried to play it cool. Casual. Almost charming. Leaned against your gate with that low, lopsided smile, said things like ma’am and pleasure to meet you and you sure keep to yourself, don’t you, sugar?

Now?

He’s a wreck.

On all fours.

Spit roping from his lips in long, trembling strands as he drags himself toward your feet like a dog that’s been kicked too many times but still comes running. His pupils bleed red, eclipsing the black. His shirt is gone. His nails are cracked and black at the edges, scrabbling over the porch boards in slow, shivering motions that match the tremble in his voice.

His mouth hangs open. Tongue wet. Forked.

You can see the way it splits when he pants—like he can’t decide whether to speak or taste or crawl inside you and live there forever.

He looks up at you through his lashes, and it’s not seductive.

It’s pleading.

Pathetic.

Eyes wide and glossy, like something half-feral and half-forgotten, a kicked-puppy expression clinging to him even as he drools down his chin. He’s shaking. His knees have long since gone raw from dragging over your porch, and he presses his forehead to the step just beneath you.

You tilt your glass. Take a sip.

He moans. Loud. Unfiltered. Buckling at the sound.

“God, please,” he breathes, his voice hoarse and slurred like he’s drunk on the smell of you. “Please, I can’t—I can’t take it no more, baby. You’re killin’ me. Killin’ me soft and slow and I fuckin’ love it.”

You shift, just enough for your robe to slide up one thigh.

His hands curl into fists. He bites down on a sob.

“I’ll be so good to you,” he whimpers, dragging himself another inch forward. “You don’t—you don’t know what I could give you. What I wanna give you. What I think about every night with my hand on my cock, prayin’ for a dream of your fuckin’ voice.”

You raise an eyebrow. But you don’t stop him. And that’s all the permission he needs.

“I’d eat it for hours,” he blurts, voice breaking. “I’d keep my tongue on you till you forgot your own name. I’d fuckin’ cry for the chance, darlin’. You don’t know what I’d do just to smell you on my face. Let me clean you up with my mouth. Let me keep you sweet.”

He pants like a sinner, sweating through the knees of his jeans, forked tongue slipping past his lips as he mouths at the space near your ankle. Never quite touching. Never daring.

“I’d make it good for you,” he groans. “Better than anyone. I’d hold you down or let you ride. Whatever you wanted. However you wanted. I’d tear my fuckin’ throat out if it made you wet.”

You stay silent.

Let him spiral.

Let him beg.

Let him drown in everything you’ll never give him.

His jaw hangs slack again, saliva pouring freely now, staining the porch with slick, twitching need. He doesn’t even seem to notice. His hips rock forward once—pathetically—like he’s rutting against the air just from being this close.

Then—

“Say it,” he croaks, wrecked and delirious. “Say the word. Just the once. Just once and I’ll die happy. I’ll let you ruin me every night. Let you bleed me dry, fuck me dumb, use me up ‘til I’m nothing but bones and thank you for it. I’ll be your thing. Your pet. Your meal. Just say it. Say it and let me in.”

You watch him twitch.

You don’t speak.

And that silence?

It undoes him.

He presses his face into the porch and sobs—one sharp, cracked sound that makes your thighs clench—and you think, maybe next time.

Maybe.

But not tonight.

It’s late.

Later than you usually sit up for him.

The air outside smells like wet bark and heat lightning. You’ve just bathed—skin still damp, robe clean, lips glossy with something sweet and sticky you let melt over your tongue before you opened the door.

The floorboards are still slick from the storm earlier, and the moon’s a thin thing, half-ash and half-bone. Somewhere in the trees, something howls.

But he’s louder.

He’s already there when you pull the door open, sprawled out like roadkill—on his side, one cheek pressed against the porch wood, arms limp at his sides, knees bent in. Like he dragged himself here and died at the edge of your mercy.

But when he hears the door creak, he moves.

Head jerks. Eyes flash. His nostrils flare, and he moans—low and open-mouthed, like he’s just caught your scent for the first time all over again.

“Sweetheart,” he gasps, trying to sit up and immediately wobbling, weak from hunger or lust or both. “Sweetheart, I—I dreamed you were gonna open it tonight.”

You say nothing.

He drags himself upright, kneeling again, hands in his lap like a penitent priest waiting for permission to sin. His thighs are slick with drool and sweat and something darker—something old. You don’t ask. He’s trembling.

You step forward.

And he growls.

Low. Feral. Possessive. His shoulders hunch, his nails dig into the wood, his tongue flashes out—forked, twitching—and he presses his forehead to the threshold like it burns him.

“You smell like soap,” he whimpers. “Like you’re clean and warm and wantin’. You did it on purpose, didn’t you? You always do.”

You kneel in front of him, robe gaping where the sash has gone loose.

He chokes.

You brush a knuckle down his cheek. He shudders so violently you think he might break apart at the seams.

And then you whisper it.

Soft. Small.

The word.

“Come in.”

He doesn’t believe you at first.

His body goes very still. Breath caught. Eyes searching your face for the trick. His mouth parts around a sob so sharp it cuts his throat on the way out.

“Wh-what?” he croaks.

“You heard me,” you say, voice low. “You can come in.”

And that’s all it takes.

He lunges.

Not with violence. Not with fury. But with such pure, starved need it knocks the breath out of your lungs. He collapses forward into the doorway like a beast finally slipping its leash, dragging himself across the threshold like it hurts—but in a way he wants.

He weeps.

On his knees again. Hands clutching your thighs. Mouth open and dripping against your bare skin as he repeats your name over and over, shaking, whispering thanks like a dying man kissing dirt.

“Thank you,” he gasps. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, fuck—thank you—”

His tongue presses to your thigh.

You twitch.

And he wails—the sound muffled against your flesh, trembling like a man who’s tasted Heaven and is terrified he’ll be dragged back to Hell. His arms wrap around your hips, pulling you down with him, until your knees hit the floor and you’re seated right there in the doorway with him cradled between your legs like a body in prayer.

“I’ll be so gentle,” he babbles, licking a stripe up your inner thigh. “I’ll be good. I’ll be sweet, sugar, I swear it—I won’t bite unless you ask. I’ll eat and eat ‘til you shake and sob and soak my chin and then I’ll fuckin’ beg for seconds.”

You let your head fall back, lips parted, robe slipping.

He sees it.

And loses what’s left of his composure.

He goes slow at first—painfully, reverently slow.

Tongue pressed flat to your cunt, hands gripping your thighs like lifelines, the tip of that sinful, split tongue tracing soft, teasing figure-eights just to feel you tremble.

And you do.

Every flick, every moan, every whimper he pulls from your throat drives him deeper into madness. He cries as he eats you. Cries. Big, open-mouthed sobs against your pussy as he whispers nonsense:

“So sweet—so sweet, fuck—never tasted anything like you—please, let me die here—let me drown—let me be your floorboard, your shadow, your fuckin’ leash, baby, I’ll be anything—”

You come on his tongue once, and he doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t even pause.

Just whimpers like your pleasure is sustenance, like your slick is water and he’s been crawling the desert for years.

You tangle your fingers in his hair. Tug. He moans into you. Grinds his hips to the floor.

“Can I fuck you?” he begs against your cunt. “Please, can I? I’ll go slow. I’ll go soft. I’ll make you feel worshipped. You want it rough? I’ll give you rough. Want it sweet? I’ll make you sob. I’ll bite your throat open and make you scream my name ‘til the walls crack.”

He looks up at you, face wet, chin slick, forked tongue flicking out like a serpent sensing the heat of your body. His eyes are glassy. Wild.

“Tell me I can fuck you.”

You nod.

He breaks again.

And then—

He crawls forward, palms flat on the floor, reverent and quiet. His cock is hard, flushed and weeping, twitching against his stomach. You see the way his hands shake as he guides himself to you. The way he groans—choked and low and obscene—when the head of it brushes against your entrance.

He looks up at you, panting. Lips parted.

“You sure?” he whispers. Like he’s asking permission to live.

You nod again.

“Then hold on to me, sugar,” he says, voice raw and trembling. “I ain't never comin’ back from this.”

And he pushes in—

Slow. So slow. Like he’s scared you’ll vanish beneath him. Like your heat is swallowing him whole. Like the walls of your body were carved centuries ago to hold only him.

He moans into your neck, hips stilling halfway through.

“Fuck,” he whimpers, voice shattered. “You feel like—like you were made for me. I’m—I’m not gonna last. I ain’t—please don’t let go of me.”

You clutch his shoulders.

He bottoms out with a sob, every inch of him buried in you, shaking like a man who’s finally come home. His forehead presses to yours. His hips roll once, reverent, like worship.

He doesn’t move at first.

Just stays buried to the hilt, mouth slack against your throat, breathing like a dying animal in your ear. You feel him twitch inside you—thick, hot, leaking—and for a moment you think he might cry again.

Then he growls.

Low. Deep. Possessive.

And moves.

One slow pull out—almost all the way—followed by a brutal thrust that slams your back against the floorboards hard enough to rattle the doorframe. You gasp. He moans. Loud. Open-mouthed. Obscene.

“Fuck,” he chokes, already shaking. “Oh, sugar. Oh, baby, you—you don’t know what you’ve done. What you let loose.”

He doesn’t wait for permission anymore. Doesn’t need it. You gave it the second you said come in.

Now he’s fucking like it’s all he knows how to do.

His hips snap forward over and over, wet slaps echoing through the open doorway, sweat dripping from his brow, tongue lolling out as he pants like a rabid thing. He braces one hand beside your head and the other beneath your thigh, holding you open, dragging you into every thrust like he wants to feel himself hit the back of you.

You’re soaked. Wrecked. Clawing at his back and gasping his name over and over like it’s the only prayer you’ve got.

“You wanted me like this, didn’t you?” he snarls, his drawl thick and guttural now. “Wanted to see me come undone. Wanted to see the monster in me. Well, here he is, sugar. Here I fuckin’ am.”

He grinds down. Deep. You cry out.

He smirks, wild and broken and high off the sound.

“You feel that?” he whispers against your mouth. “That’s me in you. Deep as I can go. You’ll feel me for days. I’ll make sure of it.”

And he does.

He fucks you until your legs tremble, until your voice is raw, until the only sounds are slick, messy, filthy. He presses his chest to yours, forehead to your jaw, panting through clenched teeth as he drives into you like he can’t stop. Like if he slows down, he’ll die.

You feel the sharp tips of his fangs graze your throat. His voice is wrecked.

“Let me taste you,” he begs. “Let me drink while I’m inside you. Let me be full, sugar. Let me be whole.”

You nod.

He doesn’t even hesitate.

His mouth opens wide and you feel the bite—sharp, electric, perfect—right where your neck meets your shoulder, and suddenly his hips are slamming into you harder, messier, feral, rutting through your orgasm as he drinks, drinks, drinks.

It hits you all at once. Heat. Pain. Pleasure so sharp it blinds you.

You come hard, clenching around him, and he sobs into your throat like it’s sacred, like he’s breaking apart inside your body.

You feel him twitch. His breath goes ragged.

“Gonna come,” he warns, voice slurred, tongue lapping at your skin between frantic, messy thrusts. “Gonna—fuck, sugar, I’m gonna fill you—gonna mark you—make you mine—mine—mine—”

And he does.

Hot and thick and endless.

He spills inside you with a guttural cry, hips stuttering, teeth still buried in your skin. You feel it pulse into you—claiming you, over and over, like his body doesn’t know how to stop. Like his need has no end.

He finally stills, trembling.

Still buried inside you. Still panting. Still moaning your name into the crook of your neck like he’s worshipping it.

And then—

He kisses the bite.

Soft.

Gentle.

His hands cradle your face like you’re glass, and for the first time all night, his voice goes quiet.

“You saved me,” he breathes.

And for once, you don’t correct him.

You don’t know how long you lie there.

Could be minutes. Could be hours. The air has gone still, heavy with sweat and sex and iron and him. The storm’s long gone, but you can still smell the rain—sweet and earthy, mixing with the blood drying at your throat.

You feel it when he finally starts to move.

Just a shift.

The slow drag of his hand up your thigh, fingertips curling into the dip of your waist like he’s reminding himself you’re real. His body is still flush against yours, cock soft now but still inside you, holding you open. Keeping you full. Like he’s afraid pulling out will make the whole night unravel.

You reach up, bury a hand in his tangled hair.

He makes a sound—small, shattered—and curls tighter against you.

“Don’t go,” he whispers, voice hoarse and full of something too heavy to name. “Don’t make me leave. Not after that. I’ll—I’ll be good. I’ll be so good.”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to.

Your fingers stay in his hair, stroking gently. His body softens against yours.

There’s blood smeared across your neck, your chest, down your ribs. His bite still stings, the skin pulsing, raw—but it doesn’t hurt. Not really. It burns. Like a seal. Like a signature.

You glance down.

He’s watching you.

Eyes half-lidded. Glazed. Glowing, almost—faint and strange, like he’s lit from within. There’s a little blood on his mouth. More on his chin. But he doesn’t wipe it away.

You wonder if he’s ever looked more peaceful.

“You taste like sunlight,” he murmurs, dream-drunk. “Like nectar. Like the end of the world.”

You huff a laugh, quiet and breathless.

“Don’t get poetic on me now.”

“I ain’t,” he slurs, eyes fluttering. “Just honest.”

He nuzzles into your collarbone, forked tongue flicking lazily against your skin like he’s still trying to memorize it. His hands roam—slow, aimless, like he doesn’t know how to stop touching. One settles on your hip. The other slides beneath your spine and pulls you closer.

“I ain’t lettin’ you go,” he mumbles. “Not after this. You said it. You let me in.”

You nod. You did.

And you meant it.

He presses his nose to your pulse point, breath fogging across your skin. His lips ghost over the bite. He presses a kiss there, reverent.

“I’ll be good,” he repeats, softer now. “You just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. You want a house? I’ll build it. You want blood? I’ll bring you the whole fuckin’ town. You want me to rot on the floor again? I will. Long as I’m yours.”

“You’re mine,” you whisper.

And he moans.

Like the words filled him with something he’s never had in thirteen centuries.

You feel him soften completely then, sinking into your body like sleep. One leg slung over yours, one arm anchoring you to his chest, his cock slipping free with a wet noise that makes him groan as you shudder. Your body aches, raw and sore and claimed, but you don’t move.

Neither does he.

Eventually, he sleeps.

You know because the grip he has on you loosens—but only a little. He still breathes you in. Still holds you like something holy and fragile and violently his.

And you?

You stay awake a while longer, staring at the door still cracked open, the threshold now crossed, the air inside heavy with what you both became tonight.

The blood on your neck has dried.

The slick between your thighs has cooled.

But his body stays warm against you.

And outside, the sky hasn’t yet begun to lighten.

No birds. No blue.

Just that inky pre-dawn blackness pressing soft against the windows, holding the night still around you like a secret.

Because he can’t survive the sun.

And tonight, for once, you don’t want the morning to come either.

[soulsnatcha3000]

SUB REMMICK?! MANS SAID “You’ll feel me for days.” OKAY GOOD GREAT YES I LIKE THE SOUND OF THAT. OHH BUT DONT FORGET THE “I’D EAT IT FOR HOURS.” WOAHHH BUDDYYYYY HEYYY, I MEANNN LETS CHANGE THOSE HOURS INTO DAYS? PERHAPS WEEKS? IM DOWN WITH EITHER OR!!

[soulsnatcha3000]

Pls stop tagging your oc stories as x reader

My bad! I only used that tag to help the story reach more people, but I get that it’s misleading. I’ll fix it right away.

Thank you, I appreciate you pointing it out! 🫶🏾🫶🏾

[soulsnatcha3000]

NEED HIM BADDD DAMNNNNN

Credit: Petrova.aepp on tt

LIKEEE

[remmickrealgf]

Part Two

Pretty Little Thing

Tags & Warnings: Chicago au, non-canon events, mafia au, Smoke and Stack are in a gang, Remmick is in an Irish mafia gang, alcohol, age gaps, Everyone is up north, long fanfic, eventual smut, dub-con, Black Female Reader, Reader is 22, MDI

Synopsis: At the twins new night club in Chicago, you give an opening performance and among the crowd of onlookers a certain Irish man from the other side of the southside eyes linger a little too long on you. 

A/N: fyi 13 dollars is like 200-300 something dollars in the 1930s!!!

Word Count: 2k

Reblogs, Likes and Comments are appreciated

“How much do I owe you?” Your tiny fear stricken voice squeaks. 

“Thirteen dollars and fifty cents.” 

Your mouth gaps at the way he casually says the price as if the smuggled Canadian Whisky doesn’t cost an arm and a leg.

You nervously laugh. “But I’ve only got fifty cents to my name, sir!”

Remmick rises from the red couch, hands buried deep in his black slacks. “That’s an easy fix.” 

Hearing enough, Smoke intrudes in your one on one conversation with the strange man who overflows with a sense of danger around him. Dangerously close to Remmick eye to eye, blocking you from the other man’s view. “Or we can arrange shit right here, right now and leave my little cousin out of this,” He says. “After all you came here for business, not my family.” His eyes gleam with venom. 

As much as you, everyone on the southside ran by the twins, and even Stack himself feared Smoke at times like this, Remmick on the other hand is unfazed. The Irish man almost looks bored as your older cousin looms over him, ready to make bullets rain.

The younger twin is quick at his brother’s side. “Easy, Smoke.” He puts a calming hand on the older twin’s tensed shoulder. 

“I don’t like repeating myself, Moore. I want the little birdie to pay me what she owes me.” He lazily walks to the bar near you. 

Too close for your liking. It makes your stomach flip and stir the booze you drank earlier.

He pours himself a drink and gulps it all down without flinching at the bitter, throat burning poison as if it’s water. “Not to mention you’re in no position to be callin’ shots. Wasn’t it your boys caught causing trouble on my turf?” He playfully tilts his head like a fox. A mocking smile dances on his handsome face. 

Smoke and Stack look like someone took a sharp butcher knife and chopped their ego and pride to pieces as shame rises on their faces. They hate being reminded of the bloody turf dispute that occurred a few weeks ago on the behalf of their own men. Especially since it puts them at the mercy of the other gang, like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs. 

“Don’t rub it in,” Stack says, annoyed. 

Remmick throws his hands up at his shoulders. Two shiny golden signet rings decorate each index finger. “No, no! Just a friendly little reminder!”

If it wasn’t for your mere presence in the room and now tangled in their web of business, Smoke would’ve shot the cocky bastard right where he stands, though he knows it wouldn’t do much harm. Silver bullets only do so much damage to a freak of nature like Remmick. 

The longer you stay in the room with these three men the more the air gets deadlier and toxic to inhale. So you force yourself to speak up, wanting out now. “Listen, sir,” you say and their eyes all flick at you. “I don’t have all the money right now, but I’ll have it for you in a week or two, so–”

“No, you see that won’t do, Sweetheart.” He shakes his head.

“What? Why not?”

“Cause I need my dough now and on my terms.”

Smoke’s hands are quick to aim a pistol at Remmick. Wild Flames burn and dance behind his cinnamon brown eyes. “Fuck that. Fuck the turfs. I don’t give a shit bout that no more. I ain’t giving up my flesh and blood to the enemy, I know what you’re playing at, fool.” Smoke is a man of family and he would kill anyone posing a threat to his kin. 

Your heart hitches in your throat seeing the sudden flash of a gun. Whenever situations involving the twin’s crew hit the fan you always made sure to never be around to see it unravel, but now you’re caught between the crossfire. And you don’t like that. You don’t want to see blood spill. 

“S-Stack, he’s not gonna shoot him, is he?” You stammer, eyes anxiously bouncing between Remmick and Smoke. 

Your question goes unanswered and unheard as Stack pulls his guns out as well. They both surround the Irish man, faces made of stone and steel. But Remmick remains unmoved, casually leaning on the bar’s table. In your eyes he’s got a death wish the way he still manages to smile in their faces. 

“Y/n, you get on outta the way,” Smoke begins.

“We finna blow this motherfucka to pieces,” Stacks says, finishing the sentence. 

No hesitation, in a flash you're away from the bar and far behind the twins. You know better than to disobey them. 

“So, it’s a war you want?”

His words make the twins' fingers waver on the triggers. It wouldn’t be the first time they witnessed a war in the underworld of Chicago. When Smoke and Stack first arrived in the Windy city and got sucked into the hellish world of gangs and violence they saw it all first hand. How innocent life fell victim to unjust muruder all because a man controlling a group of men couldn’t get along with another man leading his own group of men from different sides of the city. The twins both swore they would never let a turf war break out on their watch as long as they’re in charge. Yet here they are, guns aimed at a man with the power to crush their community with the lift of a finger. 

Remmick knows it and the twins know too, this won’t end well. No, it will end in cold blood. 

Smoke shoots his pistol. The gunshot rings in your ears, making your body jolt, covering your ears. When your eyes open you expect to see the white man drowning in his own blood on the black marble floor. Instead, glass is sprinkled across the floor and bar table. Tiny shards mix together with whisky from the bottle you opened. You blink, surprised and a little traumatized now.

“Fuck!” Smoke growls, slinging the pistol somewhere on the floor. He paces and pinches the bridge of his nose. “We can’t afford no damn war.”

Stack sighs. Relief floods his features and he retreats the gun back in his hip holster. “Damn, Smoke, why you gotta go making messes and shit.”

The backroom’s door slams open. Sammy and Bo rush into the room. 

“What the hell’s going on back here?” Bo demands. He’s alert and slightly confused with a gun loaded in his hand. His face drops seeing the spilled liquor mixed with glass. “The fuck ya’ll got going on back here?”

“Nothin’, just a deal gone south!” Stack shines a smile at Bo and Sammy. 

Sammy and Bo scramble from the room back to the front and the tense aura pours into the room again. You shift awkwardly in your spot, waiting and wondering what’s next. 

“What’s the terms, Irishman?” Smoke exhales, eyes burning with fury tangled with defeat.

A sinister smile pulls at Remmick’s lips. 

—--------------

At the end of the night you ended up with an invisible debt stamped on your body that only you, the twins and Remmick knew about. In hindsight it didn’t seem horrible and in fact you thought nothing of it. All you have to do is sing in the Irish man’s nightclub in his side of town–easy peasy. Well, at least that’s how you felt until now.

The Irish nightclub on the other side of town is nothing like the one you performed in on your side town. Here, the eyes of people who look nothing like you stare. It doesn’t even take a child to understand the look in their eyes as it’s crystal clear. Some look at you with pure hatred like you’re the spawn of satan while others look at you like you’re some lost puppy in a world of danger. Regardless, all of their eyes make your skin crawl uncomfortably. You wanna go home back where people are welcoming and look exactly like you. If this is a punishment from the Irish man he sure did a splendid job because you hate every bit of this. 

In the women’s dressing room, tears burn in your eyes, begging to fall, but you refuse to let them. Whatever sick gag this man, Remmick is pulling, you won’t let get to you. No, at least not in his very domain. 

“You okay, honey?” A soft voice says nearby.

You look to find empty chairs in front of the lit up mirrors with multiple glowy bulbs. Seeing no one in any of the chairs next to you makes you think you’re already going insane until the voice comes again.

“I’m right here, hun.”

There behind you in one of the pale pink couches, is an older lady with chocolate brown locks neatly styled. Her face is battered in perfect makeup which compliments her features well. 

“Oh, hello there…” You voice trails off. “Didn’t see y’a there on the way in here.”

“I actually just came in,” She admits. In seconds the older woman occupies a seat next to you. “Don’t worry, honey, no one here will hurt you.”

Your brow cocks at her odd sincerity towards you, a complete stranger. Maybe she’s one of the ones who feel bad for your being here. It nearly makes you roll your eyes at her. Of course you somewhat do appreciate it, but it still rubs you the wrong way. 

The soft smile stops reaching her eyes as she gazes at you. “Why you looking at me like that?”

You blink, not knowing what to say. Being outright rude wouldn’t cut it even though what you’d say isn’t meant that way. But you’re positive she would probably take it that way, wounding her pride. Last thing you need is an enemy here in the enemy's home. You just stare, lost for words.

She sighs, fingers playing with the pearls draped around her neck. “It’s me, Mary.”

It doesn’t ring any bells as confusion twists your face in knots. “Who?” Your eyes squint at her. 

She sighs again, astonished. “Stacks old lady, Mary! Wait, has he never mentioned me?”

Relief fills you at the mention of Stack. Meaning they haven’t completely thrown you to the sharks afterall. Her guess is correct. Stack nor Smoke in fact never mentioned a white passing black woman ever, or at least not to you. She explains the twins sent her to ensure your safety while you’re paying off your debt to Remmick until an urgent knock at the door ends the small safe space you built with Mary in a short span of time. It was time for your performance, in other words humiliation for all non kin skin folk to behold. 

A tall man leads you to your destination. As you follow behind you notice he isn’t taking you to the main stage, but somewhere else. Through halls that turn, twist and a set of stairs, he finally yields at a door. 

He knocks and says, “she’s here, boss.”

Boss? He definitely means that cocky, evil, pale man Remmick. 

The door clicks open swiftly to a room filled with dimly lit soft golden lights. Similarly to the twin’s backroom, Red and black paints the space. Centered in the room is a mini stage inches away from the only sitting area of a round small table encircled by a spiral obsidian leather couch. There is no bar and there are no other areas. Only the stage and couch as if created for the sole purpose of a small audience. Your throat dries and heart trembles as the man who guided you here leaves. A clicking sound signals the door is sealed off from the public and makes your dread awfully cold, nailing goosebumps over your exposed brown skin. 

“Don’t be shy, Sweetheart. Come on in,” a deep familiar voice says, hidden behind the cherry red silk curtains around the circular couch. 

Perform for him. Get the money. Pay him. Never see him again. You remind yourself, dragging your sharp heels on the extravagant carpeted floor. 

“Hurry now. I don’t like to be left waiting.” The tone of his voice is darkly commanding yet light. As if he doesn’t wish to invoke too much fear in you. 

You make your way on the stage and reside at its center. Protectively your arms wrap around your frame, trying to cover your overly exposed skin. Though it doesn’t matter anyways with what he prepared for you tonight to wear. An embezzled shiny snow bra with baby blue beads merely covers your top and high waist sequin panties matching your top hug the bottom of your body. 

His hungry gaze roams every inch of your body, stringing a chill shiver through you. The beautiful chandelier hung above the couch, highlights his alluring features. Today unlike yesterday, he dons a dark striped vest, white rolled sleeves and black slacks. 

“Well, what’re you waiting for? Give me a show, doll.” His Irish accent is thicker than yesterday. 

Sensual music begins to flood the room as Remmick intensely watches, itching to do more than simply watch. No, he told himself he would be patient with you. Take his time peeling every layer you had to offer. Even if you act up or invoke him to punish you, he would find a way around it. He’s had plenty of dolls. Some boring, others fun. You, however, seem like fun all around. A cheeky little mouth, a tinge sprinkle of naivety to the cruel world around her and a certain pureness. Not the type of purity in which the apple is untouched, no, the type that is inexperienced with a real man like him in every aspect. 

It’s true. You’ve only ever had one man you loved in your life and gave to him your virginity at the ripe age of twenty. People say it’s important who you give it to and afterwards you’re tainted. Or at least that’s what some odd church folk say. You didn’t care that he was the one who got it nor was it regretful. What you regretted was being naive to the point of stupidity for that man. After him you swore to yourself to never love a man that way again. But of course this Irish man doesn’t know that. Yet. 

Your body slowly follows the waves of the rhythm, like riding a sea wave at the beach. His eyes eat every movement you make on the stage. Clouds of cigar smoke float around him, adding to his ominous presence. When the music stops, your heart drums in your ears and the saliva you gulp barely soothes your dry throat. The music played for so long you lost track of time and dancing felt like forever. 

“That was satisfying,” He lowly hums. Remmick leans back deep in the leather cushion and pats his lap. “Won’tcha join me over here, Sweetheart.”

You freeze on stage. Eyes blinking frantically. “I don’t think I will, Mr. Remmick. That wasn’t part of our deal. I’m here to perform on a stage, not entertain in such a way,” You state, finality in every word. 

He shifts on the couch, lips in a small smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Oh, really?” The tone of his voice is unreadable.

“Yes, now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be taking my leave now.” Off the stage and at the exit, you twist the handle. The knob fails to budge flaring sirens in your brain. “Let me out of here!”

He takes one last drag of the cigar before digging it in a crystalline ashtray. Idly he stands off the couch and saunters to you. The way Remmick moves is predatory like a calm animal who knows its prey isn’t going anywhere. Time appears to slow as he looms closer and with each passing millisecond every ounce of icy confidence melts away until his tall frame hovers you. Mini goosebumps prickle at your skin as his palm slams on the door above your head. Your heart screams in your chest as terror paralyzes you.

“What’s the matter? I thought you were leaving, Sweetheart?” The light once ringing in his voice is no more, instead it’s lower and cold. “Hmm? You’ve nothing to say?” His head tilts, almost mockingly.

You don’t say anything. Can’t say anything because your mind and body won’t allow it. In one swift blur you’re thrown over his firm shoulder then on the black leather couch.  He pulls at his collar, popping a few buttons. “It seems no one has taught you any lesson about authority.” Remmick runs a hand through brunette locks. “Allow me to be the first, Sweetheart.”

[soulsnatcha3000]

OH ILL GIVE YOU A SHOW ALRIGHT

[remmickrealgf]

Pretty Little Thing

Tags & Warnings: Chicago au, non-canon events, mafia au, Smoke and Stack are in a gang, Remmick is in an Irish mafia gang, alcohol, age gaps, Everyone is up north, long fanfic, eventual smut, dub-con, Black Female Reader, Reader is 22

Synopsis: At the twins new night club in Chicago, you give an opening performance and among the crowd of onlookers a certain Irish man from the other side of the southside eyes linger a little too long on you. 

A/N: I'll post this over on Ao3 in the morning cause I gotta head to bed. Also enjoy. And part two is coming soon!

Word Count: 1k

Reblogs, Likes and Comments are appreciated!!

Authors Pov:

“Well, little lady, you ready to show off that voice of yours?” A raspy, dried out voice croaks. 

In the mirror’s reflection your eyes catch an old tall man peeking his head through the crack of the dressing room’s door. Still applying makeup, you give him a silent nod, heart racing. You begged and begged your older twin cousins from down south to let you sing at their brand  new night club and always they denied you, specifically the more firm, mean one, Smoke. Only reason tonight you’re set to put on a show is because little ole Sammy from down south came all the way up north to escape the hot fields of crop sharing is putting on a show himself. He will perform right after you, singing blues whilst playing his guitar. You two are the same age, twenty-two and you made sure to bring it up to make your case against Smoke. Stack took your side and convinced his brother and that’s how you ended up in their club’s dressroom. 

“Okay, well make the dolling up quick, Smoke says you're on in five minutes, little lady.” His southern accent drips from his words. He also came up north to support the twins' new night club. 

“I’ll be out soon, Slim.”

With that said, Slim leaves with the soft click of the door closing. You continue finishing your last step of putting on the makeup–lipstick. Careful and docile, you apply a dark cherry red lipstick before twirling in the mirror. The pale purple flapper dress dances in the air, shining from the light's reflection. You always wanted to wear this type of dress, but never had the money to afford one. Stack has taste since he’s the one who brought you the dress for tonight. 

You join Slim on the main stage excited but nervous. From his piano he looks up and smiles. “My, my, little lady, you are breathtaking tonight.”

You blow the old man a kiss. “Why thank you!” You giggle, eyes bright.

People pool into the establishment, wearing all sorts of expensive attire for tonight’s event. The sight of so many people nearly makes you want to dash off stage to the dressing room and stay there the entire night. But you refuse to back out. Not after all that convincing you did. Nope, no going back now. 

Sammy comes on stage, guitar in his hand as usual. “Good luck out there, y/n.” He smiles ear to ear. 

“Same to you!” You chirp, as Slim begins to play the piano and other musicians on stage join him.

Soon the night club is buzzing with folks from all around Chicago’s southside. Brown faces of all shades fill the room leaving no room for any lighter tones. Though the city wasn’t legally segregated, it still was separated by redlining. The closest you have been to white people are the ones also residing in the southside as well but in different neighborhoods–the Irish white folk. Lately there’s been rumors of tensions growing between the Black and Irish gangs for territories and things you really didn’t know about. It’s also rumored tonight an irish gang would join tonight's club to settle the tensions or come to some sort of compromise.  

Whatever, it doesn’t concern you so you don’t mind it. On the main level where the dance floor is Smoke and Stack stand side by side welcoming their guests. Stack wears a bubbly face and his brother with an intimidating frown, stoic as always. 

Stack takes a drag of a thick cigar. “Welcome, good folk of chicago! How y’all doing tonight?”

The crowd hoots and whistles among claps. 

“Tonight our little cousin raised and born here in the sweet ole windy city will be our opening performance.” Smoke chucks a thumb over his shoulder to the stage facing his backside and takes his turn with the cigar.

The crowd cheers louder this time as the showlights shine brightly on your frame at the center of the stage. It nearly blinds you, but you remain stiff, not daring to move an inch. 

“She got the voice of an angel y’all, but let’s get this shit started!” Stack hypes the people up once more before blending into the sea of tables with his older brother trailing after. 

The lights everywhere else in the large club fade to a dimmer glow, and only the bright light on the stage shines. You feel like you could throw up at any given second with so many eyes glued on you. At the side of the stage Delta Slim begins playing the piano and other musicians on stage follow suit. Deep among the multiple faces of strangers, Sammy gives you a reassuring smile and mouths, “you got this!” He flicks up a thumb. 

You gulp giving moisture to your gritty, dry throat and start to sing. Slowly your body loosens up, that stiffness melting off. As the song goes on your body moves with the flow dancing around the stage and the crowd becomes lively. People cheer for you and others groove to the rhythm themselves. As you’re distracted, absorbed in the world of music, you miss the glowing red eyes far off at a table with Smoke and Stack. The eyes latch onto your body, watching your every move on stage. 

Curiosity turns to interest. 

Interest to fascination. 

Fascination to lust and desire.

“Hey, Irish man, eyes on me,” Smoke demands, eyes grave as his palm rests on the gun buried in his hip holster. “Not on my baby cousin on stage.”

Stack joins in, a cocky smirk pulls at his full lips. “I know, she a diamond ain’t she, but you ain’t come here for that. So, you best keep those wanderin’ eyes on us.”

The Irish man grins himself, eyes slick. “Can’t help admiring pretty things,” he drifts off, eyes daring to sneak a peek at you once more. “And I’m the type of man that loves pretty things.” 

His words tick the twins off. But more than the younger one, it pisses Smoke off more. It takes every ounce in his body to stop the itch in his hand not to aim the gun at the cheeky Irish man. 

“You better watch that filthy fuckin’ mouth of yours, motherfucker.”

The Irish man’s goons around him tense at his offensive words. Ready to start a bloodbath their hands ghost over their guns too but their boss’ voices freezes them. “Be calm, this ain’t nothing.” And as if it’s a command their muscles relax. “Right, me and my men are gathered here for business. So let’s talk business.” 

On stage you huff, panting, light sweat pooling at your temples. The crowds go wild as they clap and cheer your name. “You did amazing,” Slim says, then takes a swig from a flask. 

You shoot him a smile too tired to use your voice. When the cheers die down you gain the club’s attention. “Cousin Smoke and Stack, cheers to a wonderful night tonight!” Your hands point to them and then at Sammy. “And everyone give it up for little ole Sammy from the deep south!”

Like before they all cheer as you leave the stage. Behind stage Sammy squeezes you in a tight hug. He applauds your performance before rushing to the stage to sing his blues. Before he completely disappears to the stage he halts, head peering over his shoulder. 

“Oh also, Smoke said to stay in the back rooms cause you ain’t allowed up front.”

You blink. His words take a minute to sink and soak in your brain and before they register he’s already off on stage. The booming sounds from the crowds tell it all as it practically shakes the walls. You want to ask him why, but seeing it’s too late you just listen. Salty and disappointed, you walk through the short dimly lit hall. Fingers trailing along the blood red walls as you pass by. The backroom is empty of people. Fancy expensive couch chairs surrounding a polished wooden table with a candle on top centers the room. Just like the halls outside, the walls inside here are also painted red with painted portraits of long black figures dancing and playing the blues. Left of the wooden table is a brick built in fireplace and to the right is a small bar with pricey booze bottles. 

Illegal booze.

You take a seat at the bar on a tall tool and grab one of the liquor bottles. How ironic, blues music whispers in the backroom as you are feeling quite blue. After tonight you would make sure to give Smoke and even Stack a piece of your mind. This sudden unpromised treatment was petty and unfair. After your performance you expected to be out on the dance floor dancing and mingling. Not locked away back here for no one to see. You slide a nearby shot glass to you and pop a bottle open. Filling the small glass to the brim, you take a swig of the bitter poison. It burns after it slips down your throat. You repeat the process once more. 

You sigh and bury your face in your palms with both elbows propped on the table. “Fuck you Smoke…and fuck you Stack.”

As if they planned it, the twins burst through the door and you jolt upright on the tool. Behind them a pale white man follows after. His eyes are quick to find you and a sly smirk carves on his face. The twins however fail to notice you until they're on the cushion red couches. Smoke's face is quick to flash with anger and irritation while Stack is dumbfounded. 

Stack stands. “Y/n, the fuck are you doin’ back here?”

Your eyes widen, appalled at his words. “Why am I back here,” you pause. A glare pulls your brows together. “You two jerks sent me back here, that’s what I’m doing back here!”

Your little feisty attitude makes the Irish man lean forward. Elbows resting on his legs, callused hands entwined as his face ghosts above them. A low chuckle rumbles in his throat. His mind races with ideas of how he’d have fun breaking you in. He never did like the obedient type of women. 

Smoke remains seated, legs crossed. “Watch your damn mouth in front of company, girl.”

The word girl makes you flinch as the three men watch you. Smoke rarely speaks to you in such a tone let alone call you girl. It makes you wonder who spit in his drink tonight. 

“Don’t mind him, y/n, he’s just a bit moody,” Stack says lightly, but you still don’t buy it. 

You shift in the stool, feeling a bit nervous at your older cousin’s harsh demeanor. “Whatever,” you mumble, but no one but your ears hears.

“But really, why’re you back here, Sammy didn’t tell you to come here.”

Confusion flickers upon your features. “With all due respect, yes he did.”

A long exhale falls from Smoke’s mouth. “Damn boy, can’t even listen right.”

The Irish man sitting between both twins is silent and patient as he watches the scene unravel. His eyes sparkle with greed and mischief when his eyes linger longer over at the bar. 

“Well, gone on home. Find Sammy and Slim so they can take you home.”

“Wait.” 

All of your eyes fall on the Irish man as you now stand on your feet. He tilts his head towards the bar and you swear you can see steam seething from Smoke. 

“Don’t,” Smoke grits out. His eyes glint with bloodlust as he leans forward on the couch.

The Irish man keeps going, regardless of Smoke’s threat. “Is that my open booze over there by the pretty little thing?” His eyes remain on the twins. 

Smoke and Stack heads whip to the bar. The younger twin eyes are wide and his brother’s face twists with rage. Smoke curses under his breath, lost for words.

“Remmick, you leave her out of this. She had no idea it was yours,” Stack says. 

You stand stuck, confused and scared. Did you do something wrong? Yes, and you know it, but you just don’t know what exactly it is. You do figure it’s got something to do with the open booze bottle on the bar table. It may be the wrong decision to make but you do it anyway. “Okay, Smoke. Stack. I’m gonna head home now.”

“Don’t move.” Remmick voice freezes your body in place. “I think you owe me, darlin’.” 

“How much money for the bottle?” Smoke stands from the couch.

“I’m not talking to you,” Remmick says dryly. His deep brown irises burn holes through you. “What was it again?” His fingers caress his chin. “Right, y/n.” He smirks, licking at his sharp canines that resemble more that of fangs than regular human teeth. “And how are you gonna pay me back for drinking my booze?”

[soulsnatcha3000]

HELLOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO