May I request the reader being just as pathetic as Remmick? Like, both of them crying during sex because they love each other a lot and they're so overwhelmed by their feelings, and being equally obsessed with him as he's with her? I apologize if you do not write for readers who are also pathetic little meow meows but since you didn't mention anything about that in your rules I thought it was worth a try.
Ye! It takes me a lot cause I'm not good with sub!reader but I found it very fun to write. Since you didn't specify any other kinks, I took the liberty of handling the matter myself. I hope you like it.
ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴘᴏʀɴ ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ᴘʟᴏᴛ, ꜱᴍᴜᴛ, ꜱᴏꜰᴛ ᴅᴏᴍ!ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ, ꜱᴜʙ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ꜰᴇᴍᴀʟᴇ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ᴄᴏᴄᴋᴡᴀʀᴍɪɴɢ, ᴘ ɪɴ ᴠ, ᴍᴏᴀɴɪɴɢ, ᴡʜɪɴɪɴɢ, ᴘʀᴀɪꜱɪɴɢ, ᴛᴇᴀꜱɪɴɢ, ᴇᴅɢɪɴɢ, ᴜɴᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛ ꜱᴇx, ᴇxᴘʟɪᴄɪᴛ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ, ᴇxᴄᴇꜱꜱɪᴠᴇ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴇᴛ ɴᴀᴍᴇꜱ.
ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ: 1,4ᴋ
You lost track of how long you’d been like this — impaled on him, your thighs shaking faintly, the burn of held-in need spreading like a fever through your bloodstream.
Remmick hadn’t moved in what felt like hours.
No thrust. No grinding. No friction.
Just the unbearable fullness of him inside you, hot and still, while his lips lazily traced the curve of your shoulder, the edge of your throat, the delicate shell of your ear.
His hands weren’t idle.
One rested low on your back, fingers splayed, pressing you down against him like he owned every inch of you — which, right now, he did.
The other was crueler in its patience. Gliding up your side, teasing your ribs, stroking the underside of your breast with just the edge of a long sharp nail. Not enough to satisfy. Just enough to torment.
You couldn’t help it.
You whimpered, softly — a sound he had undoubtedly been waiting for.
His laugh was low and dark against your neck. “There y'are now,” he murmured, teeth grazing skin. “Was startin' to think you’d gone and passed out, sittin' so bloody still like that.”
You shift your hips — just slightly. Barely enough to qualify as a movement. But even that is a mistake.
His fingers tighten on your hip instantly, bruising in their precision. His voice drops, honeyed and mocking.
“Ah ah ah,” he purrs. “Not so fast now, darlin'.” He tilts his head back to look at you, fangs catching the light. “You told me you could take it. Said you were well able to sit pretty for me. Hours, you said. Remember that, do ya?”
You glare at him, but it’s weak, trembly — a lost cause.
“Remmick,” you breathe, “please. It’s— I can’t—”
“You can,” he interrupts smoothly, voice like silk dragged over stone. “You just don’t want to anymore. There’s a difference.”
His thumb slides up to brush the corner of your mouth, tracing your lips. “You were bold as brass earlier,” he muses. “So sure of yourself. Where’s all that arrogance now, hm?” He tilts your chin up. “Melted away just because I made you wait? How fragile your pride is.”
You whimper again — not from pain, not even from the pressure building low in your belly like a storm about to break — but from the unbearable need. The intimacy. The weight of his gaze, the deliberate control in every motion.
“Remmick,” you whisper. “I’m begging you.”
His expression softens — just slightly. A cruel softness.
“Y'think I don’t want to fuck you 'til you forget your own name?” he growls low, voice suddenly darker. “You think I’m not burnin' to ruin you right now, love?”
You gasp softly at the change in tone. There’s hunger in his eyes — real, dangerous. The kind only a vampire can carry: ageless, starved, barely restrained.
“But this?” He shifts — just a little, enough to make you keen. “This is more intimate than fucking. This is ownin' you, body and soul.”
He licks a slow stripe up your neck.
You want to cry from how turned on you are.
He leans back just enough to look at you fully now. His white shirt is undone halfway, sleeves rolled to the elbows.
His pale hands are elegant and cruel. His nails, long and sharp, trace slow paths down your back. Every motion is precise, patient, like a man who has lived too long to rush anything.
“Drippin' for me, look at you” he murmurs, glancing down between your bodies. “Feel that?” He flexes his hips just slightly — again, barely — and the sensation makes you choke on a moan. “And I've not even fucked ya yet.”
You’re shaking now, trembling from restraint. Your walls flutter around him, desperate for movement, for release, for anything.
He notices. Of course, he does.
He leans close again, whispering against your lips, “Say it.”
You breathe, “Please.”
“Nah, c'mon. Say it proper.”
“I want you to fuck me.”
A long silence. His red eyes gleam. Then—
“No.”
It lands like a slap.
Your breath catches on a sob you can’t stop in time. It trembles up from your chest, raw and helpless, and before you can turn your face away — ashamed of it — he’s already there, watching.
Remmick freezes.
Then his expression shifts. The slow unraveling of something old and cold inside him, cracking apart under the weight of your tears.
“Ah, fuck,” he breathes, and it’s not sarcastic this time. Not mocking. Just wrecked.
He cups your face so gently it shatters you all over again. His thumbs brush your cheeks, catching the tears. He kisses you — soft, desperate, trembling with restraint — like he wants to take the hurt into his own mouth and swallow it whole.
“Oh, my poor sweet thing,” he whispers into your lips. “You’ve been so good for me. So fucking good. I didn’t mean to break you.”
You gasp when he finally moves — hips rolling up into you in one slow, thick stroke, and you sob again, this time from the flood of overwhelming relief.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “Yeah, that’s it. Take it. I’ve got you.”
The pace is steady at first — deep, controlled thrusts, his hands anchoring you in place. One at your hip. One tangled in your hair.
He kisses your neck again, open-mouthed, letting a fang scrape gently along your pulse. His breath is ragged now, hot and reverent.
“You’re perfect like this,” he groans. “All warm 'n' wet, takin' me so deep like your cunt was built for it.”
You moan brokenly into his shoulder, clutching at his shirt, nails digging into the fabric as he finally, finally gives you what you need.
“I couldn’t—” he chokes. “I couldn’t move, dear. You were so bloody gorgeous sittin' there, patient as a saint. I just wanted to see how long you'd last for me. I didn’t think it’d hurt you.”
You shake your head — no, no, it’s not pain, not like that. It’s the want, the hunger, the way he fills every part of you, body and mind, until you can’t tell where you end and he begins.
And now that he’s moving, now that he’s inside you, with you — it’s everything.
His mouth finds your ear again.
“You’re mine,” he growls. “Y'hear? Mine to touch. Mine to fill. Mine to keep.”
“Yes,” you sob, clenching around him. “Yours, Remmick. Yours.”
He moans — a sound low and guttural, his control fraying.
“I’d set the fucking world on fire for you,” he whine. “Drain kingdoms if you asked. I’d kill for your pleasure. And you’re crying just because I made you wait. Fuckin' hell, I love you.”
Your whole body jolts at the words.
He doesn’t stop.
“I love you when you’re proud. I love you when you’re begging. I love you like it’s eating me alive.”
You cry harder, and he kisses the tears away as he drives into you now — harder, deeper, not holding back.
His hips snap up into you with filthy sounds, slick and desperate. His hands are everywhere — gripping your waist, fisting your hair, cradling your jaw.
“I’ve got you, darlin',” he murmurs over and over. “I’ve got you. Let go, baby. Come for me now.”
You do — with a scream muffled against his throat, every nerve ending detonating into light. You convulse around him, clutching him like salvation as he fucks you through it, murmuring praise into your skin:
“That’s it, gorgeous. So good.”
His pace falters — a sudden sharp thrust, then a shudder — and he follows you over the edge with a snarl of your name, sinking his fangs into your shoulder as he comes, spilling into you in hot, pulsing waves.
The bite is sharp — pleasure laced with pain — and your body clenches again, aftershocks wracking through you.
You collapse against him, breath hitching, heart pounding wildly against his cold chest.
He licks the wound gently. Kisses it. Wraps his arms around you like a coffin.
“You’re everythin' to me,” he whispers into your hair. “Don’t you ever doubt that, not for a second.”
You’re too spent to answer, but your arms tighten around his shoulders, and he feels it — your answer in the way you hold him, not like a lover but like a lifeline.
And for once, Remmick doesn’t tease. Doesn’t gloat.
He just holds you, and trembles.
