AUTHOR NOTE! As to not offend anyone ( mostly cause I feel like the context of Sinners and writing x Reader stuff is kinda a heated topic to touch - no shame to others who do.. ) I will write an OC with the face claim from the films, but you can read it as Remmick x Reader if you want to. Plus, it really helps cause I’m gonna use him for a fanfic of mine.. <3
pairing: Vampire! OC ( Thomas 'Tommy' Aberdeen ) x Reader or Remmick x Reader if you want to.
prompt : Reader is slowly starting to remember the night she was turned, and it's not such a good thing for Tommy after all.
word count: 1, 000+ words
You didn't remember the night you were turned, your mind had blocked out the night. Something about trauma and psychology and all that crap kept it hidden away. Though, you did have enough blurry details to make a vague idea. You were in a church, there was music playing⎯jazz, you liked jazz. Then, there was pain. It wasn't the pain of a bite, no, someone had cut your throat. After that, black.
You wanted to keep it that way. You didn’t want to remember. The pain. The emotions of it all. It was better that way, plus Tommy agreed. He always said that the trauma of being turned, it changed a person, haunted them, put a bitterness in immortality. It was better to forget, even if there was a scratching sensation in the back of your brain. Like a rat clawing its way into a wooden coffin, wanting to know, wanting to remember.
It was a funny thing, remembering. Remember what? Who were you before you were turned? She was dead and gone, had been for years now. Of what happened that night? The same blood and pain you see each time you feed. Nah, there was no use. No use in it. You were a changed woman, a better one, and you had Tommy. He was enough, he had to be enough because you knew nothing but him for the longest of times. It was always, you and him. Him and you.
Crossing your leg as you sit back in the seat, Daniel looked over the notes he had written down, brows furrowed together. It had to be the tenth session between the two of you. Or maybe, it was more? Hard to remember when you spoke so much. A lot being of past life that you could remember, growing up in your small town.
A little bit on the mortal lovers you had over the years, men, women, anyone to fill the void of immortality. But, there was still gaps between it all. Ones that was making Daniel more and more angry with each session. And the accusations of 'forgetting conveniently' was making you more and more angry. You weren't. You didn't. It was just blank.
"Tell me, ( Y/ N ), do you have alzheimer's? Is that a thing that you vampires can get?" Daniel asks, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
"No."
"No? Then, tell me why you said, 'I don't remember the night I was turned'. But, back in the seventies, you said you did." He argues, making your jaw clench.
"I must of made a mistake, then." You shake your head, a ringing beginning to form in your ears.
"No, no, you didn't." He argues, shaking his head.
"I did." You argue, not wanting to believe it.
"No, you did not."
You did. You did. You did. You fucking did. Tommy told you that. Tommy had said that was what you told him years ago. Why would he lie? He wouldn't. Hell, you could trust him more than you could of Daniel. You knew Tommy. You didn't know Daniel, not well enough to take his word for it. Not to mention, he was some stupid human journalist, wanting to make a quick buck off your story. Opening your mouth to argue, the words die instantly as he plays the tape back, your face crumbling at the crackle before a throat clearing.
"It is June, year...Um, 1973, I am talking to a Miss ( L / N )." Daniel mumbles, "Now, ( Y / N ), tell me of the night."
"It was Summer of 32', I remember the heat it was the worst back then. No ice, or fans that worked that well, you know? I used to pour a bucket over my head before bed just to keep cool." You joke, voice light-hearted.
"And how did it happen?" He asks, "Was it sudden? Was it something that you wanted?"
"No, no.."
No escape, there was no fucking escape from them⎯from him. They were everywhere. They were fucking everywhere. No matter where you looked, from whichever window or room. They were there, the hairs on your arm raising told you that. Worst of all, they weren’t doing anything. They weren’t talking, or moving, laughing, or even breathing. They were just lurking in the shadows of the treeline, red eyes glowing as they watched.
If they were doing something, then maybe you wouldn’t be so scared⎯so paranoid. But, there was something far more terrifying in them just not doing anything. It made you twitch, cry, tremble, spiral into the worst of the worst thoughts. It didn’t help that everyone else in the church was always equally spiraling. Running fingers through your hair, you pace between the church pews, heart pounding in your chest painful. You felt like you were going to pass out.
“We should talk to them.” Oscar argues, shaking his head.
“Talk? Are you fuckin’ stupid?” Todd scoffs harshly, “They don’t wanna talk, Oscar. They wanna kill us!”
“For what? What did we do to em’, Todd? For fuck sake, we’re in church! We ain’t do nothing wrong to em’!” Lottie argues, shaking her head with tears in her eyes.
“It doesn't matter. Just..” Todd looks around the church unsure, “Add salt to the window stills and doorway. Do not talk to em’, do not let them in.”
Letting out a scoff, you shake your head, tugging at strands of your hair. Stupid. It was fucking stupid, just putting salt around the church and not talking to them. You should be doing something more, like killing them. Or planning how to get rid of them. The sun wouldn’t come up for hours, but even then. Was it truly safe to go out? They could follow them back home, like those old folk tales used to say. It was better to kill them when you had the chance.
“You got somethin’ to say, ( Y / N )?” Todd questions, shooting you a glare.
“Yes, maybe we should find out why they are here. Isn’t there old folk tales of em’ omens of death? What if they’re just omens, just the dead comin’ to talk.” You argue, “We ain’t gotta go outside, just talk to them from the church steps or somethin’.”
“That’s stupid.”
“Maybe, but we can’t just sit here and wait for the sunrise. What if they follow us home? We should try to get em’ off our trails, Todd. See if we can send em’ on their merry way.” You argue, getting in his face.
He glares, stress clear in his expression. He was right, about doing what you could to ward them off. But, that would only work for so long. There were still others in town that didn’t know what was going on. You had to warn them, or do something. Anything but wait and wait while they could be plotting something.
Looking around at the others, there was a silence that filled the air, as the creeping realization of your words sunk in with them. Father Peter was dead somewhere outside. The church parking lot and woods around it were filled with those things. What was there for you to do left?
“She’s right, Todd. I got babies at home, I can’t have em’ following me.” Lottie argues, “They’ll hurt my babies.”
“I..Uh, I don’t..” He pauses, before relenting. “If we talk to em’, we do no agree to nothin’. No deal, no letting em’ in. You hear me?”
“I ain’t.” You nod.
“Like shit I will, ain’t got a death wish.” Oscar scoffs, shaking his head.
A sickening sound fills the air, a knock, as if those things had overheard you all. The air in your lungs gets knocked out, a cold terror going down your spine. Taking a step backwards instinctively, Todd shrugs his shoulders, straightening out his back as if preparing for a fight. Bumping into the corner of a church pew, Todd opens the front door, not enough for whoever or whatever was outside to see in. Just a crack, enough for only his face to peek out.
“Evening, sir.” An unfamiliar voice pipes up, “My name is Thomas, Thomas Aberdeen, I was just passin’ through town and couldn’t help but stop here at ya’ church.”
“Mm-hm, evening. How can I help ya’, Thomas?”
“Now, now, I don’t mean ya’ no harm. No need to hold the door so tightly. See, I don’t mean none of y'all harm, really.” Tommy shakes his head, “I just want the girl, Miss ( Y/n ). I know she’s in there, can smell that perfume of her’s from here.”
“For what?”
“Ain’t really any of ya’ damn business.” He shrugs, “But, I can assure you, I ain’t gonna do her any harm. So why don’t y'all just cut her loose, yeah? Yeah.”
Yeah, no. Not a fucking chance. You’d rather get mauled by the gators in the marshes than go outside to talk to him. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you cower back from the front door, praying that Todd doesn’t open it for this fellow. Feeling a hand on your back, you let out a yelp of fear at the sudden touch, jolting backwards. The pile of bibles on the church pew tumble to the ground, spewing open to a few pages. Finding a sheepish Oscar there, you turn back to Todd, finding the door opened more as he faces the pair of you. Your heart stops in your chest.
The man at the bottom of the church steps. You had seen him before, playing a fiddle in town square for a few coins. You’d given him a quarter or two. He stares at you, the dim light from inside the church making his features more noticeable. If he wasn’t so god damn terrifying, you’d find him handsome. Those dark eyes that lured you in, the light scruff on his jawline that fit him, those brown curls that stuck to his forehead from the heat.
“Oh, yeah? Then, why can't you just come in and take her with you?” Oscar pipes up, his voice cracking at the end from fear.
“Would be awfully rude to⎯”
“You can’t, can ya’, boy? Cause you dead and ain’t welcome here.” Todd argues, shaking his head.
“No, maybe not right now.” Tommy nods in mock agreement, “But, sunrise is still a few hours away, still got plenty of time to head over to town. I can go to that diner for a bite, or I can go into ya’ children’s bedroom. Quite stupid of ya’ to leave em’ windows open, might let something in one of these days.”
“I ain’t coming.” You pipe in, not wanting to linger too long on his threat.
“Then, I’ll just wait for ya’.” Tommy nods with a sly smile, “I got all the time in the world to wait for ya’, darlin’.”
---
Enjoy this a goofy little meme of my upcoming vampire fic ( OUT OF TIME. ) relationship dynamic! ( bottom sketch is from @somnolenthour )
ꖛ PAIRINGS ─ remmick x mixed fem! reader
ꖛ GENRE ─ series; dark/gothic romance
ꖛ SYNOPSIS ─ The last night you saw the sun was the day your world burned. A cold, furious hunger for vengeance is all that remains for the loved ones you lost. It's your singular connection to your ancestors that draws Remmick to you, and in a final, savage communion, he forges you into a weapon from your pain. Shedding the last vestiges of your humanity in a blood-drenched awakening, reborn not as a victim, but as a girl who is going to make the world pay.
ꖛ WARNINGS ─This story contains explicit content and is intended for mature readers (18+). The reader character is of mixed ethnicity, with a light, white-passing skin tone. Please be aware of the following content: oral and public smut, explicit language, intense sensual detail, female orgasms, and mentions of the supernatural.
➜ AO3 VERSION
➜ CHAPTER LIST
𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐄 ⋆ 𐙚 ̊.
YOU WERE still in bed when Remmick entered the room, silent as a cottonmouth through a moonless cypress swamp. You lifted your head, your hand instinctively reaching for the cold, empty space beside you.
"You're awake?" he murmured, a glint of excitement in his low voice.
You nodded slowly, the weariness still heavy in your limbs. "Where did you go?" Your voice was a hoarse whisper. You propped yourself up on your elbows, angling to see him better. A small smile stretched across his face, finding something familiar in the unruly curls framing your head—a spitting image of his past.
"Look outside," he murmured, his voice keeping the room's quiet intact. He took a few steps closer, settling onto the end of the bed by your feet. His hand went to his own head, pushing stray curls from his eyes. "Go on," he prodded, nodding towards the window.
Your body hesitated, almost afraid of what you might see. Though you trusted him, your bones ached with a strange dread, a peculiar heaviness that urged you to melt back into the bed and remain exactly where you were.
Despite your reluctance, your bones nearly crackled as you slid off the bed. Slowly, you stalked to the window, peering out through the dirty glass, obscured by a thick film of dust and so many cobwebs that they stole the clarity from anything beyond.
The air hung thick and heavy, tasting of dust and the ghosts of forgotten summers. There, in the dry dirt path that spun into a cracked, crumbling roundabout—where a small garden of shriveled bushes had long ago surrendered to the sun's blistering wrath—sat a Packard. Its paint, a startling, slick black, glistened with an almost obscene freshness under the very moonlight that poured down like liquid silver, bright as a noonday sun. You'd only ever seen men of the planter class, with their starched collars and cold eyes, parading their trophy wives into town in such gleaming contraptions. It was a vehicle plucked from another world, dropped into this silent, decaying one.
"Pretty, ain't she?" Remmick purred, leaning back against the shadow of a skeletal rose arbor.
You nodded, a silent agreement, the unspoken question of what poor soul he'd silenced for such a prize lingering on your tongue. Yet, a raw, undeniable surge of gratefulness tightened in your chest, hot and unsettling.
There was no doubt in your mind he noticed it too, the way your stride had lengthened with the falling night, each step eager, almost frantic. Though he said nothing, you felt a primal urge to outpace him, to fly across the ground like a shadow unbound. The utter lack of ache in your feet, despite your thin slippers offering no real protection, boggled your mind. Everything felt sharper, faster, stranger—a transformation you both hated and found terrifyingly thrilling.
You were never a fan of the things you had to hide. Your past, stained with hardship; the visions that sometimes blurred the edges of reality; the gnawing anxieties that clung to you like the Delta humidity. And this, this burgeoning monstrousness, was just another bitter cherry atop a life already burdened.
"Won't people be suspicious?" you found yourself asking, the words escaping before you could rein them in.
Sure, your skin was light enough to typically pass, to blend into the cruel tapestry of the South. But the town where you'd grown up had, in its own way, offered a peculiar sort of uneasy truce, especially with Smoke and Stack's formidable presence. The thought of testing those tenuous boundaries in a new, unknown city, under the piercing gaze of a world that would surely see you as an anomaly, twisted your gut. You didn't want to find out just how thin the veil of your humanity truly was.
"Suspicious?" Remmick's voice was a low, dry rasp, a sound like old paper crumbling. He didn't look at you, but his gaze seemed to fix on something beyond the Packard, deep in the moon-drenched shadows of the distant trees. "People only see what they want to see, and mostly, what they expect. A light-skinned woman with a fine car might raise an eyebrow, sure, but they'll just settle on 'stolen' or 'chauffeur' before they'll ever look for the truth of you. The world's full of easy assumptions for folks like us, even when we walk between the lines."
He paused, a long, heavy silence stretching between you. Then, he finally turned his ancient eyes to yours, their depth like twin wells. "The real hiding, girl, ain't in your skin anymore. It's in your blood. And what that blood craves. That's a secret no sun can burn away, and no small town gossip can ever touch."
He looked at you with those cold, ice-chip blue eyes, and you almost heard his thoughts, a silent promise chilling the air between you: If anyone comes between you, I'll handle it. You nodded, a shiver chasing up your spine like a phantom wind, yet a perverse sense of calm settled in your gut. You could trust him to do something—anything—to keep his weapon safe.
"I promise," he whispered, the sound a dry rustle in the quiet room.
Then it clicked, a cold, undeniable certainty blooming in your own mind. You hadn't almost heard his thoughts. You had been there, a fleeting, breathtaking trespass in the vast, shadowed labyrinth of his ancient consciousness.
"How did I—" The words came out barely a gasp. "Did you—?"
Remmick grinned, a slow, knowing pull at the corners of his mouth. He held his breath for a long moment, his eyes, still fixed on you, seeming to weigh the very fabric of the silence, as if deciding what ancient secret to unveil next. Then, his gaze drifted towards the boarded window, a hint of mischief in their depths.
"Time to move," he purred, his voice a low command.
His eyes hinted at a deeper truth, but you knew he wouldn't yield. The twinkling twilight was already staining the western sky, turning cotton fields to bruise and shadow as daylight, thick as molasses in a jar, bled irrevocably away. Time was a precious, fleeting thing. You dressed quickly, not in the same travel-worn clothes, but from a forgotten wardrobe in one of the grand bedrooms.
You found a dress of fine, heavy silk crepe, the color of a bruised twilight sky, its long sleeves buttoned neatly at the wrist. It was a garment clearly made for strolling shaded verandas or riding in a motor car, still smelling faintly of lavender and the ghosts of its previous owner. Its smooth, cool fabric, a stark contrast to your old grime-stiffened dress, that had settled against your skin, replacing the scent of dust and fear with an assumed, chilling grace.
The Packard, that glossy black leviathan, sat waiting in the roundabout, a silent, gleaming promise. You slid onto its worn leather seats, the unexpected softness a jarring contrast to the endless miles of hard earth. Remmick, behind the wheel, started the engine with a low growl that filled the humid night.
As the opulent car purred to life, pulling away from the abandoned plantation and its haunted memories, the landscape outside became a blurred tapestry of dark trees and deeper shadows. Remmick drove with an almost unnerving precision, his eyes fixed on the ribbon of road unspooling before them. He kept to the backroads, avoiding the meager lights of isolated farmhouses and the distant hum of forgotten towns.
The silence in the car was profound, broken only by the rhythmic hum of the engine and the distant chorus of crickets. But it wasn't an empty silence. Your mind felt attuned to him in a way it hadn't before. It was subtle at first, like the faintest echo of a thought, a fleeting image of a crossroads, a fragment of a plan. You found yourself anticipating his turns, sensing the subtle shifts in his attention, almost tasting the direction of his unspoken intentions.
"How did you do it?" you asked, sharp and sudden. "Earlier, in the house. When you spoke..." You trailed off, unable to form the words. Instead, your mind replayed the moment: his cold, blue eyes, the silent, absolute promise that had chilled you even as it reassured. He hadn't moved his lips.
Remmick's gaze, which had been fixed on the endless stretch of road, shifted to meet yours. A faint, almost imperceptible smile played on his lips, hinting at ancient secrets. "That, little one, is the hive mind. A new kind of sight. A new way to speak."
He paused, letting the implication settle, the hum of the Packard's engine filling the space between his words. "You felt it, didn't you? My thoughts, clear as if I'd spoken them aloud." He didn't wait for your nod. "It's the way of our kind, for those strong enough to grasp it. A current between us, when we allow it."
You considered his words, a puzzle piece clicking into place. "So, you... you let me in?"
"Always," he murmured, his voice a low thrum that seemed to vibrate not just in the air, but in your very bones. "It's a connection, a bond. You'll learn its nuances in time. How to listen, how to send. How to shield, if need be." His eyes, ancient and knowing, held yours. "It's a powerful thing, this hive mind. A comfort in the dark, and a weapon, when the world demands it."
A jolt went through you, though your gaze remained fixed on the blur of shadows outside the window. You didn't consciously try to pry, yet his mind, vast and open, seemed to flow into yours—a steady, controlled current he allowed to pass. You felt the breadth of his awareness, the endless vigilance that spanned centuries, the quiet calculation behind every turn of the wheel.
Then, images began to surface, not thoughts, but flashes of his own past, shared with a deliberate, controlled generosity. You could feel the cold, clean rush of a mountain stream, the bite of frosty air on skin accustomed to warmth, the vast, rolling green of hills that stretched unbroken for miles, punctuated by the occasional stone cottage or a spiral of peat smoke. There was a profound sense of rootedness, of a life lived in tune with the earth and its raw, elemental rhythms.
You—or rather, Remmick, through you—turned to the side, and a grandeur of food spilled across rough-hewn tables fashioned from split logs. Smoke still clung to the air, a faint ghost of the fires that had rendered the feast. His stomach, hollowed by days of yearning, clenched as the rich, earthy scent of venison, still steaming, rose from a communal platter, glistening fat catching the firelight. Beside it, in a carved wooden bowl, lay roasted wild carrots and parsnips, their skins caramelized, their earthy sweetness a counterpoint to the gamey richness of the meat. In another bowl, a vibrant mix of bitter greens and a handful of tart wild berries, plump and glistening, caught your eye. They seemed to hum with the freshness of a recent harvest, as if plucked moments ago from a lush, green chaos of a garden nestled beside the very dwelling you now saw.
You tasted the sharp tang of those berries on your phantom tongue, the earthy bite of the greens, a symphony of flavors from a life long past. Around the edges of this impromptu feast, the air hummed with the presence of various herbs, their scent distinct even in the lingering smoke—no doubt for cooking, along with the telltale, familiar presence of nettles and more parsnips growing wild. But it was the border of the scene that truly captivated: delicate flax flowers of brilliant blue and pale yellow, fragile primroses bobbed gently, a vibrant, living fringe to the ancient celebration.
"Get your bow off the table!"
The feminine voice cut through the joyous din of the gathering, clear as a mountain spring over the raucous reels played on wooden fiddles. Men and women stomped and twirled around a roaring fire, their laughter echoing against the darkening sky, but Remmick's attention, immediate and absolute, narrowed on one woman in particular. Her dark, long brown curls, wild and free, cascaded past her waist, catching the firelight like polished obsidian. Her eyes, bright with a challenge and a teasing smile, were fixed on him.
Her gaze, teasing as a whispered secret, lingered on Remmick for a beat too long, an invisible thread pulling him close. But before he could even consider reaching for her, a laugh, light as spun moonlight, escaped her lips, and she drifted away, her dark curls a graceful blur in the churning revelry.
Remmick's gaze, however, remained fixed on her. It wasn't the fleeting glance of an acquaintance or the fond look of a simple friend. This was something far deeper, far more possessive. A subtle tilt of his head, a slight clenching of his jaw, as another man dared to claim her hand for a reel. An ownership shimmered in his eyes that confused you. Were they truly together? Or was this merely the potent allure of a shared past, a bond forged in a time she couldn't comprehend? The way they spoke, the glances, the easy familiarity—it hinted at a history far more intertwined than mere kinship.
Just as you strained to glimpse more, to untangle the threads of that relationship, a sudden, impenetrable wall of darkness slammed down in Remmick's mind. It wasn't a slow fade, but an abrupt, violent exclusion, a psychic barrier so dense it left her reeling, a profound silence where moments before had been vibrant life.
"What was that?" Your voice, though quiet in the close space, held a sharp edge of annoyance. "Who was that woman? What did you just do?"
Remmick kept his eyes on the winding road, his profile a mask of stone. "Just... a memory." His voice was flat, devoid of the earlier warmth that had bathed the shared vision. "Some things are best left unexamined, in my opinion."
A tremor of frustration ran through you, coiling tight in your gut. He'd promise to unravel this ancient puzzle piece by piece, revealing the edges of his vast past. Instead, he'd slammed a door in your face, the psychic barrier a sudden, absolute chill. A hunger for more of his memories, the insistent pull to understand the woman who commanded such a look from him, warred with a simmering resentment.
He'd been doling out glimpses at his own will, using this very connection as both shield and tether, a silent pact to keep your family safe. And now, he wielded that very bond against you, withholding the knowledge you craved like a vital breath.
"What's so funny?" you snapped aloud, your voice tight. Then, a low, dry chuckle echoed, not in the air, but directly in your mind, a sound only you could hear.
“Not one for public displays, are we, little one? Best keep that yearning a bit more private.” Your face burned, a sudden, furious heat spreading through your cheeks. He'd heard that? He'd felt your frustration, your confusion, your raw longing for what he'd withheld? The sheer invasiveness of it made your stomach clench.
His silent chuckle rippled through your mind again, accompanied by a fleeting image of your own restless form on the dusty furs last night.
“Just remembering how you felt last night, little one. All that yearning for more…”
You whipped your head away, your face burning. "Get out of my head!" you hissed, the words tasting bitter, your voice barely a whisper in the confines of the car.
A low, amused hum vibrated in your skull. Make me.
The command hung in the air, a brazen challenge. You tried. You imagined a wall, a door, a thick, impenetrable fog. You pushed, strained, felt your brow furrow with effort, but his presence remained, a steady hum beneath the surface of your own thoughts, amused and unwavering.
Struggling much, little one? His voice, clear as a bell in your mind, carried an undeniable note of sassy amusement.
Frustration boiled over, a hot, bitter wave. You felt your will, raw and unpracticed, crash against his ancient, unyielding presence. "How?" you demanded, your voice cracking, defeat settling heavy in your chest.
“Imagine shutting me out the same way you tried to block out the preacher, back at the juke joint. You closed your mind to him then, didn't you? It's the same principle. For humans, I have to be let in. I can nudge, I can whisper, but to truly enter, they must allow it. The same goes for your mind, if you truly don't allow it, I cannot stay.”
You tried. You imagined a wall, a door, a thick, impenetrable fog. You pushed, strained, felt your brow furrow with effort, but his presence remained, a steady hum beneath the surface of your own thoughts, amused and unwavering.
Struggling much, little one? His voice, clear as a bell in your mind, carried an undeniable note of sassy amusement.
Frustration boiled over, a hot, bitter wave. You felt your will, raw and unpracticed, crash against his ancient, unyielding presence. "How?" you demanded, your voice cracking, defeat settling heavy in your chest.
Remmick's silent chuckle rippled through your mind. Imagine shutting me out the same way you tried to block out the preacher, back at the juke joint.
Suddenly, you weren't in the Packard anymore. You were back in that small, dilapidated church, the humid air thick and still. There was no Smoke, no frantic whispers of Smoke or Stack, just the heavy silence of dust motes dancing in the meager light. And the preacher. He stood before you, the deviled creature, his eyes gleaming with a self-righteous fury, a twisted claim to divine authority. He lunged, a sudden, desperate blur of dark cloth and hateful intention.
But this time, you were faster. Stronger. You danced back, a phantom step that left him grasping at empty air. You didn't want to kill him, not yet. Not really. You wanted him trapped, locked away with the demons of his own making, his vile words echoing only in the confines of his twisted mind. He lunged again, a desperate, clumsy miss, and you were already outside the church door, the familiar, weathered wood within reach.
It wasn't a door meant to lock. This was a plantation, a place where control was meant to be absolute, and the enslaved weren't afforded the luxury of bolted doors.
What are you going to do? Remmick's taunt echoed, playing within your own mind.
You ignored him, focusing. A surge of newfound power coursed through you. You felt the old, rusty hinge groan in protest as you pulled the heavy church door shut, the wood thudding home with a finality that resonated in your bones. Your phantom hands scrambled, desperate for anything to bar it. A loose plank from the rotting porch, a discarded iron rail – you jammed them into place with spare seconds. The muffled, enraged roar of the preacher vibrated through the wood. He was locked in. And then, just as suddenly, the church, the preacher, the struggling lock—all of it dissolved.
You were back in the Packard. The memory, the desperate struggle, had played out entirely within the confines of your own mind. The doors of your mind had locked. Just like that.
"Good girl. Now just learn to keep that up, and you won't have to worry about me getting into your thoughts." Remmick's voice, devoid of its earlier amusement, cut through your triumphant haze.
You heard him, of course. His words, cool and matter-of-fact, slipped past the defenses you'd just erected, a subtle reminder of the power he still held. But you refused to answer, refused to acknowledge his presence within your mind. The victory, small as it was, tasted sweet. You clenched your jaw, focusing on the rhythmic hum of the Packard's engine and the blur of the passing night. The battle for your mind had begun, and tonight, for the first time, you'd struck a blow.
You wouldn't give him the satisfaction of another word, not in your head, and certainly not aloud. The silence that fell between you was thick, a new kind of tension, but for the first time, you felt a sliver of control within it. You spent the rest of the night practicing, pushing at the edges of your burgeoning mental walls, ignoring the ancient presence that still sat beside you, driving into the endless dark.
THE DARK, cotton-field flatlands of Mississippi grudgingly gave way, a subtle surrender at first, to rolling hills that swelled into shoulders of ancient, dreaming earth. The air, which had clung thick and humid for endless miles, began to thin, carrying the heavy, green scent of pine and damp, undisturbed soil, almost a premonition. Trees, once sparse outlines against the bruised horizon, now pressed in, a silent, towering phalanx of dark forms whispering secrets of forgotten stone and buried shadow beneath their roots.
A faint, bruised purple bled into the eastern sky, consuming the deep indigo of night. The stars, once scattered like shattered glass across the vast expanse, now dimmed, retreating before the subtle advance of a dawn that promised no solace, only the unveiling of more secrets.
You felt the insistent incline of the road beneath the Packard's tires, the engine's low hum deepening, laboring with an almost sentient groan, as if the very asphalt resisted your passage. This was Tennessee. These were the mountains. And as the first, ethereal grey kissed the highest peaks, hinting at the colossal, brooding forms hidden in the gloom, Remmick finally began to rein in the glossy black leviathan, unsettling morning.
You looked at the wisp of smoke, a knot tightening in her stomach. "So, what now?" you asked, your voice low.
Remmick turned to you, a glint in eyes that was both calculating and something akin to amusement. "Now, we play a game, little one."
You reached for the bonnet laid beside you on the seat. The touch of the smooth silk was a luxurious contrast to the rough practicality of your previous attire. Pulling it on, you felt a subtle shift, a touch of unexpected elegance settling over you. Carefully arranging the soft fabric over your hair, you felt a fleeting sense of unfamiliar grace. The silken coolness against your scalp was a welcome sensation as you tied the delicate ribbons beneath your chin, the act a final, almost theatrical flourish to your assumed persona. For the first time since shedding your old life, a whisper of something kindred to prettiness stirred within you.
"What are we going to do?" you asked again, your fingers nervously smoothing the fabric of your borrowed dress.
Remmick’s gaze swept over you, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths. "Let me do the talking," he murmured, his voice low and commanding. "Just play your part, my darling wife."
He opened his door, the hinges creaking softly in the morning stillness. You followed suit, the unfamiliar rustle of the silk dress a whisper in the quiet woods as you stepped out of the glossy black Packard into the cool, damp air. The scent of pine was stronger here, mingled with the fainter aroma of woodsmoke.
The small, weathered house looked unassuming, a simple structure built from rough-hewn timber, a testament to the hardscrabble life of these mountains. A porch sagged slightly, and a couple of rocking chairs sat still, as if waiting for their occupants to emerge. With a shared, silent glance, Remmick started towards the porch, and you followed, the soft earth muffling your steps. He raised a hand and knocked firmly on the wooden door.
Heavy as a drumbeat, a pair of footsteps approached the wooden door. Remmick lifted his arm, and you instinctively looped your hands around his, pressing yourself as close as possible. When the door swung inward, you managed a convincing, if shaky, smile, even feeling the familiar crinkles form around your eyes as you met the gaze of the man who stood in the doorway.
He was a man carved from the mountains themselves, lean and grizzled, with a face weathered like old leather from sun and wind. His eyes, the color of pond water, narrowed slightly behind thick, grey brows, taking in Remmick, then you, with a slow, calculating appraisal. A few days' growth of stubble clung to his sharp jawline, and the faint scent of pipe tobacco and woodsmoke clung to his worn denim overalls. A rifle, well-used and cradled with practiced ease, rested in the crook of one arm. He didn't speak, just held his gaze, his silence as heavy and watchful as the surrounding woods.
Remmick's gaze, steady and practiced, held the man's. A flicker of something calculated, almost weary, crossed his ancient features before his lips curved into a polite, disarming smile.
"Mornin' to you, friend," Remmick's voice was a low, smooth baritone, carrying just enough Southern lilt to sound familiar, yet with an underlying resonance that hinted at places far from these mountains. He gestured vaguely back towards the barely visible road. "Apologies for the early call. Our motor car, bless its heart, decided to call it quits a few miles back. Threw a rod, I reckon, just as the sun thought about peekin' over the ridge."
He tightened his grip on your hand, a subtle cue. "My wife here," he continued, his eyes softening as they briefly swept over you, "she's not accustomed to travelin' by night, much less being stranded with the dew still on the grass. We were hopin' you might point us toward the nearest general store or, perhaps, if it wouldn't be too much trouble, offer us a warm place to wait out the morning chill until we can figure our next move." His gaze held a plea, carefully measured, a blend of polite desperation and the quiet confidence of a man used to getting what he wanted.
The man's gaze, sharp and assessing, lingered on Remmick's face, then on your assumed distress. His hand, gnarled and calloused, tightened almost imperceptibly around the rifle stock. The silence stretched, broken only by the chirping of crickets and the distant caw of an early bird. Just as the tension threatened to snap, a woman's voice, warm as fresh-baked bread, drifted from deeper within the house.
"Who is it, Silas? Don't leave folks standing out on the porch at dawn!"
The man, Silas, grunted, his eyes never leaving Remmick's. "Just some folks with car trouble, Martha." He finally shifted, just an inch, opening the door a fraction wider.
From the dim interior, a plump woman with kind, tired eyes and flour dusting her apron emerged, wiping her hands on a cloth. She took one look at your silk dress and the imposing Packard, then her gaze softened, settling on your carefully constructed, weary smile.
"Oh, bless your hearts! Stranded out here? Poor dears." She clucked, her eyes twinkling with immediate sympathy. "Silas, don't be rude. Come on in, you two. We just finished up a right grand breakfast, too much for just us old folks now that all our young'uns have moved off to the city. There's plenty of hot coffee and fresh biscuits to go 'round." She waved a hand, her hospitality overriding her husband's caution. "Come on, come on. You look fair worn out."
Silas still seemed hesitant, his gaze flicking between Remmick and the car, but his wife's insistence held sway. He stepped back, gesturing them inside with a curt nod, the rifle still cradled loosely in his arm.
"Mind the step," he mumbled, stepping aside to let you pass into the warmth and inviting aroma of the mountain home. The porch creaked a welcome as the old woman, her face a roadmap of kindly wrinkles, ushered them inside. The warmth of the house, thick with the scent of spices and something savory, wrapped around them.
Just beyond the entryway, a large, polished oak table groaned under a grand breakfast spread. Platters of crisp bacon, steaming mounds of scrambled eggs, stacks of golden-brown pancakes drizzled with syrup, and bowls brimming with fresh-cut fruit filled the air with tempting aromas. It smelled good, undeniably, deliciously human-good, but it wasn't the scent of life itself. It wasn't the metallic tang of blood, nor the intoxicating, visceral thrum that used to pulse from Smoke's neck, a memory of hunger so profound it still made her stomach clench.
For a fleeting moment, her face grew pale, a stark contrast to the inviting warmth of the room, but she reined it in instantly. Her features remained as calm and unreadable as Remmick's, a mirror of his own collected stillness. As the old woman, her voice a reedy ramble, began to list the dishes laid out before them, the girl leaned closer to Remmick, her voice barely a whisper against his ear. "Can we even eat this?"
He gave a curt, almost imperceptible nod, his eyes never leaving the spread before them. For a fleeting moment, her face grew pale, a stark contrast to the inviting warmth of the room, but she reined it in instantly. Her features remained as calm and unreadable as Remmick's, a mirror of his own collected stillness.Remmick surveyed the bounty, a slow, appreciative smile touching his lips.
"Well now, ma'am, this looks simply divine," he drawled, his voice as smooth as aged whiskey. "We'd be honored to sit and break bread with you both." His eyes met yours for the briefest instant, and in their ancient depths, a flash—quick as a snake's tongue—of something raw and predatory flickered, a hunger that went far beyond the human feast before them. A hunger for life. It was gone almost before it registered, a shadow only you, with your newly attuned senses, could have caught.
Without thinking, your hand, hidden from the old couple by the table's edge, found his. You squeezed, a silent, desperate plea, begging him not to succumb to the beast, not here, not now. The unexpected pressure caused his gaze to snap to your face, his calm demeanor momentarily fractured by surprise. His blue eyes, usually so controlled, held a fleeting question before he regained his composure, that cold stillness returning.
“I"I reckon I could lend a hand, if you're amenable," the old man mumbled, settling himself at the table and resting his shotgun beside it with a soft thud.
Remmick looked at the old man, tilting his head slightly, a flicker of feigned confusion in his cold blue eyes. "With what, sir?"
"Your car," the old man clarified, a knowing glint in his eye as he gestured towards the window with his chin. "It's an expensive one. Where'd you folk get a car like that?"
Remmick's smile broadened, genuine now. "Why, that's mighty generous of you, sir. I would appreciate that greatly.”
The old woman, beaming, set a bowl of grits on the table. "My husband's a dab hand with engines, always was. He's usually out in the woods, though, hunting. Are you much of a hunter, young man?"
Remmick's eyes drifted to a rifle mounted above the fireplace, gleaming faintly in the morning light. "Only when necessity calls, ma'am," he replied, his voice soft, almost lazy. "But that is a truly nice gun you've got there. A very fine piece indeed." His gaze lingered on the weapon, a subtle, chilling admiration in his tone.
He then pulled out a chair for you, and another for himself, the scrape of wood on the linoleum loud in the warm kitchen. You sat, your hands resting primly in your lap, trying to mimic the stillness you felt radiating from Remmick.
The aroma of bacon and coffee was intoxicating, but it wasn't the scent your new nature craved. You watched as the old woman piled a plate high with eggs and bacon, pushing it towards you. Remmick, with a calm ease that belied your inner turmoil, took a piece of bacon, broke it, and slowly, deliberately, brought it to his lips. He chewed, swallowed, then took another, his movements unhurried, a silent command for you to follow.
You picked up a piece of bacon, the fat still glistening, and brought it to your mouth. The texture was strange, the taste almost foreign, but it was food, and your human half recognized the need. You chewed slowly, forcing it down, a knot forming in your stomach that had nothing to do with hunger. Remmick, meanwhile, calmly added a generous spoonful of scrambled eggs to his plate, then a few more strips of bacon, acting as if this were the most normal breakfast in the world.
The old man, halfway through a mouthful of grits, mumbled around it, "So, you folks from around these parts? I couldn't help but notice those Tennessee plates. What part of Tennessee, might I ask?"
The question was a cold splash of water, instantly chilling the fleeting warmth of the kitchen. Your gut clenched. You hadn't wanted to tell them a truth you barely understood yourself, hadn't wanted to craft a lie that might unravel. The sheer weight of having to speak, to explain your impossible presence, pressed down on you. You felt yourself stiffen, a silent plea for Remmick to take the lead.
Remmick offered the old man a disarming, easy smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Tennessee, yes sir," he drawled, his voice as smooth as river stone. "We're from a little spot you might not know, just west of Nashville, near the Cumberland Plateau. Been on the road a spell, visiting kin, and this old beauty's been a faithful companion."
As he spoke, his hand, resting casually on his knee beneath the table, subtly pressed against her own, a brief, reassuring squeeze. A silent command: Breathe. I've got this. He then turned his attention back to his plate, taking a deliberate bite of bacon. "This bacon, ma'am," he added, chewing thoughtfully, "is truly something special. Best I've tasted in a long while."
The breakfast conversation meandered through pleasantries, the old couple eager for news from outside their quiet world, Remmick deflecting questions with an easy charm that belied his ancient nature. You picked at your food, forcing down mouthfuls of egg and pancake that tasted like ash compared to the thrumming hunger within you. Every now and then, you caught a flicker in Remmick's eyes—a sharp, almost imperceptible focus on the pulse in the old man's wrist, the vibrant blush in the woman's cheeks—and your hand would twitch towards his, a silent plea for restraint. He always subtly acknowledged it, a fractional shift in his posture, a momentary tightening of his jaw, but his composure remained unbroken.
Finally, the last drops of coffee were drained, and the plates pushed back.
"Well, now that's a mighty fine breakfast, ma'am, thank you kindly," Remmick announced, pushing back from the table. "I do appreciate your offer of help with the car, sir. Perhaps we could step out and have a look together? Might be a loose wire, or just needs a good old-fashioned tinkering."
The old man's eyes lit up at the prospect. "Sounds good to me, son! Always happy to oblige. Got my tools right out back."
As the old man rose, Remmick casually draped an arm over your shoulders, pulling you close for a moment. His voice, though still soft for the old couple's ears, was a low, chilling current that flowed directly into your mind. We can't linger here. Not with the sun coming. I'll need a moment to make sure they won't remember us. No violence, just a touch.
He guided you towards the door as the old man headed for a shed out back. "My wife here will wait inside," Remmick said to the old woman, who was already starting to clear the table. "No need for her to fuss in the morning sun." The old woman, humming, nodded vaguely, her back already turned.
Outside, the air was warming, carrying the scent of dew-kissed earth and distant honeysuckle. Remmick opened the Packard's hood, revealing the pristine, almost untouched engine beneath. He fiddled with a few wires, his brow furrowed in feigned concentration. The old man joined him, his own seasoned eyes peering into the engine.
"Hmm," Remmick mused, tapping a clean hose with his knuckle. "She's a stubborn one. Looks to me like we've got a bit of a fuel line issue. Nothing major, but it'll need a specific part. Something I don't see lying around in your shed, I reckon." He straightened up, turning to the old man with a regretful shake of his head. "Reckon you'd have to make a run into the city for it. Memphis, perhaps. Or even down to Jackson, if you've got a mind to. Might be a long drive, though. My wife would raise holy hell if I went that far without her, if you know what I mean."
The old man stroked his chin, a thoughtful furrow on his brow. "Memphis, eh? That's a good drive. But if it means getting that beauty back on the road..." He considered it, then nodded with a decisive grunt, a chuckle rumbling in his chest. "You got that right, son. My old woman's been itching to get out of these mountains for a spell herself. Sometimes you just crave some fresh air on a good long drive. Alright, son. I'll take my truck into town. Should be back by sundown, no later."
Remmick clapped him on the shoulder, a perfectly genuine-sounding thanks in his voice. "Couldn't ask for more. My wife and I will keep out of your way here until you return. No sense in us getting in the way of a true mechanic."
He closed the hood with a quiet thud. As the old man turned to retrieve his truck and his wife, a curious glimmer, quick as heat lightning, sparked in the depths of his eyes, a brief, almost imperceptible haze that settled over his features. You saw it, the subtle shift in his aura, and understood Remmick's silent work. He then led you back towards the house, the sun already climbing higher in the pale morning sky. The plan was set. They were alone in the house now, left to the mercy of the daylight and the old woman's watchful eye.
As soon as the old truck rumbled down the long driveway, disappearing beyond the thick treeline, you bolted. The polite smile you'd plastered on vanished, replaced by a wave of nausea so intense it threatened to buckle your knees. You stumbled towards a rusted metal trash can near the back porch, the remnants of last season's garden clinging to its edges.
Before you could fully succumb, a hand, surprisingly gentle yet firm, snaked around the back of your neck, tilting your head over the rim. Remmick's fingers tangled briefly in the borrowed silk of the dress, pulling stray strands from your face. The contents of your stomach, the unfamiliar, cloying sweetness of pancakes and the greasy weight of bacon, erupted in violent spasms. You heaved, the human food a betrayal in your newly altered body.
When the retching subsided, leaving you weak and trembling, you leaned against the cool metal, gasping for breath. Remmick knelt beside you, his presence a strange mix of concern and something else… amusement?
"How?" you rasped, your voice raw. "How can you… eat that?"
He shrugged, a small, almost imperceptible movement. "Practice, little one. You'll learn what you can stomach. Or rather," his lips curved in a faint smile, "what you must stomach, when the alternative isn't readily available."
A low smirk escaped him as he saw you in your state. You pushed yourself up, the lingering taste in your mouth foul. "Go to hell," you muttered, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.
"Already been there in various forms, love. This breakfast was considerably less fiery." He rose, extending a hand to you. "Now, we have work to do." He nodded towards the dusty, grimy curtains. "Before the real fire starts."
As you reached for a thin, faded curtain at a nearby window, a searing sting shot through your hand. It felt like a thousand needles pricking your skin, followed by an intense, burning heat. You recoiled with a gasp, clutching your hand to your chest.
Remmick was behind you in an instant, his movements impossibly swift. He snatched the edge of the thin curtain away, hissing softly as his own skin briefly grazed the sunlight filtering through. With a sharp tug, he yanked the dusty blinds shut, plunging that corner of the room into relative gloom.
He gently took your injured hand, his cold touch a momentary balm against the throbbing pain. "Sit," he commanded, his voice low and urgent.
You sank onto a threadbare armchair, your breath catching in your throat. Even through the small, barely visible reddening of your skin, the pain was excruciating. It felt like the sun itself was cauterizing your flesh, burning away what you were. A faint, acrid smell, sickly sweet and undeniably rotten, began to rise from your hand.
Remmick moved with frantic energy, a stark contrast to his usual languid demeanor. He slammed shut the remaining blinds, drawing thick, musty drapes across the windows, battling the encroaching sunlight with a speed born of desperate experience. You watched, bewildered and in agony, as he winced, a faint hiss escaping his lips whenever a stray beam touched his skin, yet he healed almost as quickly as the light struck.
"Why… why am I not healing?" you choked out, your voice thick with pain.
He paused in his frantic work, his blue eyes dark with a grim understanding. "You need blood. Your own reserves are depleted, and human food… it offers no sustenance for what you are now."
Without another word, he turned his arm, pulling back the sleeve of his linen shirt. His teeth, suddenly sharp and elongated, glinted in the dim light as he sank them into his own flesh. A dark, viscous liquid welled up, and he offered his forearm to you.
"Drink," he commanded softly, his eyes locked on yours.
Hesitantly, drawn by an instinct older than memory, you reached out. The metallic scent, so potent and vital, filled your nostrils, overriding the lingering taste of sickness. Slowly, your lips touched his warm skin, finding the small, open wounds. A shudder ran through you, a mixture of revulsion and desperate need.
Then, you began to suckle, the rich, dark blood flooding your senses, a primal comfort washing over the searing pain in your hand. A strange warmth spread through your veins, a flicker of returning strength, and with it, a hunger unlike any you had ever known, twisting deep in your gut, echoing his own. The world, previously muted, now vibrated with a raw, amplified symphony – every distant rustle, every faint scent, a revelation. In the hushed darkness of the shuttered room, the only sounds were the soft rhythm of your feeding, and the distant drone of insects outside, now seemingly a lullaby to this new, burgeoning life.
The first rays of dawn, when they eventually pierced the heavy curtains, would not merely illuminate the room; they would cast the stark, vibrant lines of a world seen anew, and a reflection that was both familiar and terrifyingly, exquisitely, unknown.
Who amongst yall has read “Dracul” by Dacre Stoker and JD Barker?
Re-reading for the 3rd time and realizing I don’t know many folks who’ve read it. Where are all of my people on this, and why have I not run into fellow freaks for how crazy this book is?
If you’re unfamiliar, it’s the hypothetical/fictional story of how Dracula came to be written. And yes—it’s scary.
It draws from the Icelandic version of Bram Stoker’s Dracula, called the Makt Myrkranna (which went uncensored, while the British one was basically re-written under censoring, and hello there was a female vampire that Dracula was scared of, but she got cut out in the British version 😡)
And it draws from Irish Folklore and mythology.
Basically go read it (it’s gory horror so 18+) if you haven’t, and if you have read it– – we gotta talk. 
…anyone else kinda have a thing for Thornley Stoker? No?Just me?
I’m working on a VERY VERY uhh NSFW one shot with Remmick made by request.
I do hope that most people resonate with it and get inspired to make more requests of me, however, I have made several warnings in the beginning part introducing the story, and I’ve made markers in the story to show where to skip if those are uncomfortable with certain details.
And that is how I’m going to make stories with NSFW from now on 🫡 warnings before and during the story, cause I’m not responsible for what you read.
